BANCROFT LIBRARY <> THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA IT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF i RODARI, SCULPTOR A Story of Pisa by VIRGINIA E. PENNOYER D. PAUL ELDER AND MORGAN SHEPARD SAN FRANCISCO 1901 Copyright, ZQOO h VIRGINIA E. PENNOYER ttflO TO MY MOTHER K or THE UNIVERSITY OF RODARI, SCULPTOR A Story of Pisa CHAPTER I _ * . RINGING out in vibrating tones solemn, clanging, or mellowly sweet the bells of Pisa sounded the midday hour. Matteo Rodari paused in his work, with uplifted head, and listened to the throbbing echoes until they died away. He laid aside the narrow lapboard holding his few tools, then covered with a cloth the small block of Carrara mar- ble upon which he had spent his morning's effort, and rose to his feet. The air of the little shop was hot and close, though through the window to the east came a faint breeze, stir- ring the fine particles of marble-dust upon the narrow sill. Tiny drifts of the same white substance rested upon the bench, work-table and floor, like a thin fall of early wind-blown snow. Placed upon shelves protected by sliding doors of greenish glass, were rows of small replicas in different colored marbles, of Italy's greatest art treasures. Spir- ited, life-like forms by Bologna, Donatello and Cellini stood side by side. The exquisite elegance of a relief of Mino da Fiesole shouldered an ornamented slab from a twelfth century tomb, while here and there, dimly seen Rodari, Sculptor through the dusty glass, was a noble classic head, lily- like Corinthian column, or finely modeled Greek torso. Stiff and weary from hours of sitting, Matteo blew in little clouds the white powder from his hands and sleeves, and stretched his arms above his head seeking relief in the motion and change of attitude. His rather long face was thin and worn. The heavy-lidded eyes were usually half closed in dreamy abstraction, living, as he did, in a world of his own, from where he seldom clearly per- ceived that which occurred in the one of every day about him. His slender hands, with their supple, delicate-nailed fingers of tapering length, and the broad brow and shapely head, evidenced the artistic temperament, checked, and perhaps dominated, by the austerity of the thin- lipped, firmly-closed mouth. His look sought the half-open door of the room lead- ing from the rear of the workshop, and he called softly, "Corrona." Receiving no response, he untied the worn green apron he wore, and, throwing it over his work-bench, stepped over the threshold of the tiny chamber and stood looking about him. A low bed filled the longest wall space. This, with a child's carved chair, a brass-nailed, gaily painted leather trunk, serving now as table and bureau, was the only furni- ture the little room held, and the small objects about spoke but briefly of its occupant, so few were they. Matteo lifted a white marble lion from the trunk top and held it contemplatively in the palm of his hand. The shop without held several finely sculptured specimens of the same subject, but this meant to him more than them all. A smile came to his eyes from the thoughts stirred by the small treasure, for treasure it was to A Story of Pisa Corrona, its owner, and through his little daughter's valu- ation of it his had grown. Being in some way defective, he had given it to her as a plaything years before. The head only, clearly de- fined ; the body and limbs but suggested. It had troubled Corrona so much, the imprisoned form gazing at her out of its marble eyes, seemingly demanding freedom, she could not sleep, and had crept into his room in the night to beg him, with sobbing breath, to "let the lion out just a little while, padre mia, his eyes ache so to get out ! " He took the forlorn little figure in his arms, and she fell asleep with the reproachful-eyed animal chill- ing her small hand, comforted by the promise of its liberty, which was kept. In her imagination it was gifted with wonderful powers of transformation. At one time it would be hung in a wooden box in her window a golden-winged canary. Then, the feathers would be changed to fins, and as a deep-sea fish it would be dropped to the bottom of the copper water-jar, breaking the tip of its royal marble nose one tragic day as it struck the ocean's metal bed. Best of all, placed on her pillow, he guarded her at night in his proper form from the bad dreams she so feared. Matteo sighed, remembering her intense pleasure in the possession of something all her own, and putting it back in its place, turned to seek the owner. The Ponte Solferino basked in the full glare of the noon sun, its three-arched, lion-guarded span repeating itself in a broad band of brown shadow upon the muddy water of the Arno. Before the shop the river ran between the walled banks, shallow and waveless, without ripple or break in the flow. The shores were bare of tree or bush or the Rodari, Sculptor lower growth of rank grass, weeds, or slender water plants a river's toll for its right of way. Giving back to the sky no reflection of its blue, only a metallic glitter, it dazzled Matteo's eyes and seemed to him like a stream of burning bronze, returning to the sun a heat nearly equal to its own. This hour of the nooning usually found the neighbor- hood deserted by the passing townspeople or straying tourist, and the high, flat-faced houses, each side of the narrow river, showed no sign of the busy life within their hidden courts, where many arts and occupations were followed side by side in the small spaces of the poorly lighted shops. To-day something in the way the sun and shade met upon the water beneath the Ponte brought to Matteo's memory, as he stood in the narrow doorway of his shop, the days when he had first looked upon this spot. How long ago they seemed ! Yet the remembrance was as vivid as if they were but yesterday the frail wife and young child, the newness of the life, the inquisitive strangers, with their prying questions, living about them with an impatient sigh he turned away, trying to free himself from the unwelcome memory, and so perceived, for the first time, the little figure of his daughter seated upon the river wall with her back to the Via, not fifty feet from where he stood. The low murmur of the water deadened the sound of his approaching footsteps, but a slight movement of the slender form showed that the perfect calm of her dream- ing solitude was stirred by his presence. She sat in the hot sunshine of the treeless Lungarno, her two arms clasping her knees, and her small, deer-like head erect, though the wide-set eyes were drooped, watching the river's flow. A Story of Pisa In a moment she turned, roused from her thoughts by his nearness, and met his slow smile and outstretched hand by a loving ' ' padre mia ! ' ' and a delicate color crept into her little face as he raised and held against his cheek for a moment the small, chill hand. He stood silently by her side in the white light, and the two figures seemed as alone as if no city encircled them. Matteo Rodari had appeared some years before with his small family, and established himself in the shop on the Lungarno. The near neighbors were eager at first to show every kindness, give every aid to the newcomers, but they soon found that, though the good-will was grate- fully acknowledged, the strong element of curiosity it contained was perceived and left ungratified. They could learn but little of the family, save that Matteo had been a sculptor of Rome, had traveled somewhat, meeting and marrying his young wife in Sicily, where they had lived before coming to Pisa. The reason of this northward journey was unknown and could not be ascertained, therefore was a matter of much conjecture and even suspicion. In time the curiosity gave place to newer interests, and the women decided that the change must have been made because of the wife's failing health. Still, the reserve and implied lack of confidence chilled all neighborly intercourse or real friendliness, and the man and now motherless child were left outside of the intimate interests of a little community. Matteo