Babylon. Volume 3

Cecca pouted. (To the daughter of ten generations of Calabrian brigands a detail like a little poisoning case was merely a matter for careless pouting and feminine vagaries.)

‘You will compel me?’ she asked hesitatingly.

Giuseppe nodded.

‘Or else I don’t give you the bottle,’ he murmured.

Cecca drew the little silver image with well-simulated reluctance from inside her plaited bodice. ‘What am I to swear?’ she asked petulantly.

‘Say the words after me,’ Beppo insisted. ‘I swear by the mother of God, Madonna della Guardia of Monteleone, and all holy saints, that I will not touch or hurt or harm the tall English lady with the military father. And if I do may the Madonna forget me.’

Cecca repeated the words after him, severally and distinctly. It was very necessary that she should be quite precise, lest the Madonna should by inadvertence make any mistake about the particular person. If she didn’t make it quite clear at first that the oath only regarded Gwen, the Madonna might possibly be very angry with her for poisoning Minna, and that of course would be extremely awkward. It’s a particularly unpleasant thing for any one to incur the displeasure of such a powerful lady as Madonna della Guardia at Monteleone.

‘You may have the bottle now if you like,’ Beppo said, handing it back to her carelessly.

Cecca pouted once more. ‘What’s the use of it now?’ she asked languidly. ‘Except, of course, to poison the cat with!’

Beppo laughed. To the simple unsophisticated Calabrian mind the whole episode only figured itself as a little bit of Cecca’s pardonable feminine jealousy. Women will be women, and if they see a rival, of course, they’ll naturally try to poison her. To say the truth, Beppo thought the fancy pretty and piquant on Cecca’s part rather than otherwise. The fear of the Roman police was to him the only serious impediment.

‘I may come and see you again next Sunday, Cecca?’ he asked as he took up his bundle to leave the room. ‘You owe me a little courtesy for this.’

Cecca smiled and nodded in a very gay humour. There was no need for deception now she had got the precious bottle securely put away in the innermost pocket of her model’s kirtle. ‘Yes,’ she answered benignly. ‘you may come on Sunday. You have deserved well of me.’

But as soon as Beppo had left the room Signora Cecca flung herself down upon the horsehair mattress in the corner (regardless of her back hair), and rolled over and over in her wild delight, and threw her arms about, as if she were posing for the Pythoness, and laughed aloud in her effusive southern joy and satisfaction. ‘Ha! ha!’ she cried to herself gaily, ‘he thought it was that one! He thought it was that one, did he? He’s got mighty particular since he came to Rome, Beppo has – afraid of the police, the coward; and he won’t have anything to do even with poisoning a poor heretic of an Englishwoman. Madonna della Guardia, I have no such scruples for my part! But he mistook the one: he thought I was angry with the tall handsome one. No, no, she may do as she likes for all I care for her. It’s the ugly little governess with the watery eyes that my Englishman’s in love with. What he can see to admire in her I can’t imagine – a thing with no figure – but he’s in love with her, and she shall pay for it, the caitiff creature; she shall pay for it, I promise her. Here’s the bottle, dear little bottle! How bright and clear it dances! Cecca Bianchelli, you shall have your revenge yet. Madonna della Guardia, good little Madonna, sweet little Madonna, you shall have your candles. Don’t be angry with me, I pray you, Madonna mia, I shall not break my oath; it’s the other one, the little governess, dear Madonna! She’s only a heretic – an Englishwoman – a heretic; an affair of love, what would you have, Madonna? You shall get your candles, see if you don’t, and your masses too, your two nice little masses, in your own pretty sweet little chapel on the high hill at Monteleone!’

CHAPTER XXXVII. CECCA AND MINNA

It was Tuesday afternoon at Colin Churchill’s, and Minna had got her usual weekly leave to go and visit her cousin at his own studio. ‘I find her devotion admirable,’ said Madame, ‘but then, this cousin he is young and handsome. After all, there is perhaps nothing so very extraordinary in it, really.’

