Part 51 (1/2)
The neck of a fiasco protruding from the straw of the _baroccio_ gave point to the accusation.
”_Ubbriaccone_ yourself! _Mascalzone!_” shrieked the carter. ”Have an eye yourself to what you meet on the road! Because you drive aristocrats and imbecile _forestieri_ about, do you think you can throw honest working-men into the dust? I'll drag you before the tribunals! You say I am drunk, you lie! You whipped my beast, I saw you!”
”_Socialista!_ _Anarchico!_ _Figlio d'un prete!_ _a.s.sa.s.sino!_” screamed the _fiaccheraio_.
”_Figlio d'una--!_” yelled the _barocciaio_.
”Here now,” said Angelescu authoritatively, thinking they had gone quite far enough and annoyed by the uproar, ”stop that bawling or I'll give you both in charge. You were on the wrong side of the road and you were asleep,” he said to the lowering _barocciaio_, ”so if you fell off it was your own fault. However, here's a lira for you, and now pull aside and let us pa.s.s.”
He tossed a silver coin to the man whose ill-humour disappeared as though by magic, he even touched his cap and wished the ”Signori” a ”_Buona pa.s.seggiata_” as he led his horse by. The little dog had stopped barking and sat on his haunches regarding them with bright intelligent eyes, his fluffy ears pointed forward, a tip of his pink tongue showing under his truffle-like muzzle.
The _fiaccheraio_ shook his head apologetically.
”_He vuole_, Signore, those people have no education, they will make a bad end. Did you hear what he said about aristocrats? But that is nothing, you should hear what they say in their socialistic meetings!
They will end like that Brescia who murdered our good King. It is a bad thing for people of no education to talk too much. _Madonna de fiaccherai!_ to think that such _farab.u.t.ti_ should take the bread from honest men's mouths!”
”You are hard on them,” said Angelescu.
”Ah, Signore mio, you do not know our _beceri_, and what they are capable of! It is a bad world and one must work hard for a _tozzo di pane_ and a gla.s.s of _vin nero_--and these _merli_ wish to live without working, and that is a thing which has never been since the world began.
They say to us others, 'aha, _minchioni_, we will live on your shoulders!'”
Angelescu amused, continued to draw the old man out; the shrewd mother-wit and quaint phrases of the old Florentine were a source of delight to him. Ragna leaned back, indifferent, lost in the pleasant labyrinth of her day-dreams.
The road came to a sharp turn and the driver instinctively drew rein.
Before them, beyond an indeterminate fore-ground of shadow, rose the city, bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Towers pierced the glowing haze, fairest of all the tower of Palazzo Vecchio, slender and tall like some stately lily, and floating bubble-like on the gold, the wonderful airy cupola of the Duomo. The long level mellow rays of sunset gave the scene an unreal aspect; it seemed that as way-worn pilgrims they had come suddenly upon the golden dream city of their desire, a city called up magically before their eyes, a glorious vision evoked by the power and wonder of their love. Above the dome and the towers, pearly clouds merging into amethyst floated in the gold-pink sky. The sound of many church-bells mellowed by the distance to a suggestion of heavenly music floated to their ears. Both felt instinctively that this was the fit ending to their perfect afternoon. In these last few hours they had attained to the apex of human happiness--whatever the future might hold in store for them, nothing could ever mar the transcendent beauty of this day, nor could they ever hope to surpa.s.s the joy, the glory of it.
CHAPTER XII
The door was opened to Ragna by Nando--Valentini had never permitted her to keep a latchkey--the anxiety of whose countenance was changed to relief at sight of her.
”_Meno male, Signora_, that you have come at last!”
”Why, Nando, what has happened?”
”The Signorini are crying for you, Signora,--the Sor Padrone found them in mischief and beat them,--beat them as though to break their poor little bones--”
But Ragna stayed for no more, her heart in her mouth she sped up the stairs to the room shared by the children.
What had happened was this: while Carolina saw to the preparation of their _goter_, they had wandered in search of amus.e.m.e.nt and finding the door of Egidio's studio open,--a most unusual occurrence, as he generally kept the key in his pocket when not at work, had strayed in.
On the large upright easel near the window stood the portrait of a lady, all but finished, a tall beautiful lady whose white dress and long scarlet scarf threw into relief the dark beauty of her head and the slender grace of her figure. The palette with its sheaf of brushes thrust into the thumb-hole lay carelessly in the box of the easel, as Egidio had left it on going to luncheon.
The boys stood hand-in-hand, gazing open-mouthed at the canvas which was lowered to the last notch, as Egidio had been working on the hair and shoulder-drapery.
”What a beautiful lady,” said Mimmo in awed tones, ”she must be a princess!”
”Yeth, a fairy princeth,” agreed Beppino, on whom his mother's fairy tales had made a deep if confused impression.