Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “With all my heart,” said Piedro, still maintaining an unmoved countenance, and they returned immediately to the little wood-market. On their way, they had passed through the fruit-market, and crowds of those who were well acquainted with Piedro’s former transactions followed, to hear the event of the present trial.

  Arthur could not, especially as he spoke wretched Italian, make the eager little merchants understand the nature and advantages of an English trial by jury. They preferred their own summary mode of proceeding. Francisco, in whose integrity they all had perfect confidence, was chosen with unanimous shouts for the judge; but he declined the office, and another was appointed. He was raised upon a bench, and the guilty but insolent looking Piedro, and the ingenuous, modest Rosetta stood before him. She made her complaint in a very artless manner; and Piedro, with ingenuity, which in a better cause would have deserved admiration, spoke volubly and craftily in his own defence. But all that he could say could not alter facts. The judge compared the notched bit of wood found at the baker’s with a piece from which it was cut, which he went to see in the yard of the arsenal. It was found to fit exactly. The judge then found it impossible to restrain the loud indignation of all the spectators. The prisoner was sentenced never more to sell wood in the market; and the moment sentence was pronounced, Piedro was hissed and hooted out of the market-place. Thus a third time he deprived himself of the means of earning his bread.

  We shall not dwell upon all his petty methods of cheating in the trades he next attempted. He handed lemonade about in a part of Naples where he was not known, but he lost his customers by putting too much water and too little lemon into this beverage. He then took to the waters from the sulphurous springs, and served them about to foreigners; but one day, as he was trying to jostle a competitor from the coach door, he slipped his foot, and broke his glasses. They had been borrowed from an old woman, who hired out glasses to the boys who sold lemonade. Piedro knew that it was the custom to pay, of course, for all that was broken; but this he was not inclined to do. He had a few shillings in his pocket, and thought that it would be very clever to defraud this poor woman of her right, and to spend his shillings upon what he valued much more than he did his good name — macaroni. The shillings were soon gone.

  We shall now for the present leave Piedro to his follies and his fate; or, to speak more properly, to his follies and their inevitable consequences.

  Francisco was all this time acquiring knowledge from his new friends, without neglecting his own or his father’s business. He contrived, during the course of autumn and winter, to make himself a tolerable arithmetician. Carlo’s father could draw plans in architecture neatly; and pleased with the eagerness Francisco showed to receive instruction, he willingly put a pencil and compasses into his hand, and taught him all he knew himself. Francisco had great perseverance, and, by repeated trials, he at length succeeded in copying exactly all the plans which his master lent him. His copies, in time, surpassed the originals, and Carlo exclaimed, with astonishment: “Why, Francisco, what an astonishing GENIUS you have for drawing! — Absolutely you draw plans better than my father!”

  “As to genius,” said Francisco, honestly, “I have none. All that I have done has been done by hard labour. I don’t know how other people do things; but I am sure that I never have been able to get anything done well but by patience. Don’t you remember, Carlo, how you and even Rosetta laughed at me the first time your father put a pencil into my awkward, clumsy hands?”

  “Because,” said Carlo, laughing again at the recollection, “you held your pencil so drolly; and when you were to cut it, you cut it just as if you were using a pruning-knife to your vines; but now it is your turn to laugh, for you surpass us all. And the times are changed since I set about to explain this rule of mine to you.”

  “Ay, that rule,” said Francisco—”how much I owe to it! Some great people, when they lose any of their fine things, cause the crier to promise a reward of so much money to anyone who shall find and restore their trinket. How richly have you and your father rewarded me for returning this rule!”

  Francisco’s modesty and gratitude, as they were perfectly sincere, attached his friends to him most powerfully; but there was one person who regretted our hero’s frequent absences from his vineyard at Resina. Not Francisco’s father, for he was well satisfied his son never neglected his business; and as to the hours spent in Naples, he had so much confidence in Francisco that he felt no apprehensions of his getting into bad company. When his son had once said to him, “I spend my time at such a place, and in such and such a manner,” he was as well convinced of its being so as if he had watched and seen him every moment of the day. But it was Arthur who complained of Francisco’s absence.