soon proved his superior ability in his art, and unconsciously aroused as much envy as admiration by its exquisite finish and accuracy. His shrinking nature and lack of business ability prevented his name from being of note beyond the city. Only a few fellow artists and the occasionally appreciative purchaser from io Rodari, Sculptor other lands knew of the faithful work and consummate skill put into his reproductions. Through their monotony the years passed quickly, though to him they were empty of all joy. The work of each day, the satisfaction in its worth and growing power, alone gave him the small measure of content he owned, while of the solitary child growing by his side he was neglectfully kind, really unaware as yet of the depth of her hungry little soul, of her patient, uncomplaining lone- liness. Several times of late he had been roused from his long reveries by the searching, questioning look, surprised in her dark eyes, eyes over which the long lashes quickly fell, as she became suddenly conscious of her intruding interest, and so withdrew, as one caught on the threshold of some forbidden chamber, holding within its denied space the magnet to all thought and feeling. The unmeasured generosity of her love touched him vaguely ; his slightest notice brought such quick response of confident content ; such eager hands met his careless touch, while the young heart gave fully and freely of its wealth of trusting love and faith. Corrona had long sought to understand his varying moods, watching, with wise, thinking eyes, his absorbed face as it was bent over his tool. She knew every pass- ing shade upon it as she knew the form and color of the beautiful chapel before their door. In the long hours of his silent days she felt the certainty of his kindness, just as she was sure that the white walls of the building, with their fine detail of mosaic and lace -like carving, would meet her eyes in the morning when she drew aside the curtain from her window. Once, in the night, the fright- ening thought had come that, the chapel had been on its way to the great Basilica, but in some way had lost itself OF Story of Pisa n by the river side, where it now stood, waiting to hear the word which would guide it to its companions in the wide Piazza del Duomo. Springing from her bed, she flew to her window and threw open the wooden shutters, covering her eyes for a tearing moment, with the trembling pressure of her child- ish hands, dreading to look, for might not her thought have come true? Maybe the dear Santa Maria della Spina had been told by the night wind the way to the place it had been seeking and was gone ! Her joy to see it resting in its place, still crowding its small perfection upon the narrow Via Gambacorte, made her drop to her knees in a prayer of thankfulness, and sent her to the custodi the next morning to beg permis- sion to enter before the hour of the early service, where she knelt in silent happiness, her eyes slowly covering every beloved detail of its Gothic beauty, while she told her beads with a fervor of faith and gratitude until the worshipers entered for the early morning mass. Corrona always felt the whole city hers, and hers alone at this hour, and now to share its possession with the beloved padre gave her full content, and her face, as she leaned it against his arm, spoke of the rarity of this moment of companionship and sympathy of mood, days at a time passing with only a word or two from him to think over, as she lay in the dark of her little room at night, wondering over his silent ways. As they rested now, side by side, they faced the west- ern wall of the chapel, and their eyes sought the ever- new beauty of the small building. Against the sky sprang the delicate flame-like points of the five pinnacles, with their carven saints canopied beneath, at watch over the river. Over the two windows curved the half circle of the inlaid arches, rich with mar- 12 Rodari, Sculptor ble mosaic. From these two windows at night Corrona sometimes drew comfort and companionship as the soft light streamed out to her from the candle-lit interior. The child glanced up at the man's face, and her own lightened as she saw that the usual gloom upon it was somewhat lifted under the spell of the beauty before them. How kind his face was, she thought, as she studied it with serious eyes. How good to her he always was ! And now, to take these moments of rest with her in the sunny, open air ! And she sighed with a contentment unusual. Suddenly a thought came, flushing the thin young face with excitement : Would it not be a good time to tell him the great secret, the many weeks' old secret, which was to prove to him that she was now old enough to help him earn the centesimi, could really at last aid in adding to the little hoard of brown coins in the brass box on his bureau? She wished to speak of so many, many things ! Where should she begin? And should she disturb him now ? Was it a good time ? Her childish breast rose and fell in quickened breath- ing, and she unconsciously stiffened herself for the effort of speech, sitting away from the supporting arm, more sought than offered, as her companion leaned against the wall by her side. She pressed her two palms together tightly, and shut her eyes, that she might the more clearly think of the words to speak. Oh, the many things ! the many things ! Where should she begin ? Then the doubt cleared away and her resolve framed itself into two softly whispered words, * ' mia madre' ' ; she would ask of the beautiful young madre of whom she knew so little ; and that little was growing less, bare as was the present of all allusion to the dead. Matteo never A Story of Pisa 13 spoke of her, and, although Corrona could not have told how the impression became so clear, she felt sure that some feeling, as strong as his love, colored his thought of the madre, standing between him and peace. Yes, the first words must be of her ; and she must know what troubled him, why he never talked of the beautiful days when she was as other children, having a madre of her own her very own ! He seemed kinder even than usual, and no one was passing. Would he listen long enough ? "Padre," she began, falteringly ; then, meeting his glance, paled a little under the swift thought of how her words might drive away the contentment in his look. He stooped slightly, the better to read the emotion he saw stirring the depths of her black eyes, and, brushing from her forehead the long hair, raised the little face in his palm, studying it. ' ' What is it, child ? Are you not well ? I think you need a visit from your Golden Lady. Would that please you ? It is time for her to come. She said between the 1 Festa della Statute ' and the * Assunzione ' she would surely return to Pisa." " Oh, padre ! If she would only come !" with a long sigh, partly of anticipation, partly in the relief of the moment's reprieve. Then, the self-set task childishly forgotten, she added reassuringly, as if doubt had risen, twin to the pleasure the idea presented : ' ' You know you were to make her face in the mar- ble, and she promised to teach me things like other girls," and Corrona lost herself in imagining the hoped- for arrival. How easy it was to recall the first coming of "The Golden Lady!" the wonderful day when she had stepped into the little shop, where she had been so kind, Rodari, Sculptor so interested in all that was about her. Corrona could hear now the tones of the low, full voice, the soft rustle of the silk of her dress sounding, she thought, like tiny breaking waves on the sands, and she felt again the touch of the shining folds of the color of ripe wheat, as she stealthily slipped her hand against them, standing timid and dumb by the side of the gracious visitor, who had praised and admired the shelves' contents enough to sat- isfy even the child's pride in her father's work. She raised her eyes to his, remembering his pleasure that bright day. Could this be the same face which had warmed into such unusual animation during a discussion he had had with his gentle guest ? Some lines in the