Cecca was there, too, waiting her opportunity, with the little phial always in her pocket: for who knows when Madonna della Guardia may see the chance of earning her two promised masses? She is late this afternoon, the English governess; but she will come soon: she never forgets to come every Tuesday.

By and by, Minna duly arrived, and Colin kissed her before Cecca’s very eyes – the miscreant! and she took off her bonnet even, and sat down and seemed quite prepared to make an afternoon of it.

‘Cecca,’ Colin cried, ‘will you ask them to make us three cups of coffee? – You can stop, Minna, and have some coffee, can’t you?’

Cecca didn’t understand the English half of the sentence, of course, but she ran off quite enchanted to execute the little commission in the Italian bent of it. A cup of coffee! It was the very thing; Madonna della Guardia, what fortune you have sent me!

Colin and Minna sat talking within while the coffee was brewing, and when it was brought in, Cecca waited for her opportunity cautiously, until Minna had taken a cup for herself, and laid it down upon the little bare wooden table beside her. It would never do to put the medicine by mistake into the cup of the Englishman; we must manage these little matters with all due care and circumspection. So Cecca watched in the background, as a cat watches a mouse’s hole with the greatest silence and diligence, till at last a favourable chance occurred: and then under the pretence of handing Minna the biscuits which came up with the coffee, she managed cleverly to drop half the contents of the phial into the cup beside her. Half was quite enough for one trial: she kept the other half, in case of accident, to use again if circumstances should demand it.

Just at that moment a note came in from Maragliano. Could Colin step round to the other studio for a quarter of an hour? A wealthy patron had dropped in, and wanted to consult with him there about a commission.

Cohn read the letter through hastily; explained its contents to Minna; kissed her once more: (Ha, the last time, the last time for ever! he will never do that again, the Englishman!) and then ran out to see the wealthy patron.

Minna was left alone for that half-hour in the studio with Cecca.

Would she drink the coffee, now? that was the question. No, as bad luck and all the devils would have it, she didn’t seem to think of tasting or sipping it. A thousand maledictions! The stuff would get cold, and then she would throw it away and ask for another cupful. Blessed Madonna of Monte-leone, make her drink it! Make her drink it! Bethink you, unless she does, dear little Madonna, you do not get your candles or your masses!

Still Minna sat quite silent and motionless, looking vacantly at the beautiful model, whom she had forgotten now to feel angry or jealous about. She was thinking, thinking vacantly; and her Italian was so far from fluent that she didn’t feel inclined to begin a conversation off-hand with the beautiful model.

Just to encourage her, then (there’s nothing like society), Ceeca drew up her three-legged stool close beside the signorina, and began to sip carelessly and unconcernedly at her own cup of coffee. Perhaps the sight of somebody else drinking might chance by good luck to make the Englishwoman feel a little thirsty.

But Minna only looked at her, and smiled half-unconsciously. To her great surprise, the Italian woman perceived that two tears were slowly trickling down her rival’s cheeks.

Italians are naturally sympathetic, even when they are on the eve of poisoning you; and besides one is always curious to know what one is crying for. So Cecca leaned forward kindly, and said in her gentlest tone: ‘You are distressed, signorina. You are suffering in some way. Can I do anything for you?’

Minna started, and wiped away the two tears hastily. ‘It is nothing,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean it. I – I fancied I was alone, I had forgotten.’

‘What! you speak Italian!’ Cecca cried, a little astonished, and half anxious to enjoy her triumph by anticipation. ‘Ah, signorina, I know what is the matter. I have guessed your secret: I have guessed your secret!’

Minna blushed. ‘Hush,’ she said eagerly. ‘Not a word about it. My friend may return. Not a word about it.’

But still she didn’t touch her coffee.

Then Cecca began to talk to her gently and soothingly, in her best soft Italian manner. Poor thing, she was evidently very sad. So far away from her home too. Cecca was really quite sorry for her. She tried to draw her out and in her way to comfort her. The signorina hadn’t long to live: let us at least be kind and sympathetic to her.