  “I see, because I am an Englishman,” said he, “you don’t value my friendship, and yet that is the very reason you ought to value it; no friends so good as the English, be it spoken without offence to your Italian friend, for whom you now continually leave me to dodge up and down here in Resina, without a soul that I like to speak to, for you are the only Italian I ever liked.”

  “You shall like another, I promise you,” said Francisco. “You must come with me to Carlo’s, and see how I spend my evenings; then complain of me, if you can.”

  It was the utmost stretch of Arthur’s complaisance to pay this visit; but, in spite of his national prejudices and habitual reserve of temper, he was pleased with the reception he met with from the generous Carlo and the playful Rosetta. They showed him Francisco’s drawings with enthusiastic eagerness; and Arthur, though no great judge of drawing, was in astonishment, and frequently repeated, “I know a gentleman who visits my master who would like these things. I wish I might have them to show him.”

  “Take them, then,” said Carlo; “I wish all Naples could see them, provided they might be liked half as well as I like them.”

  Arthur carried off the drawings, and one day, when his master was better than usual, and when he was at leisure, eating a dessert of Francisco’s grapes, he entered respectfully, with his little portfolio under his arm, and begged permission to show his master a few drawings done by the gardener’s son, whose grapes he was eating.

  Though not quite so partial a judge as the enthusiastic Carlo, this gentleman was both pleased and surprised at the sight of these drawings, considering how short a time Francisco had applied himself to this art, and what slight instructions he had received. Arthur was desired to summon the young artist. Francisco’s honest, open manner, joined to the proofs he had given of his abilities, and the character Arthur gave him for strict honesty, and constant kindness to his parents, interested Mr. Lee, the name of this English gentleman, much in his favour. Mr. Lee was at this time in treaty with an Italian painter, whom he wished to engage to copy for him exactly some of the cornices, mouldings, tablets, and antique ornaments which are to be seen amongst the ruins of the ancient city of Herculaneum. *

  * We must give those of our young English readers who may not be acquainted with the ancient city of Herculaneum, some idea of it. None can be ignorant that near Naples is the celebrated volcanic mountain of Vesuvius; — that, from time to time, there happen violent eruptions from this mountain; that is to say, flames and immense clouds of smoke issue from different openings, mouths, or CRATERS, as they are called, but more especially from the summit of the mountain, which is distinguished by the name of THE crater. A rumbling, and afterwards a roaring noise is heard within, and prodigious quantities of stones and minerals burnt into masses (scoriae), are thrown out of the crater, sometimes to a great distance. The hot ashes from Mount Vesuvius have often been seen upon the roofs of the houses of Naples, from which it is six miles distant. Streams of lava run down the sides of the mountains during the time of an eruption, destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses and vineyards which are in the neighbourhood.