old, worn, leather-covered book, always open on the work- bench by his side, had occasioned it, and Corrona had read the admiration and unusual interest in the padre's eyes as he watched the slender hand slowly, lingeringly, turning the musty, brownish leaves, from which she had read hesitatingly, from time to time, a line or phrase, dipping into the noble rhythm of the words as a bird would skim a mighty river, touching with wing tip the upper current of the strong tide. She had come often to the shop after that, " To prac- tice her Italian," she laughingly said, and always showed a delicate deference to the words and opinions of Matteo, which sat upon her fair presence with a crowning grace and made the man hungry for mental companion- ship lift his head with the added dignity her approval gave. Corrona' s life, also, was the better and richer for those visits. Thought and widened vision had been the Golden Lady's gift to the lonely little girl, and the story of foreign lands and peoples had given the eager brain food for many otherwise empty hours. Best of all, she A Story of Pisa had told the child of her mother's birthplace, wonderful Sicily ! And told it as one who loved the long valleys, the dark, high, pine-crowned mountains, with silvery streams flowing down their sides like unwound ribbons, and the black lava rocks resembling stormy jewels set in the white foam of the breakers on the shore. The Golden Lady pictured to the entranced hearer the green gray of the olive orchards covering the lower slopes of the hills, from where one could see the irregular line of the coast as it pushed its long, jagged, rocky fingers, graspingly, far out into the Ionian sea, forming, between, bays and inlets, where grew such brilliant flow- ers as no words could describe. Corrona tried again to recall all she had told her of the far-away land. She could remember the description of the wonderful green growth, the tumble and fall of the long sprays of starry jasmine, and of purple grapevines covering the cliff-set shore, meeting the sea's margin even as they stretched their delicate green tendrils down- wards towards the incoming waves. No wonder the dear madre had been glad to leave stony Pisa, where so little green met the eye glad to go through the beautiful blue of the sky, which screened from the people on the earth the heaven place, which must be very like this won- derful Sicily, where the madre had once been a happy girl. Of that girlhood the child knew a little, and by constant reviewing had kept the knowledge fresh and vivid in her thoughts. The little ribboned and belled tambourine, hanging on the wall in her room, was all that was left of those long-ago days of bright youth, when the morning and the evening and the day to come were but hours for merry life out-of-doors, for laughter and care-free existence within. 16 Rodari, Sculptor Oh, why, why did her father never speak of those days ! Never look at the pretty tambourine, although Corrona felt sure it filled his consciousness whenever he crossed the threshold of her room, but she never saw him even glance at it. What had happened to make those days as great a pain as sorrow to recall ? She must ask, must know ! Now ? Suddenly grasping his hand with both of hers, she raised it to her breast, holding it there, while she looked straightly and bravely into his eyes a look of resolu- tion, making her childish face old for the moment. Her lips trembled a little and tears were ready to cloud the clear eyes. " Padre mia," she faltered, "tell me of my mother; just this once, only once. Did she love me very much ? " The man's face seemed to harden, to grow smaller under her searching, questioning glance, and only his silence answered the sweet, childish tones, as if he fought for the mastery of unseen forces which threatened ship- wreck of all governed speech. Corrona felt as if the hand in hers had become a hand of stone, as if his arm would feel like the arm of a statue should she touch it, so rigid and immovable he stood. She trembled a little, and her heart seemed to beat with loud-sounding throbs in her breast. He was not angry, she thought, oh no, not that ; but some quick change had come from her words, sweeping him far from her, though his hand was still in hers, his eyes yet looking into her eyes. What was it ? Oh, what was it, falling over him like a dark, dark shadow, as she had once seen the night cover the deep sea, hiding but not stilling the turmoil of its stormy waves. She waited, drawing long, suppressed breaths, grow- AStoryofPisa 17 ing each instant more afraid of the silence afraid of what it foretold. The tall houses on the Lungarno, the stones in the Via, the whole wide sky, seemed to listen for the long- coming answer. " Padre," she repeated, timidly, struggling with her fear and bewilderment courageously, "tell me, did the madre feel very sorry to go away from her little child to leave me on the earth? Did she love me very much ? ' ' and she pressed tremblingly against her frightened heart the unresponsive hand, trying to rouse him by the tender caress. When through stiffened lips he answered, his words seemed to ring through her little world in loud, brazen tones, beating upon the tender heart and brain. * ' No, your mother loved no one, not even you," he said huskily. " She lived for herself alone. She knew no duty, no truth. She left you to the care of strange women. She left me to to " his voice broke and he threw out his arm with a sudden rough movement like one pushing aside some restraining barrier, and spoke as if to himself, hearing the woes of years, as he had lived them, one by one, forgetting the listening child, forgetting her need of pity, knowing for the moment only the tide of bitter memory flooding his thoughts. The toneless voice went on in shaken, struggling words : * ' She came back when no more pleasure could be wrung from life to be cared for. She knew she could creep under my hand and be safe be sheltered. She played with my heart as she did with her own life, with her soul ' ' The words died away in the hurry of the panting breath, and through the whirl of his emotion he saw vaguely the fascinated stare of Corrona's large eyes, as i8 Rodari, Sculptor through a mist, and the sight finally pierced the man's consciousness and he realized his need of self-control. "You are too young to understand," he said, look- ing down upon her with a sudden, hard calm, which made her shrink away from him as she never had done before shrink as she would have from some dreadful, incurable wound, knowing the slightest touch might snap the hold upon the life or sanity of the one enduring. His hands fell to his sides inertly, and he turned from her, not hearing her low, appealing cry, or unheeding if it reached his ear. It seemed to her as if the figure of an old, old man left her side, crossed the narrow Via and entered the shop with slow, dragging steps ; that with slow movement turned and shut the door ; and Corrona dared not follow. She sat, stunned, by the change in her little world, star- ing with dazed eyes at the closed door, feeling, without understanding, the barrier of suffering and experience set between them shivering under the bitter chill of the poverty of which she had never dreamt the poverty of all mother love in her short young life. This, then, was the trouble ! This dreadful, dreadful thing, and she had made the padre speak of it ! to her ! only Corrona ! speak of all his suffering, his unhappy, unhappy life. ' ' Oh, padre mia ! Oh, padre mia ! ' ' she moaned, with strangling sobs, beating her clasped hands against the tortured little mouth, " forgive your little girl, oh, forgive her ! She is sorry, sorry ! ' ' and all the sunshine was shut out by a storm of blinding tears. A Story of Pisa 19 CHAPTER II The Apuan Mountains were topped by cumulous masses of dark blue-gray clouds, heaped in a great wind- swept ridge, its edge touched by orange light, luminous, yet threatening. High overhead flew a long line of sea birds, their wide-spread wings serving but to keep them aloft, so swiftly were they driven