Part 1 (2/2)
She remained always convinced that Italian was simply lunatic English, English spoiled. One of the children, named Pasquale, she called Squawly, and she always believed that the t.i.tle came from the strength of his infant lungs; many other words impressed her in the same way.
She now made no reply to Granmar's complaints save to give one business-like look towards the bed to see whether the pillows were properly adjusted for the old creature's comfort; then she crossed the room towards the stove, a large ancient construction of bricks, with two or three small depressions over which an iron pot could be set.
”Well, Nounce,” she said to a girl who was sitting there on a little bench. The tone of her voice was kindly; she looked to see if a fire had been made. A few coals smouldered in one of the holes. ”Good girl,” said Prudence, commendingly.
”Oh, very good!” cried Granmar from the bed--”very good, when I told her forty times, and fifty, to make me an omelet, a wee fat one with a drop of fig in it, and I so faint, and she wouldn't, the snake! she wouldn't, the toad!--toadest of toads!”
The dark eyes of the girl turned slowly towards Prudence. Prudence, as she busied herself with the coals, gave her a little nod of approbation, which Granmar could not see. The girl looked pleased for a moment; then her face sank into immobility again. She was not an idiot, but wanting, as it was called; a delicate, pretty young creature, who, with her cousin Pippo, had been only a year old when the second wife came to a.s.sisi. It was impossible for any one to be fond of Pippo, who even at that age had been selfish and gluttonous to an abnormal degree; but Prudence had learned to love the helpless little girl committed to her care, as she had also learned to love very dearly the child's brother Giovanni, who was but a year older; they had been but babies, both of them. The girl was now seventeen. Her name was Annunziata, but Prudence called her Nounce. ”If it means 'Announce,' Nounce is near enough, I guess,” she said to herself, aggressively. The truth was that she hated the name; it had belonged to Tonio's first wife, and of the memory of that comely young mother, poor Prudence, with her sixty years, her white hair, and wrinkled skin, was burningly jealous even now. Giovanni's name she p.r.o.nounced as though it were two words--Jo Vanny; she really thought there were two. Jo she knew well, of course; it was a good New England name; Vanny was probably some senseless Italian addition. The name of the eldest son, Augusto, became on her lips Gooster; Paolo was Parlo, a.s.sunta was Soonter.
The nuns had finally taken Soonter. The step-mother had been unable to conceal from herself her own profound relief. True, the girl had gone to a ”papish” convent; but she had always been a mystery in the house, and the constant presence of a mystery is particularly trying to the New England mind. Soonter spent hours in meditation; she was very quiet; she believed that she saw angels; her face wore often a far-away smile.
On this September evening she prepared a heavily abundant supper for Granmar, and a simple one for Nounce, who ate at any time hardly more than a bird; Granmar, on the contrary, was gifted with an appet.i.te of extraordinary capacities, the amount of food which was necessary to keep her, not in good-humor (she was never in good-humor), but in pa.s.sable bodily tranquillity, through the twenty-four hours being equal to that which would have been required (so Prudence often thought) for three hearty New England harvesters at home. Not that Granmar would touch New England food; none of the family would eat the home dishes which Prudence in the earlier years had hopefully tried to prepare from such materials as seemed to her the least ”onreasonable”; Granmar, indeed, had declared each and all fit only for the hogs. Prudence never tried them now, and she had learned the art of Italian cooking; for she felt that she could not afford to make anything that was to be for herself alone; the handful of precious twigs must serve for the family as a whole. But every now and then, in spite of her natural abstemiousness, she would be haunted by a vision of a ”boiled dinner,” the boiled corned-beef, the boiled cabbage, turnips, and potatoes, and the boiled Indian pudding of her youth. She should never taste these dainties on earth again. More than once she caught herself hoping that at least the aroma of them would be given to her some time in heaven.
When Granmar was gorged she became temporarily more tranquil. Prudence took this time to speak of a plan which she had had in her mind for several days. ”Now that Gooster and the other boys are doing for themselves, Granmar, and Bepper too at last, and Jo Vanny only needing a trifle of help now and then (he's so young yet, you know), I feel as though I might be earning more money,” she began.