  About 17OO years ago, during the reign of the Roman Emperor Titus, there happened a terrible eruption of Mount Vesuvius; and a la
rge city called Herculaneum, which was situated at about four miles’ distance from the volcano, was overwhelmed by the streams of lava which poured into it, filled up the streets, and quickly covered over the tops of the houses, so that the whole was no more visible. It remained for many years buried. The lava which covered it became in time fit for vegetation, plants grew there, a new soil was formed, and a new town called Portici was built over this place where Herculaneum formerly stood. The little village of Resina is also situated near the spot. About fifty years ago, in a poor man’s garden at Resina, a hole in a well about thirty feet below the surface of the earth was observed. Some persons had the curiosity to enter into this hole, and, after creeping underground for some time, they came to the foundations of houses. The peasants, inhabitants of the village, who had probably never heard of Herculaneum, were somewhat surprised at their discovery.* * About the same time, in a pit in the town of Portici, a similar passage underground was discovered, and, by orders of the King of Naples, workmen were employed to dig away the earth, and clear the passage. They found, at length, the entrance into the town, which, during the reign of Titus, was buried under lava. It was about eighty-eight Neapolitan palms (a palm contains near nine inches) below the top of the pit. The workmen, as they cleared the passages, marked their way with chalk when they came to any turning, lest they should lose themselves. The streets branched out in many directions, and, lying across them, the workmen often found large pieces of timber, beams, and rafters; some broken in the fall, others entire. These beams and rafters are burned quite black like charcoal, except those that were found in moist places, which have more the colour of rotten wood, and which are like a soft paste, into which you might run your hand. The walls of the houses slant, some one way, some another, and some are upright. Several magnificent buildings of brick, faced with marble of different colours, are partly seen, where the workmen have cleared away the earth and lava with which they were encrusted. Columns of red and white marble, and flights of steps, are seen in different places; and out of the ruins of the palaces some very fine statues and pictures have been dug. Foreigners who visit Naples are very curious to see this subterraneous city, and are desirous to carry with them into their own country some proofs of their having examined this wonderful place.

  * * Philosophical Transactions, vol. ix. p. 440.

  CHAPTER III.

  Tutte le gran faciende si fanno di poca cosa.

  What great events from trivial causes spring.

  Signor Camillo, the artist employed by Mr. Lee to copy some of the antique ornaments in Herculaneum, was a liberal minded man, perfectly free from that mean jealousy which would repress the efforts of rising genius.

  “Here is a lad scarcely fifteen, a poor gardener’s son, who, with merely the instructions he could obtain from a common carpenter, has learned to draw these plans and elevations, which you see are tolerably neat. What an advantage your instruction would be to him,” said Mr. Lee, as he introduced Francisco to Signor Camillo. “I am interested in this lad from what I have learned of his good conduct. I hear he is strictly honest, and one of the best of sons. Let us do something for him. If you will give him some knowledge of your art, I will, as far as money can recompense you for your loss of time, pay whatever you may think reasonable for his instruction.”

  Signor Camillo made no difficulties; he was pleased with his pupil’s appearance, and every day he liked him better and better. In the room where they worked together there were some large books of drawings and plates, which Francisco saw now and then opened by his master, and which he had a great desire to look over; but when he was left in the room by himself he never touched them, because he had not permission. Signor Camillo, the first day he came into this room with his pupil, said to him, “Here are many valuable books and drawings, young man. I trust, from the character I have heard of you, that they will be perfectly safe here.”

  Some weeks after Francisco had been with the painter, they had occasion to look for the front of a temple in one of these large books. “What! don’t you know in which book to look for it, Francisco?” cried his master, with some impatience. “Is it possible that you have been here so long with these books, and that you cannot find the print I mean? Had you half the taste I gave you credit for, you would have singled it out from all the rest, and have it fixed in your memory.”

  “But, signor, I never saw it,” said Francisco, respectfully, “or, perhaps, I should have preferred it.”

  “That you never saw it, young man, is the very thing of which I complain. Is a taste for the arts to be learned, think you, by looking at the cover of a book like this? Is it possible that you never thought of opening it?”

  “Often and often,” cried Francisco, “have I longed to open it; but I thought it was forbidden me, and however great my curiosity in your absence, I have never touched them. I hoped indeed, that the time would come when you would have the goodness to show them to me.”

  “And so the time is come, excellent young man,” cried Camillo; “much as I love taste, I love integrity more. I am now sure of your having the one, and let me see whether you have, as I believe you have, the other. Sit you down here beside me; and we will look over these books together.”

  The attention with which his young pupil examined everything, and the pleasure he unaffectedly expressed in seeing these excellent prints, sufficiently convinced his judicious master that it was not from the want of curiosity or taste that he had never opened these tempting volumes. His confidence in Francisco was much increased by this circumstance, slight as it may appear.