through the upper air by the strong breath from the ocean. Over Pisa the sunshine still held its clear brilliancy, yet from the path of the distant storm came a refreshing coolness and the scent of rain. Up and down the Lungarno Regio Rodari's eyes searched for Corrona's little figure. He had not seen her since the nooning, and now it was five o'clock and the heat of the day was changing into a coolness he knew presaged storm. He suddenly realized that her noon breakfast was still untouched upon the table, and that her frail strength needed immediately more sustenance than the roll of bread eaten early in the day could give. " Where has the child gone? " He spoke aloud, and for the moment felt some anxiety over her absence, though it was not unusual. The scene of the morning had carried his thoughts far from Pisa, from Corrona, and the present, and he had hardly become aware until now that she, too, must have suffered, though like a pale star in the black night of his gloomy retrospections, her little face had shone all day, freighted with its weight of new woe. 20 Rodari, Sculptor The door of the shop slammed to with a loud bang, and a flash of white light blazed a burning path for an instant, through the somber cloud caps of the far Alps. A sudden swift breeze swept the dust and debris of the Via into corners, in scurrying whirls, and stirred violently the leaves of the sickly plant in the terra-cotta jar on the sill of Corrona's window, sending out from its few leaves a delicate fragrance, which brought to him vividly her sweet gentleness and patience. He placed the little plant within the window and closed the wooden shutters, then caught up his cap and hurried out, wondering where he should first look for her. People were hastening homeward, and the sound of their hurrying footsteps, their laughter and talk, filled the Via. The freshened air, hinting of the nearing storm, cooled his face as he hurried over the Ponte and turned in his search toward the cathedral. One or two of the passing townspeople spoke or nodded to Matteo, indif- ferently, receiving only a brief, half articulated response. A little boy was being led reluctantly along, his broad- faced Italian nurse pulling him forward by one plump hand while his other grasped the sailor cap crowning the wind-blown yellow curls, which were swept in a bewilder- ing tangle over the laughing, mischievous eyes. She reproved him sharply and nearly twitched him off his feet, when he saucily sang out in English to the unheed- ing Matteo as they passed: "Hallo, you Mr. Dusty Man ! Say, ain't this a dandy wind ! " Reaching the end of the long Via Solferino, Matteo stood for a moment looking in all directions. Before him opened the wide Piazza del Duomo, where the surrounding buildings seemed to fall away from the wonderful group in the center, as if its majesty and lovli- ness had awed these commoner creations, and they had AStoryofPisa 21 drawn back in reverence from too close an approach to the perfection they neighbored. The white splendor of the Duomo seemed that of some dream-world, and the tall, seven-belled campanile drooped as if still faint with the long day's burning rays, though it yet faced bravely the clear light of the now setting sun. The eight galleries showed every detail in delicate, shadowy repetitions of their pillared arches upon the inner curved walls, giving double beauty in the reality and its echo of shade. Crossing the Via Santa Maria, Rodari passed the low baptistery without a glance at its perfect marble symmetry, and mounted the shallow steps of the Duomo. Across the upper step lay Carlo, the whining blind beggar of the Piazza, sound asleep, flat upon his back, his greasy cap tilted over his nose, his stubbly chin very much in evidence, and every spot and crease upon the worn rai- ment showing distinctly. Matteo stepped lightly over one outstretched arm, glad to enter the sacred place without the importunate voice and tin cup's begging jingle sound- ing in his ears. The opened, green bronze doors were warm to his touch from the day's heat and sunshine, and as he let fall again across the door space % the padded leather curtain, the peace and quiet of the great interior met his senses restfully, as would the green depth of a forest after the glare of a sandy, treeless waste. He hurriedly bent his knee before the altar near the entrance, murmuring in a perfunctory manner a short Latin prayer, while his heart sank with a sudden foreboding. Had he so wounded the childish soul by his blind indifference to her hurt of the morning that she had hidden herself away to mourn alone. Ah, poverina ! 22 Rodari, Sculptor He must care for her more tenderly after this, give her more of his day, teach her many things, poor little one, that she might not gather the thoughts of the sad past and brood over them, and so dim her days as they had dimmed his life. Had his coming to Pisa, to free himself from all association with those who knew of the trouble of his youth, been wise, after all? Her kindred would perhaps have done well for the child better than he had done, would be able to do at all being but a man. He rose to his feet and stood, a dreaming figure of unromantic middle age but a soul in the first throes of a sense of guilt, a conviction of duty neglected. "Meaculpa," he murmured, with bowed head, and with a sigh his eyes sought the mother eyes of Del Vaga's Virgin, which Corrona so loved, as if he wished her woman's soul to hear .the confession and know his repentance. He passed under the oscillating bronze lamp, seeming the heart of the whole place as it circled in slow move- ment above his head, hanging by the strong chains as it had for centuries, suspended from the far, golden coffered ceiling of the nave. A small choir-boy in scarlet cassock and deep laced white cotta lounged down with slovenly step from the main altar, carelessly carrying back to the choir a huge, vellum-leaved, brass-clasped missal. The faint enervating scent of incense permeated the place, and the red eye of an ever-burning silver lamp, hanging in the dimness of a distant aisle of the transept, seemed to watch Matteo with malevolent expression, as he searched, going from one chapel to another down the long nave. Reaching again the door by which he had entered, he suddenly bethought himself of blind Carlo's known affection and A Story of Pisa 23 friendship for the straying child. Stepping through the door he stirred with his foot the sleeping man, sending at the same time a small coin ringing into the tin cup lying by the relaxed hand. Carlo scrambled to his feet and struck out with his fist, thinking some one was taking from him of his small store ; for he was more an object of dislike than pity to all about him, so surly his nature, his hand being against all men if not opened in his profession of Duomo beggar. ' * Chi e la ? Ecco, what do you want ? " he ex- claimed angrily, though still half asleep ; his white, sightless eyes strained widely, his head uplifted, in the ceaseless effort of the blind to pierce the barrier to sight. * * Speak ! Who is it ? ' ' he growled, ' * show you've a tongue to wag ! ' ' 1 ( Have you seen Corrona this afternoon ? ' ' said Matteo. " Has she been here?" "Oh, it's the great SignorRodari," and Carlo bowed low, mockingly. ( ' And why do you search for the child to-day ? Perche ? You are not so often wishing to know where she is," and he chuckled maliciously, for he enjoyed keeping Matteo waiting for an answer, detecting the smothered anxiety in the questioning tones ; and then the unusual situation! He, "" blind Carlo," now had something another wanted ! Usually it was the other way. Still being Corrona the little one ! Poverella ! "No," he finally grumbled. "The child has not been here to-day. She has brought me no chocolate ; like all women, she forgets !" and he growled like the animal he seemed, so void of all intelligence was his heavy fat face, anger alone seeming to find a familiar rest- ing-place upon its sallow breadth. 