For, you see, an Italian woman is capable of poisoning you in such a perfectly good-humoured and almost affectionate fashion.

At first, Minna didn’t warm very much to the beautiful model: she had still her innate horror of Italian women strong upon her; and besides she knew from her first meeting that Cecca had a terrible vindictive temper. But in time Cecca managed to engage her in real conversation, and to tell her about her own little personal peasant history. Yes, Cecca came from Calabria, from that beautiful province; and her father, her father was a fisherman.

Minna started. ‘A fisherman! How strange. And my father too, was also a fisherman away over yonder in England!’

It was Cecca’s turn to start at that. A fisherman! How extraordinary. She could hardly believe it. She took it for granted all along that Minna, though a governess, was a grand English lady; for the idea of a fisher man’s daughter dressing and living in the way that Minna did was almost inconceivable to the unsophisticated mind of a Calabrian peasant woman. And to wear a bonnet, too! to wear a bonnet!

‘Tell me all about it,’ Cecca said, drawing closer, and genuinely interested (with a side eye upon the untasted coffee). ‘You came to Rome then,’ jerking her two hands in the direction of the door, ‘to follow the Englishman?’ ‘Signora Cecca,’ Minna said, with a sudden vague instinct, in her tentative Italian, ‘I will trust you. I will tell you all about it. I was a poor fisherman’s daughter in England, and I always loved my cousin, the sculptor.’ Cecca listened with the intensest interest. Minna lifted her cup for the first time, and took a single sip of the poisoned coffee.

‘Good!’ thought Cecca calmly to herself. ‘If she takes a first sip, why of course in that case she will certainly finish it.’

Then Minna went on with her story, shortly and in difficulty, pieced out every here and there by Cecca’s questions and ready pantomime. Cecca drank in all the story with the deepest avidity. It was so strange that something should just then have moved the Englishwoman to make a confidante of her. A poor fisherman’s daughter, and neglected now by her lover who had become a grand and wealthy sculptor! Mother of God, from the bottom of her heart, she really pitied her.

‘And when he came to Rome,’ Cecca said, helping out the story of her own accord, ‘he fell in with the grand English ladies like the one with the military papa; and they made much of him; and you were afraid, my little signorina, that he had almost forgotten you! And so you came to Rome on purpose to follow him.’

Minna nodded, and her eyes filled with tears a second time.

‘Poor little signorina!’ Cecca said earnestly.

‘It was cruel of him, very cruel of him. But when people come to Rome they are often cruel, and they soon forget their lovers of the province.’ Something within her made her think that moment of poor Giuseppe, who had followed her so trustfully from that far Calabria.

Minna raised the cup once more, and took another sip at the poisoned coffee. Cecca watched the action closely, and this time gave a small involuntary sigh of relief when Minna set it down again almost untasted. Poor little thing! after all she was only a fisherman’s daughter, and she wanted her lover, her lover of the province, to love her still the same as ever! Nothing so very wrong or surprising in that! Natural, most natural… But then, the Englishman, the Englishman! she mustn’t be allowed to carry off the Englishman… And Giuseppe, poor Giuseppe… Well, there, you know; in love and war these things will happen, and one can’t avoid them.

‘And you knew him from a child?’ she asked innocently.

‘Yes, from a child. We lived together in a little village by the sea-shore in England; my father was a fisherman, and his a gardener. He used to go into the fields by the village, and make me little images of mud, which I used to keep upon my mantelpiece, and that was the first beginning, you see, of his sculpture.’

Mother of heaven, just like herself and Giuseppe! How they used to play together as children on the long straight shore at Monteleone. ‘But you were not Christians in England, you were pagans, not Christians!’

For the idea of images had suggested to Cecca’s naïve mind the notion of the Madonna.

Minna almost laughed, in spite of herself, at the curious misapprehension, and drew out from her bosom the little cross that she always wore instead of a locket. ‘Oh yes,’ she said simply, without dwelling upon any minor points of difference between them; ‘we are Christians – Christians.’