Little Novels of Italy | Page 7

He had ranked himself with the unforgivable
party: the old man was an old fool, a gull whose power of swallow
stirred disgust. Vanna had the rights of it, they said; such men were
made to be tricked. As for Fra Battista's pulpit, it was thronged about
with upturned faces; for those who had not been before went now to
judge what they would have done under the circumstances. Having
been, there were no two opinions about that. Messer Gabriele
Arcangelo, some said, judging by the honey-tongue; San Bastiano,
others considered him, who went by his comely proportions; and these
gained the day, since his beardless face and friar's frock induced the
idea of innocence, which Sebastian's virgin bloom also taught. The
quality of his sermons did not grow threadbare under this adventitious
criticism: he kept a serene front, lost no authority, nor failed of any
unction. There was always a file at his confessional; and at Corpus
Christi, when in the pageant he actually figured as Sebastian, his plump
round limbs roped to a pine-stock drew tears from all eyes.
Unhappily you have to pay for your successes. There were other
preachers in Verona, and other eloquent preachers who, being honest
men, had had to depend upon their eloquence. These were the
enemy--Franciscans, of course, and Dominicans--who got wind of

something amiss, and began to nose for a scandal. What they got gave
them something besides eloquence to lean on: there were now other
sermons than young Fra Battista's, and the moral his person pointed had
a double edge. In fact, where he pointed with his person, the
Dominicans pointed with their sharp tongues. The Franciscans, more
homely, pointed with their fingers. Fra Battista began to be notorious--a
thing widely different from fame; he also began to be uncomfortable,
and his superior with him. They talked it over in the cloister, walking
up and down together in the cool of the day. "It has an ugly look, my
dear," said the provincial; "send the young woman to me."
What of the young woman, meantime? Let me tell the truth:
motherhood became her so well that she was brazen from the very
beginning. No delicacy, no pretty shame, no shrinking--she gloried in
the growing fact. When she was brought to bed she made a quick
recovery; she insisted upon a devout churching, an elaborate
christening of the doubtful son (whereat, if you will believe me, no
other than Fra Battista himself must do the office!); thenceforth she
was never seen without her bimbo. While she worked it lay at her feet
or across her knee like a stout chrysalis; the breast was ever at its
service, pillow or fount; when it slept she lifted up a finger or her grave
eyes at the very passers-by; her lips moulded a "Hush!" at them lest
they should dare disturb her young lord's rest. The saucy jade! Was
ever such impudence in the world before? It drew her, too, to old
Baldassare in a remarkable way. This the neighbours--busy with
sniffing--did not see. She had always had a sense of the sweet root
under the rind, always purred at his stray grunts and pats, taking them
by instinct for what they were really worth; and now to watch his new
delight filled her with gratitude--and more, she felt free to love the man.
For one thing, it unlocked his lips and hers. She could sing about the
house since Cola had come--they had christened him after good Saint
Nicholas--because Master Baldassare was so talkative on his account.
The old man sat at home whenever he could, in his shiny armchair, his
cup of black wine by his side, and watched Vanna with the baby by the
hour together, poring over every downward turn of her pretty head,
every pass of her fingers, every little eager striving of the sucking child.
There were, indeed, no bounds to his content: to be a father--poor old

soul!--seemed to him the most glorious position in the world. Can
Grande II. in the judgment-seat, the bishop stalled in his throne, the
Holy Father himself in the golden chambers of his castle at Avignon,
had nothing to offer Ser Baldassare Dardicozzo, the old-clothes man.
Though the neighbours knew nothing of this inner peace, they could
not deny that Monna Vanna, brazen or no, was mightily become by her
new dignity or (as you should say) indignity. She was more staid, more
majestic; but no less the tall, swaying, crowned girl she had ever been.
She was seen, without doubt, for a splendid young woman. The heavy
child seemed not to drag her down, nor the slant looks of respectable
citizens, her neighbours, to lower her head. She met them with level
eyes quite candid, and a smiling mouth to all appearance