24 Rodari, Sculptor Matteo was turning away, when the rough voice began again : " Va ! Seek the child in the fields back of the Campo Santa. The little one goes there often. I could show you the very spot, if I would. Good care you take of her, Signer Rodari!" he continued, sneeringly. "All the world knows more of the child than you. Fine father you are," and with a slap he jammed his old cap still further upon his wiry black hair and stooped to grope for the stick and cup, badges of his licensed office of Duomo mendicant. " Little wealth suffices for the wise ! " exclaimed Mat- teo, angrily, and he flung a soldo at the man, and, with hastening step, turned his set, flushed face toward the long, low Campo Santa, unaware that Carlo followed, his slower progress guided by the forward thrust of the tap- ping batone, as with it he essayed each footpace cau- tiously. As Matteo neared the end of the flat, outer wall, he heard a low rumble of thunder, and the sun dropped, a ball of brazen light below the horizon. He paused for an instant and sent his voice ringing out in Comma's name, and thought for a listening moment that some response met his ear other than the rush of the strong wind, but receiving no reply to a second call he turned the angle of the wall and the wide, treeless fields north of the buildings were before him, sweeping in a long level to the base of Monti Pisani, frowning under the gloom of the heavy storm clouds in the northern and eastern sky. A breath of intense relief was sighed forth as he saw Corrona. Then his look slowly changed until his face grew white and tense with a sick despair. He moved forward slowly, stumbling unnoticingly A Story of Pisa 25 over two clumsy little shoes and an old hat lying upon the grass. Then stood still, with clenched hands and teeth, watching the scene before him. Yet it was only a dancing child and a black and white long-bearded goat which so moved his emotions. Against the wide, brownish green of the meadow's grassy sweep, under the last low light from the sun's track, these two figures were clearly defined, the gray wall of the Campo Santa serving as a background to the pretty pair. A pale little girl, with wild hair flowing in the wind, sweeping one moment about her face and shoulders in long black strands, the next tossed wide in the quick motions of the dance. Following the small figure, with awkward jumps and clown-like gambols, was the goat, a very spirit of stiff, angular agility. With lowered head he butted an invisible opponent, now sending his hind legs as high in the air as he could, now rising upon them, his forefeet angled against his hairy chest, his head, with its old man's beard and comi- cal, yellow, bead-like eyes turned in ridiculous coquetry to one side, as if he tried to emulate the airy grace of the little dancer before him. With slower steps, intricate, yet unruled, she came and went to the chime of her ribboned and belled tam- bourine, shaken in varying beat above her head. Her bare white feet were seemingly winged, so lightly they bore her slender, swaying form, instinct with beautiful, childish grace, free in movement, yet full of a delicate dignity, as the strong wind swathed the thin blue dress about the girlish limbs, or swept it in a circle of wide, rippling folds as she twirled in a quicker measure. The young face was very serious, absorbed in the moment's effort, and the heavy eyes appeared as if recent 26 Rodari, Sculptor tears had clouded their velvety blackness ; while through every motion ran a languor, or weakness, which the earn- est spirit seemed to check or defy. Turning to call the animal as he stopped to nibble the weedy growth beneath his cloven hoofs, she suddenly caught sight of the man's figure. Startled, for a moment she hesitated, poised like a bird with thought of flight ; then she flew to him and threw herself upon him, sob- bing, laughing, panting with the joy and excitement of the moment. "Oh, my padre ! It is for you, for you, I dance ! I have learned in the fields. For weeks and weeks I have tried and tried each day, and wished to tell you, but could not ; and now, you know ! and can see that I may help you, really help to earn the centesimi, and you will love me more, dear padre? Speak, and tell your Corrona you are glad she can help you at last ! For I can dance before the grand Alberghi and Ristoranti. You know the traveling Inglesi love to see the dances of Italy ; and Gobbo, my goat, is wise, you see ! He makes believe to dance, too, and they will laugh at him, and I will not let myself be afraid ; no, padre mia. I am sure I will not, for I am old now nine years old. Are you glad?" Breathless with the fast coming words, trembling with eager anticipation of his approval, long dreamed of and desired, the floodgates of her usually suppressed speech were wide thrown in the happiness of her accom- plished task. She leaned in confident hope against the man's tall figure, all the light of her child's heart mir- rored in the shining eyes, touching the little mouth with a beautiful smile of pride and joy. A harsh hand wrenched roughly from hers the tam- bourine and sent it a flying, musical, clashing disk, far AStoryofPisa 27 across the grass. A face, with a dark, angry scowl, bent above hers. Not her father's oh, no, no, not his! And the clutching grasp upon her shoulder that hurt, that shook her from him, that seemed to throw her from him as if contact with her was hateful ! Was it the padre ? This man, with pale face of passionate wrath ? Was this the kind voice she always knew as soft, as slow, in speak- ing to her. " Basta ! Basta ! Her child ! " the sharp voice said, shudderingly. " Not to be mine, then, after all, after all ! Is my life to be twice cursed ? twice ? twice ? ' ' The man stepped back from the reaching arms, the lifted, beseeching face. " Go you ! Run off, as she did, to dance over all the duties of existence, as she did. She, your mother ; she, who has left you this hateful gift. Oh! Dio! Dio!" Corrona's hands went to her aching throat to hold the tearing sobs in check, and her eyes flinched under the look set upon her face. She was not Corrona no ! Some one else had taken her place ; Corrona was lost, somewhere, this little girl had no padre. She must belong to the strangely speaking man was it the padre, though? If only the hurting pain in head and heart would stop throbbing, maybe she could see, could tell The strange man went on speaking the man that looked like the padre, but could not be he ; that spoke, but not as the dear, dear padre had ever spoken ! "I know where this will lead you ! I tried to stamp out the love of it in her, but death alone took it from her. I would rather you were dead. Do you hear ? ' ' With a piteous, wailing cry, Corrona stopped the dreadful words. "Padre, I am frightened ! I am fright- ened ! What have I done to make you speak so ? I do not love the dance. No, no, it tires me. I only learned 28 Rodari, Sculptor it to help you. Credimi ! Credimi ! do not look at me so ! Not like that ! I am your little girl, la figlia your own little Corrona ! Ah, Santa Maria, help me ! " The small figure swayed slightly, with outstretched, feeling hands. Dimly she saw the man's fleeing figure saw him thrust Carlo from his path with the dread strength born of the moment's passion saw the sky in the sullen purpling west come nearer and nearer, bringing a great surging darkness in high, black waves to cover her, to cover the whole world The soft grass took Corrona' s face upon its coolness, and she knew no more. From cloud mass to cloud mass the thunder rolled reverberatingly, unheard by her. Unseen, a blinding, rending flash of steely lightning pierced the blackness of the stormy heavens from east to west, as the rain, in a spreading torrent, fell on the waiting city on the blind man, searching untiringly, wandering up and down and across the wide, storm-drenched meadow, his head bent low against the rush of wind and water, his stick cau- tiously tapping the wet sod in advance of each step, his sightless face set with a fixed determination its purport voiced in the repeated call, incessant and appealing : Corrona ! Corrona ! Corronina ! AStoryofPisa 29 CHAPTER III Some two weeks later two women stood looking down upon Corrona's face as it rested upon the pillow, small and pale from the parching fever and delirium of days of illness. The exquisite orderliness and quiet of the large chamber spoke of the trained care affection had provided for the sleeping child. The light of a sunny morning crept through the bowed shutters, making a delightful green gloom, pleasant to eye and nerve, and the black-robed Sister of Mercy, her placid face framed in the wide-flaring linen head-dress, looked a very spirit of peace and human helpfulness, as she moved softly away from the bedside and seated her- self by the window, beginning her litany of prayer marked by the black beads of her rosary. Her companion stooped and placed lightly on the pillow's edge a spray of starry jasmine still fresh from the night's coolness and dew. Her hand hovered fora mo- ment over the upturned palm of the sleeper, as if she found it difficult to wait for her awakening, so much she longed to take its frailness in her strong, sustaining clasp. In her look was a world of tenderness and pity, as she saw the dark hollows beneath the long-lashed lids and the thin, pinched lips, slightly parted by the child's faint breath. " You shall be well, my dearie," she murmured, "if I can make you so by love and care, and that poor, dull father of yours shall be brought to his senses if a woman's tongue can do it," and she turned away from the bed 30 Rodari, Sculptor with eyes a little misty. All her movements were marked by a firm strength and delicate surety, and as she crossed the sick-room to the nun's side one wondered at the light step, so largely and grandly was she formed. She waited until the moving lips of the praying sister were still, then touched her on the shoulder, and, smiling down into the answering brown eyes, asked in a low tone, * ' Has the Signer Rodari been here this morning ? I have not heard any one enter the garden. " The sister shook her head sorrowfully and sighed. "No, signorina, not yet." Apparently the answer caused her no surprise. Yet a faint hope must have been hidden in her heart that it might have been different, for a little frown of distress and perplexity furrowed her brow as she stood thinking. "He suffers, my sister," she said presently. "I pity him." "Si, signorina," placidly responded the nun. "Si, Trouble and Joy are sisters. If he persists in looking upon the face of one only, it is his own deed. The other is always to be found near. However, life is not com- pletely lived without acquaintance with both," and she leaned forward and moved the medicine-glass on the table from the stray sun ray, which repeated its radiating prisms in shimmering waves of purple, green and crimson upon the white ceiling. ' ' Yes, you are right, I suppose. It is his own undo- ing, ' ' the signorina assented ; ' c but Corrona has been the chief sufferer, I fear, ' ' and she looked pityingly over to the white-curtained bed, the mother-look strong in her blue eyes, in the broad breast and beautiful arms, which seemed a very cradle of peace and refuge. The sister slowly passed one brown, prayer-worn bead after another through her thin fingers. The black A Story of Pisa 31 and gold crucifix on her breast scarcely stirred with her quiet breathing, and the signorina felt a sudden impa- tience and irritation over this calm, philosophical accept- ance of another's trouble. " I know the man is blind to his full duty," she said, shortly ; ' ' and the child needs more than he gives her, for it amounts to but bread and roof." Then she added slowly, as if to herself, " but he means well and is ' good ' in the passive, limp fashion of over one-half the world. ' ' The sister raised her shoulders in a little shrug, her eyes down drooping upon her folded hands. ' * He walks with his grief, signorina, and goes on the pilgrimage without incense or candle," she softly answered, and the quotation brought a little relishing smile to curl the corners of her thin lips, hinting of the humor long suppressed, which for a moment looked out also of her narrow eyes in a sparkling glance. Then she drew her face again into its accustomed placidity. "Si, his grief blinds him to the bloom by the wayside. He has much to learn, the poor man ! ' ' And, nodding towards the bed, she added softly, " Ebbene ! the dear little one can teach him. Patience, dear signorina." The gate of the small stone-paved court shut softly* and a man's footstep crossed the limited garden space. The signorina touched quickly the nun's arm and their eyes met questioningly as they listened an anxious moment. "It is the Signer Rodari at last," whispered hur- riedly the signorina, with relief in her voice. "I must speak to him now. He must see Corrona as soon as she asks for him. She still thinks that dreadful night a dream, and must always ! Yes, always, my sister, always ! It is a blessed, heaven-sent conviction, and we all must preserve it. All!" 32 Rodari, Sculptor The nun pursed her lips and slowly shook her head dissentingly, and in consequence the signorina affirmed still more positively her belief in the right of the intended deception. She smiled with friendly defiance into the protesting eyes raised to hers, and, softly patting the black shoulder, quickly left the room, protecting herself and the situation by running away from further argument with the good woman, whose scruples mated her own, though she meant to ignore, disown them. As she hurried across the wide upper hall of the Pen- sion Inglese and down the stone stairs leading to the door of entrance, she laughed nervously to herself and ex- claimed: 1 ' Well ! I have kidnapped a child, am insisting upon the Mother Church's aid in a deception, and now intend lecturing a refractory parent ! What next, I wonder?" Rodari stood at the entrance, uncertainty in face and figure. He removed his cap and bowed gravely as she approached him with outstretched hand of greeting, which he took with scarcely hidden surprise and some hesitation. She interrupted an awkward moment of silence by saying in a matter-of-fact tone, somewhat overdone : 1 ' You have come to see Corrona ? of course ; yes ! She is worlds better this morning, and is sleeping like a baby." "No, signorina," he answered, after a moment's pause, speaking slowly and with effort. " I came only to ask of her night, and to thank you for your goodness and great kindness in caring for her as you have. I will take her away as soon as she can be moved; in a day or two, probably, it will be safe. ' ' The signorina looked into Rodari' s haggard face for a moment, studying its repressed feeling; weighing, as A Story of Pisa 33 she looked, her chances of victory in the battle she felt was before her. She stepped further without the door and closed it behind her, and spoke very quietly, though her hands, hanging in the folds of her dress, opened and shut nerv- ously, and she felt suddenly as if she were impersonating some character in a play, so dramatic the moment seemed to her, and unreal. "No, Signor Matteo; you are mistaken. You will not take the child again until you feel more justly towards her." "Not! Not take my daughter!" He stopped, astounded by the emphatic words, though they were soft and low in tone. "The child belongs in her own home," he continued, half in persuasion, half in assertion of his right to decide the matter, pushed into argument by her confident voice and look. The manner of his companion was as calm as she wished it to appear, as she stood quietly facing him, but her heart was beating loudly with her own daring. " She belongs there," he repeated, weakly. " Ah, yes; so she does ! It is truly there she should be, 'at home,' as you say. But has she any real home, Signor Matteo?" And the speaker's fair skin showed heightened color, as, with a quickly indrawn breath over the temerity of her words, she continued : 1 ' Do you think so delicate a spirit, so fine a frame, can live healthfully under the influences of * the home ' you have so far given Corrona ? Can not you realize that you have starved