Sometimes these Piazzas are the scenes of antiquarian markets. Light wooden booths are erected for the sale of old cassocks and other priestly vestments, pieces of material, embroideries, lace, old brooches, bracelets, fans, candlesticks in the shape of antique lamps, books printed on faded yellow parchment, pictures, and statuettes. All this is bought up fast and feverishly by Englishwomen and Americans, whom the wily Romans deceive in the most ungodly manner.
On one such occasion, Irene, to her cost, asked the price of a piece of lace. The vendor, having asked a hundred lire, followed her twice round the Piazza, lowering his price at each step, and setting out in detail all the tragic circumstances that were forcing him to part with such a treasure. He had received the lace as a present from the Marquise Abrakadabra-Abrakadabrini. This highly aristocratic name was undoubtedly familiar to the signora? His “mamma” had been the wet-nurse of the young Marchesina, so that he, Beppo, was her foster-brother. He had hoped to mend his fortunes for life by selling this priceless lace, but poverty (he spoke with great pathos, tragically smiting his chest)—poverty, signora, was obliging him to act hurriedly, and to abandon his last hope. At least, he had the one consolation of knowing that this family treasure was falling into the hands of such a sympathetic signora—“Look out!” he screamed suddenly, clutching hold of the shafts of a cab that threatened to run them over. He was only too happy to have been able to render the signora two services: first, that of saving her life, since, but for his intervention, the vetturino would undoubtedly have run over her; and second, that of selling her, for a song, a priceless piece of lace, in which the signora would look as beautiful as a queen.
When he had dropped his price from a hundred lire to twenty, Irene, only too anxious to be rid of her irksome follower, paid him, and hurried away with her purchase, for which she had not only lost all interest, but which she by that time positively detested. On her return home, she showed it to the landlord of her pension. He shook his head pityingly, twirled his finger in front of his nose, smacked his lips, and announced that “la pauvre signorina a été volée comme dans un bois.”
Irene began to think that old, mediæval Rome had bewitched her. On many occasions, she started out with the intention of visiting some museum or picture gallery, but always it was as if some magic power was drawing her towards those dingy streets, with their stench and their dirt, and their smell of cookery, where the poor of Rome were preparing their unceremonious dinners out-of-doors. Perhaps, indeed, she may have felt that there was something in common between those gloomy localities and her own joyless life.
She was greatly attracted by one grim-looking palace, situated at a particularly dingy, dirty spot, in the neighbourhood of the Ghetto. A terrible deed had once been perpetrated in this palace. Its owner, that famous Cenci, so noted for his depravity, had fallen in love with Beatrice, the daughter of his first marriage, and persecuted her with his shameful desires. The whole family rose against the mad old villain, and, under the influence of her brothers and her step-mother, Beatrice poisoned her father. The crime was discovered, Beatrice was imprisoned, made a full confession, and was executed.
Having heard by chance that a famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci, the work of Guido Reni, is preserved at the Palazzo Barberini, Irene went to see it. She expected to see a queenly, tragic beauty, and found, instead, a simple girl, almost a child, in the very springtime of life—an innocent young soul to whom love and passion can as yet have had no meaning. The artist has represented her in prison, dressed in the white prisoners’ attire. Her little face is worn and drawn through sleepless nights, her beautiful eyes are red with tears, her little childish lips are swollen, just as all children’s lips are swollen when they cry. The whole touching little face seemed to say quite clearly: “Yes—I am a criminal! Everyone tells me that I must pay for my crime with my life; that I must leave the lovely world that I love so much, leave the sunshine and the birds and the flowers, and go away into a cold tomb. What can I do? I have no strength to protest! But you, who will live instead of me, do not curse poor Beatrice! Love her! Pity her!”
Irene’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at this martyred child, and she hid her face under her veil to hide her emotion. Other visitors to the Palazzo Barberini were also weeping and trying to conceal their tears.
“You are revenged, little Beatrice!” thought Irene. “Thousands are weeping at your sad fate, and are cursing your tyrants.”
Irene soon became known in her pension as the tourist who had been living in Rome for three months and had not seen the Forum. All the Englishwomen in the house, deeply shocked at this omission, persuaded, implored, and at last forcibly dragged her there. From that moment, the charms of the mediæval city vanished for her, and she lost herself entirely in the antique world.