”Money's a very good thing; we've never had half enough since my sainted Annunziata joined the angels,” responded Granmar, with a pious air.
”Well, it seems a good time to try and earn some more. Soonter's gone to the convent; and as it's a long while since Pipper's been here, I really begin to think he has gone off to get work somewhere, as he always said he was going to.”
”Don't you be too sure of Pippo,” said Granmar, shaking her owl-like head ominously.
”'Tany rate he hasn't been here, and I always try to hope the best about him--”
”And _that's_ what you call the best?” interrupted Granmar, with one of her sudden flank movements, ”to have him gone away off no one knows where--Annunziata's own precious little nephew--taken by the pirates--yam! Sold as a slave--yam! Killed in the war! Oh, Pippo! poor Pippo! poor little Pipp, Pipp, Pipp!”
”And so I thought I'd try to go to the shop by the day,” Prudence went on, when this yell had ceased; ”they want me to come and cut out. I shouldn't go until after your breakfast, of course; and I could leave cold things out, and Nounce would cook you something hot at noon; then I should be home myself every night in time to get your supper.”
”And so that's the plan--I'm to be left alone here with an idiot while you go flouncing your heels round a.s.sisi! Flounce, cat! It's a wonder the dead don't rise in their graves to hear it. But we buried my Annunziata too deep for that--yam!--otherwise she'd 'a been here to tear your eyes out. An old woman left to starve alone, her own precious grandmother, growing weaker and weaker, and pining and pining. Blessed stomach, do you hear--do you hear, my holy, blessed stomach, always asking for so little, and now not even to get that? It's turned all a mumble of cold just thinking of it--yam! I, poor sufferer, who have had to stand your ugly face so long--I _so_ fond of beauty! You haven't got but twenty-four hairs now; you know you haven't--yam! I've got more than you twenty times over--hey! _that_ I have.” And Granmar, tearing off her cap, pulled loose her coa.r.s.e white hair, and grasping the ends of the long locks with her crooked fingers, threw them aloft with a series of shrill halloos.
”I won't go to the shop,” said Prudence. ”Mercy on us, what a noise! I say I won't go to the shop. There! do you hear?”
”Will you be here every day of your life at twelve o'clock to cook me something that won't poison me?” demanded Granmar, still hallooing.
”Yes, yes, I promise you.”
Even Granmar believed Prudence's yes; her yea was yea and her nay nay to all the family. ”You cook me something this very minute,” she said, sullenly, putting on her cap askew.
”Why, you've only just got through your supper!” exclaimed Prudence, astonished, used though she was to Granmar's abdominal capacities, by this sudden demand.
”You won't? Then I'll yell again,” said Granmar. And yell she did.
”Hold up--do; I believe you now,” said Prudence. She fanned the dying coals with a straw fan, made up the fire, and prepared some griddle-cakes. Granmar demanded fig syrup to eat with them; and devoured six. Filled to repletion, she then suffered Prudence to change her day cap for a nightcap, falling asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.
During this scene Nounce had sat quietly in her corner. Prudence now went to her to see if she was frightened, for the girl was sometimes much terrified by Granmar's outcries; she stroked her soft hair. She was always looking for signs of intelligence in Nounce, and fancying that she discovered them. Taking the girl's hand, she went with her to the next room, where were their two narrow pallet beds. ”You were very smart to save the eggs for me to-day when Granmar wanted that omerlet,” she whispered, as she helped her to undress.
Memory came back to Nounce; she smiled comprehendingly.
Prudence waited until she was in bed; then she kissed her good-night, and put out the candle.
Her two charges asleep, Mrs. Guadagni the second opened the back door softly and went out. It was not yet nine o'clock, a warm dark night; though still September, the odors of autumn were already in the air, coming from the September flowers, which have a pungency mingled with their perfume, from the rank ripeness of the vegetables, from the aroma of the ground after the first rains.
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