her soul ? You have made this sensi- tive child live with the shade of your unburied dead. Yes, yes, this is so, Signor Rodari ! For the past is dead, and you have put it before the living present before the 34 Rodari, Sculptor child. Ah, the pity of it ! the pity ! ' ' And, for a moment, the signorina could find no voice to continue. "She has loved you so fully, so generously! She has not even known her lonely days were caused by the lack of all fathering. For idle loving is not enough; one must say their love, do their love, think it even; not just let it exist as a plant would in a dark cellar, pale and blossom- less, without sun and light or care." The signorina looked timidly for a fleeting instant into the man's face, feeling as if she were stabbing some creature, so cruelly she felt her words must wound. She was speaking for Corrona's sake, though, and must go on to the end; and she sighed with relief to think the task nearly over, and that she had dared, for, in spite of her apparent bravery, she was a very coward before another's anger, and Matteo's dark eyes looked to her as if they could well have expressed that emotion. He stood bewildered by the rapid words and the vista of thought they opened, but their earnestness carried him beyond the offense he at first felt for the criticism. "You are severe, signorina," he quietly said. ' ' Corrona has been provided for and loved. Nothing she has asked for has been denied." ' ' Ah, has it not, Signor Rodari ? Are you sure, quite sure? What did it mean, then, the day she quickly put her hand between the mallet-driven chisel and the hard marble, willingly taking the hurt, seeking it even, that your attention might be won for a moment, that you might pause for an instant to notice her, comfort her ? I saw her standing wistfully at your side as I was about to enter the shop. You were too absorbed in your work to be aware of her presence even. I saw the little martyr- hand extended, just to gain your attention, and I also saw the shining, happy eyes as you took her in your A Story of Pisa 35 arms. Ah, the beautiful little soul ! ' ' and the speaker turned away to hide her trembling lips. Rodari's face was like that of one roused suddenly from a deep sleep. He had followed the fast-coming words as they pictured Corrona's affection and loneliness intently, and they had shown him to himself as he was, as he really existed unloving, thoughtless, selfish! And this stately woman had so read him; she had begun by respecting him, but now ! He pressed his hand over his eyes, trying to blot out the unlovely, humiliating mental vision, while the hot, red flush of mortified vanity stung his face like a whip's lash. What had he said to the child the night of the storm, when it seemed to him that the past was to be repeated, that in the dancing figure of his daughter he saw a barren future, a repetition of the days when crucified love, tortured pride and bitter loss made life a mockery. The signorina had sent him word of Corrona's con- dition the night she was found, but so great was his own misery he had been almost indifferent to the discovery. Now he looked back upon his mad selfishness with hor- ror and shame ; but he yet had no wish to see the child ; his affection for her seemed to be benumbed for the time, though his sense of the reality of his unintelligent father- hood grew keener each moment, and new-born self-dis- trust was waking his whole nature to a consciousness of long error. He must do something to dissociate him- self from this flood of self-accusation it was unendura- ble ! gaining strength every moment, action might bring relief. But what to do ? The signorina stood waiting for some expression of his thought. Had she said too much, spoken too plainly? His face had grown dark and set under her words, but she read no anger in the glance which finally 36 Rodari, Sculptor met hers. And as he spoke his look steadied and grew firm, and she felt that the dignity of the man came out finely under the deep-driven spur of his self-blame. "I have been wrong. You are but just," he said, earnestly. " I have been cruel, and to a child. Tell me what to do, signorina ! To do now, if not too late ! ' ' "Do!" she said, quickly, "why only one thing. Love her, just love her ! She is a child and seeks no expression of your sense of error. Never allude to it, never remind her of it ; it would hurt her to hear it. Children want love, and to know a sure faith in those about them. Ah, the trusting faith of a little child ! And one your own ! God-given ! Think of it, Signer Matteo ! Put aside the bitter memories you have held between you and all the joy she brings you, live in to- day's interests; Corrona is your work, your pastime, your crown of life, even if she is the child of your wife, Oh, yes ! I know that subject is not welcome, know what it means to speak of it to you, for all through Cor- rona' s feverish speech of the past two weeks she has repeated your words the words you spoke the cruel night of the storm. When Carlo came here for me he read her need of a woman's tenderness. That was the instinct of affection, the instinct of love, the seeing that real love gives to even the blind ! Should yours her father's be less keen, less ready? Having love, it is so easy to be happy, if one wills to be ; and it is a child's right." The signorina pushed her bright hair from her brow a little wearily ; she felt the strain of battle, but all was not yet won. A voice, speaking from the room above the entrance, made them both start. The sister was holding the shutters apart with her A Story of Pisa 37 two wide-spread arms, her placid face framed in the soft blackness of the window's open space. She smiled down upon Matteo with a certain compelling glance as if she had no doubt of his following the suggestion her words carried : ' ' The child asks for you, Signor Rodari, ' ' she said ; 1 ' you may come and see her any time now ; she is strong enough for a little talk this morning." And she bowed the green shutters as before, giving a quick, compre- hending nod of encouragement to the signorina as she again shut herself within the quiet of the sick-room. Matteo made no answer ; but there was no assent in his face, and as he stood turning his cap slowly around, his eyes lowered upon its revolving brim, the signorina found herself suddenly possessed by an indignation she found difficult to control. "Is it possible," she said, in a low, hurried voice, "you hesitate to see Corrona? Are you going to punish an innocent child ? Come, Signor Rodari ! Throw away such narrow injustice. Free yourself from the unworthy feeling which prompts this action !" and the signorina held out an appealing hand to Matteo, as he stood fighting with long habit, with pride and the man- nature, unwilling to bend the knee, though repentant. He looked at the flushed, earnest face, crowned by the soft braids of light -brown hair. How was it that her words left no anger in his thoughts ? that he the man and father should accept dictation, criticism, blame, from a comparative stranger. A thousand suggestive impressions of her high and pure womanhood swept through his thoughts in answer, as would come in one breath the perfume of many flowers blooming in a sunny summer garden, filling the atmos- phere with penetrating fragrance. 