VII
CASA ROSA, _May_ 30.
We have had a battle royal in Casa Rosa—a battle over the breaking of ahuge blue pitcher valued at eight francs, a pitcher belonging to theLittle Genius.
The room that leads from the dining-room to the kitchen is reached by thedescent of two or three stone steps. It is always full, and is like theorthodox hell in one respect, that though myriads of people are seen togo into it, none ever seem to come out. It is not more than twelve feetsquare, and the persons most continuously in it, not counting those whoare in transit, are the Padrona Angela; the Padrona Angela’s daughter,Signorina Rita; the Signorina Rita’s temporary suitor; the suitor’smother and cousin; the padrona’s great-aunt; a few casual acquaintancesof the two families, and somebody’s baby: not always the same baby; anybaby answers the purpose and adds to the confusion and chatter oftongues.
This morning, the door from the dining-room being ajar, I heard a subduedsort of Bedlam in the distance, and finally went nearer to the scene ofaction, finding the cause in a heap of broken china in the centre of thefloor. I glanced at the excited company, but there was nothing to showme who was the criminal. There was a spry girl washing dishes; thefritter-woman (at least we call her so, because she brings certaingoodies called, if I mistake not, _frittoli_); the gardener’s wife;Angelo, the gondolier; Peppina, the waiting-maid; and the men that hadjust brought the sausages and sweetmeats for the gondolier’s ball, whichwe were giving in the evening. There was also the contralto, with alarge soup-ladle in her hand. (We now call Rosalia, the cook, “thecontralto,” because she sings so much better than she cooks that it seemsonly proper to distinguish her in the line of her special talent.)
The assembled company were all talking and gesticulating at once. Therewas a most delicate point of justice involved, for, as far as I couldgather, the sweetmeat-man had come in unexpectedly and collided with thesausage-man, thereby startling the fritter-woman, who turned suddenly andjostled the spry girl: hence the pile of broken china.
The spry girl was all for justice. If she had carelessly or wilfullydropped the pitcher, she would have been willing to suffer the extremepenalty,—the number of saints she called upon to witness this statementwas sufficient to prove her honesty,—but under the circumstances shewould be blessed if she suffered anything, even the abuse that filled theair. The fritter-woman upbraided the sweetmeat-man, who in returnreviled the sausage-vender, who remarked that if Angelo or Peppina hadreceived the sausages at the door, as they should, he would never havebeen in the house at all; adding a few picturesque generalizationsconcerning the moral turpitude of Angelo’s parents and the vicious natureof their offspring.
The contralto, who was divided in her soul, being betrothed to thesausage-vender, but aunt to the spry girl, sprang into the arena, armedwith the soup-ladle, and dispensed injustice on all sides. The feud nowreached its height. There is nothing that the chief participants did notcall one another, and no intimation or aspersion concerning thereputation of ancestors to the remotest generation that was not cast inthe others’ teeth. The spry girl referred to the sausage-vender as a_generalissimo_ of all the fiends, and the compliments concerning thegentle art of cookery which flew between the fritter-woman and thecontralto will not bear repetition. I listened breathlessly, hoping tohear one of the party refer to somebody as the figure of a pig (strangelyenough the most unforgettable of insults), for each of the combatantsheld, suspended in air, the weapon of his choice—broken crockery,soup-ladle, rolling-pin, or sausage. Each, I say, flourished the emblemof his craft wildly in the air—and then, with a change of front like thatof the celebrated King of France in the Mother Goose rhyme, dropped itswiftly and silently; for at this juncture the Little Genius flew downthe broad staircase from her eagle’s nest. Her sculptor’s smocksurmounted her blue cotton gown, and her blond hair was flying in thebreeze created by her rapid descent. I wish I could affirm that by hergentle dignity and serene self-control she awed the company into silence,or that there was a holy dignity about her that held them spellbound; butsuch, unhappily, is not the case. It was her pet blue pitcher that hadbeen broken—the pitcher that was to serve as just the right bit of colourat the evening’s feast. She took command of the situation in a masterlymanner—a manner that had American energy and decision as its foundationand Italian fluency as its superstructure. She questioned the virtue ofno one’s ancestors, cast no shadow of doubt on the legitimacy of anyone’s posterity, called no one by the name of any four-footed beast orcrawling, venomous thing, yet she somehow brought order out of chaos.Her language (for which she would have been fined thirty days in hernative land) charmed and enthralled the Venetians by its delicacy,reserve, and restraint, and they dispersed pleasantly. Thesausage-vender wished good appetite to the cook,—she had need of it,Heaven knows, and we had more,—while the spry girl embraced thefritter-woman ardently, begging her to come in again soon and make alonger visit.
Penelope's Postscripts Page 11