  One day, Signor Camillo came behind Francisco, as he was drawing with much intentness, and tapping him upon the shoulder, he said to him: “Put up your pencils and follow me, I can depend upon your integrity; I have pledged myself for it. Bring your note-book with you, and follow me; I will this day show you something that will entertain you at least as much as my large book of prints. Follow me.”

  Francisco followed, till they came to the pit near the entrance of Herculaneum. “I have obtained leave for you to accompany me,” said his master, “and you know, I suppose, that this is not a permission granted to everyone?” Paintings of great value, besides ornaments of gold and silver, antique bracelets, rings, etc., are from time to time found amongst these ruins, and therefore it is necessary that no person should be admitted whose honesty cannot be depended upon. Thus, even Francisco’s talents could not have advanced him in the world, unless they had been united to integrity. He was much delighted and astonished by the new scene that was now opened to his view; and as, day after day, he accompanied his master to this subterraneous city, he had leisure for observation. He was employed, as soon as he had gratified his curiosity, in drawing. There are niches in the walls in several places, from which pictures have been dug, and these niches are often adorned with elegant masques, figures and animals, which have been left by the ignorant or careless workmen, and which are going fast to destruction. Signor Camillo, who was copying these for his English employer, had a mind to try his pupil’s skill, and, pointing to a niche bordered with grotesque figures, he desired him to try if he could make any hand of it. Francisco made several trials, and at last finished such an excellent copy, that his enthusiastic and generous master, with warm encomiums, carried it immediately to his patron, and he had the pleasure to receive from Mr. Lee a purse containing five guineas, as a reward and encouragement for his pupil.

  Francisco had no sooner received this money, than he hurried to his father and mother’s cottage. His mother, some months before this time, had taken a small dairy farm; and her son had once heard her express a wish that she was but rich enough to purchase a remarkably fine brindled cow, which belonged to a farmer in the neighbourhood.

  “Here, my dear mother,” cried Francisco, pouring the guineas into her lap; “and here,” continued he, emptying a bag which contained about as much more, in small Italian coins, the profits of trade-money he had fairly earned during the two years he sold
fruit amongst the little Neapolitan merchants; “this is all yours, dearest mother, and I hope it will be enough to pay for the brindled cow. Nay, you must not refuse me- -I have set my heart upon the cow being milked by you this very evening; and I’ll produce my best bunches of grapes, and my father, perhaps, will give us a melon; for I’ve had no time for melons this season; and I’ll step to Naples and invite — may I, mother? — my good friends, dear Carlo and your favourite little Rosetta, and my old drawing master, and my friend Arthur, and we’ll sup with you at your dairy.”

  The happy mother thanked her son, and the father assured him that neither melon nor pine-apple should be spared, to make a supper worthy of his friends.

  The brindled cow was bought, and Arthur and Carlo and Rosetta most joyfully accepted their invitation.

  The carpenter had unluckily appointed to settle a long account that day with one of his employers, and he could not accompany his children. It was a delicious evening; they left Naples just as the sea-breeze, after the heats of the day, was most refreshingly felt. The walk to Resina, the vineyard, the dairy, and most of all, the brindled cow, were praised by Carlo and Rosetta, with all the Italian superlatives which signify, “Most beautiful! most delightful! most charming!” Whilst the English Arthur, with as warm a heart, was more temperate in his praise, declaring that this was “the most like an English summer’s evening of any he had ever felt since he came to Italy: and that, moreover, the cream was almost as good as what he had been used to drink in Cheshire.” The company, who were all pleased with each other, and with the gardener’s good fruit, which he produced in great abundance, did not think of separating till late.

  It was a bright moonlight night, and Carlo asked his friend if he would walk with them part of the way to Naples. “Yes, all the way most willingly,” cried Francisco, “that I may have the pleasure of giving to your father, with my own hands, this fine bunch of grapes, that I have reserved for him out of my own share.”