38 Rodari, Sculptor The signorina set her lips together to prevent the sigh of discouragement escaping. She would make one more effort. "It is not the dance you are thinking of ? Surely, surely, you know she cares nothing for it ; only to please you was it done at all. Oh, go to her ! Let nothing stand between you two. Begin to-day a new life for you both the first day of years and years of close comrade- ship. Will you not?" Matteo stepped suddenly within the shadow of the doorway where she stood. "Signorina," he said, with shaken voice, " you are a good woman, a true woman ! I have known few. Cor- rona has called you her ' Golden Lady.' It is a fitting name. Yours by right ! You have shown me my neglected privileges. In the clear truth of your words I see myself as I would not. But I am grateful for the child and myself." And reverently and with much of old-time chivalry in his manner he bent his head low over the strong white hand, murmuring as he raised it to his lips, "Una grazia, signorina?" Then turned and mounted the flight of steps leading to Comma's room. "Now, don't be silly, Miss America!" said the Golden Lady to herself, half laughing, while she winked away the tears the man's words had brought to her eyes. "It is a play, you can be very sure ! And the stage heroine always has her hand kissed, you must know, by admiring vassals. And this whole, ridiculous situation is only a picturesque, footlight experience from beginning to end." She stepped out into the clear sunshine of the garden as the latch of the wall door rattled under the touch of a fumbling, uncertain hand. A hard kick from a stout boot propelled by the energy A Story of Pisa 39 of sudden wrath, struck the resisting barrier, sending it flying open, wide-swung upon the creaking rusted hinges. Over a large bundle awkwardly held against his chest by one spread hand, loomed the broad red face of Carlo, flushed with his efforts to enter, and the quick, ever-ready anger usual over the least opposition to his will. He groped for the helpful batone, carried under his, arm, to feel for the garden walk, when the Golden Lady's step and voice made him grasp at his cap, to express in its lifting his deference and respect for the speaker, from whose generous hand had fallen many a lira during the past two weeks. He lost for an instant the firm clutch of the burden he carried, and down it fell, a cataract of linen, cotton, and wool, to the path at his feet. The Golden Lady laughed aloud at the hissing flood of vituperative language he sent forth under his breath, as he stooped to gather together again the small garments of varied shapes and tints comprising Comma's little wardrobe. She beckoned to the amused sister, watching from the doorway, to come and aid in gathering up the collection, and heard a grunt of relief, and received low muttered thanks from Carlo, as he left the task to seeing eyes. "You are a little warm, Signer Carlo, are you not?" she asked, her eyes dancing with amusement, but her voice innocent of anything but momentary concern for the comfort of the wrathful messenger. * ' Will you not come to the arbor and rest ? I will lead you." And she laid a guiding hand on the soiled sleeve and tried to turn the man' toward the shady place. Embarrassment and pride chased each other across his unlovely countenance, but he felt a moment's rare, and in him comical, docility under the gentle touch and 4 Rodari, Sculptor courteous thoughtfulness, but the restraint of manner and speech needful for acceptance, was too much for his consideration and he suddenly turned, thrusting into the Golden Lady's hand a small hard package which he took from his pocket, saying, as he backed and sidled away as fast as he could : "The woman at the house sends this to the little one, she says the child always keeps it with her at night and would like it now." Bowing repeatedly, he continued to mumble salutations and thanks until the wall door was reached, and as he disappeared through it an expression of great relief came over his face, as he felt himself once more outside of the garden and its confusing influences. The Golden Lady opened the weighty little package, and looked with interest at the small carved lion the unwrapping disclosed. The white tone of the fine marble was somewhat dulled from much handling by childish fingers, the end of the royal nose was missing, otherwise each line was clear cut and true, and the whole a little gem of spirited modeling. If she could only persuade Rodari to do more original work ! She was confident he could win just fame and position as a master of his art, if only his ambition could be stimulated. She smoothed the paper thoughtfully, absent- mindedly folding it into a square, then rousing herself placed the lion in the center of it and raised it in the palm of her hand to a level with her eyes, where she turned it this way and that, enjoying the perfect work, and wondering how she could arouse the sculptor to a sense of the obligation of his undoubted gift. "Well! Why do you not speak, Sir Beast? and tell me what to say to the stupid fellow who can and don't, ' ' she exclaimed, and gave the creature a shake which nearly A Story of Pisa 4 1 precipitated him to the path below, and quite dislodged the paper, which fell, a square white mat at her feet. She stooped to pick it up ; paused, and with characteristic quickness and surety of touch opened it widely, sank to one knee, and there remained a long moment, her glance studiously intent, devouring the crayon sketch she dis- covered on the inner surface the next, she was flying down the garden to the arbor, where she astonished the waiting sister by entering in a whirlwind of excite- ment. "Look! Oh! Look! The dear child! She has helped after all, and more than she ever dreamed possible ! Do you not see ? It is Corrona dancing with Gobbo ! Look at the lovely little face! See how the creature presses against her side, reared his mightiest, the clever dunce that he is ! and here ! see the sweep of her long hair across his horns ! and the little, dear, dancing girl feet ! And the tambourine held so well. Rodari saw all this that night ! Think of it ! The artist stronger in him even than the man his sense of this beauty as keen as his misery and he could not refrain from sketching this delicious, delicious, group! Life is complex, my sister," and she sighed over its unsolvable problems. " I suppose you know these black, vicious, ugly lines across the whole mean that he intended to destroy it. He dared ! Look at them ! wicked things ! nearly spoiling the perfect conception. Well, we will see if the child's efforts to please him shall go uncrowned after all he shall put this into the purest marble at once. Viva ! Corrona ! Viva ! " and tfye Golden Lady sat down out of breath with her triumphant excitement and rapid speech her eyes deep and shining with content. The little housemaid was arranging the breakfast tray temptingly on the rustic table. The sister, only mildly 42 Rodari, Sculptor interested in the signorina's discovery, seated under the flickering shadows of the vine-covered place, was a pleasant figure to watch, her unruffled face and soft quiet- ness of movement soothing the dancing nerves of the Golden Lady. Leaning her head against the trellised side of the arbor with a long sigh, she folded her hands in her lap and gave herself up to the restful charm of the sunny hour. Over the housetop floated a small white cloud, astray in the serene blue of the morning sky. A flock of strong-winged pigeons swept in wide cir- cles above the garden, settling finally upon the weather- worn statues crowning the pillars of the high, environing wall, from where, with bright, alert eyes, they watched the activity of Gobbo, as he twisted himself in his long rope and crushed under his restless little hoofs the leaves of the pungent, low-growing geraniums, vivid in brilliant midsummer bloom. The balmy air swung to and fro the pendant green vines and stirred the leaves of the tall plane-tree whisper- ingly. The inarticulate benediction of nature's giving seemed to hallow the moment with a perfect, heart -lifting calm. The Golden Lady sat suddenly erect and stretched toward the sister a hushing hand, while she bent her head listeningly, her finger on her smiling lips. A child's faint, sweet laughter came through the open window of Corrona's room, feeble with physical weak- ness, but full of the rippling, bird-like notes of the joy- life only youth knows without alloy. The nun raised the cup of fragrant coffee to her mouth, and she smiled across its brim at the Golden Lady, and, nodding upward towards the window, said placidly : A Story of Pisa 43 " Ah ! La buona fortuna ! All is well with the little one. They talk together. And you know, dear signo- rina, it is written that ' Words draw nails from the heart.' " OF THE UNIVERSITY^ _J / .^ . .-/