The Princess Caracciolo, the great benefactress of the poor, the aged, and the children, presided. She reigned in the Hall of Maria Carolina, where the ladies of the jury were assembled, with the mingled air of regal hauteur and amiable piety peculiar to her. An ascetic pallor had left her cheeks colourless and her lips faded; while her person retained the seductive grace of the woman who had loved, and loved to be beautiful. She had left her own poor and her children, for the sake of these other children. The thirty ladies had, with one voice, elected her as their president. There was only one man, the secretary, among them—a professor, a pedagogue, saturated with the principles of Froebel and of Pick; a bald, ambiguous-looking, and perfectly innocuous being. The ladies of the jury sat in a circle, on brocaded couches, where the most opposite types were brought into juxtaposition. Three German teachers had come from Naples: one, tall, thin and brick-coloured, with her hair in a green net; another, older, stout, florid, and dressed in black; the third was a deal plank, with a waxen head stuck on the end of it; all three had gold spectacles and guide-books. They were talking, with animation, to each other, in their own language, the deal plank ejaculating rapid ja’s by fits and starts. Then there were the Directresses of the Institutes of Caserta, Santa Maria, and Maddaloni; all frills and cheap trinkets, black silk dresses, starched collars and light gloves. A couple of professors’ wives, of the genus that teaches, brings children into the world, and does the cooking. They had pale, emaciated faces, were flat where they should have been round, and protuberant where they should have been flat. Then eight or ten wealthy ladies from the neighbourhood, provincial aristocracy or plutocracy, wives of landed proprietors or communal councillors; with bored, inexpressive faces, and toilets that had come from Naples, some being worn awkwardly and others with supreme elegance. Among the notabilities were the Contessa Brambilla, a fresh-looking young woman, with perfectly white hair and very bright eyes; the illustrious poetess Nina, small, fragile and vivacious as a grain of pepper; the wife of the Member for Santa Maria, a calm austere woman, with full pensive eyes. All these ladies inspected each other with a curiosity they endeavoured to dissemble, while they discussed the relative merits of hand-made stockings, hand-stitched shirts, and darns in felt. Some of them carried special communications to and fro from the presidential platform.
Caterina was the most silent of them all; she was reading, or pretending to read, in her little note-book. It was a present of the day before from her husband; on its morocco binding was the name Nini. Andrea had become more tenderly affectionate of late, and in this tenderness she sunned herself with devout collectedness and the absence of demonstration that characterised her. When they were alone, Andrea would take her on his knee or carry her round their room in his arms, murmuring “Nini, Nini,” ever “Nini,” while he kissed her. And it sometimes happened that on these occasions his voice trembled from emotion; he no longer laughed his noisy laugh that used to make the house ring with its mirth. Perhaps it was because of the guests who had been with them for the last fortnight. Caterina had long known that Andrea’s character had all the delicacy of a woman’s. In the presence of those two sickly beings, Alberto, a martyr to his cough, and Lucia, a prey to latent or pronounced nevrose, Andrea restrained the exuberance of his perfect health. When he went out he abstained, from delicacy, from kissing Caterina in their presence; for Alberto never kissed Lucia in public. Perhaps that was why Andrea made such enthusiastic love to her when they were alone, to make up for all the time they passed in a friendly partie carrée.
Caterina was not less bored than the other eight or ten ladies of her set. She could not appreciate the needlework exhibits: stockings in coarse, yellowish thread, knitted with rusty needles; shirts covered with the fly-marks accumulated during the six months they had been in hand, sewn with big, inexpert stitches, ill-cut and folded in coarse material; interminable productions in every kind of crochet, darns done with hair, miracles of patience, that made her sick. The exhibits had been sent in in heaps, badly arranged and catalogued, from rural schools, in which the teachers laboured, almost in vain, to teach the use of the needle to poor fingers hardened by the use of the spade—rural schools that can neither provide needles, thread, irons, nor material wherewith to work. Caterina with her instinctive love of pure, fine, sweet-smelling linen, felt a sort of physical disgust in inspecting these objects of dubious whiteness. Besides, what did she know about it? These humble accomplishments had not been taught her. She felt her own ignorance, and offered up inward thanks that it had saved her from the vice-presidency of a district.
Meanwhile the meeting continued in academic form, in discussion that was at once official and colloquial. The vice-presidents read lengthy accounts of their own districts, and insisted on prizes being distributed to everybody: the poetess suggested buying materials for those pupils who were too poor to do so for themselves: the professor read letters of sympathy and adhesion from pedagoguish clubs and committees; but Caterina heard not a word of it all. There was the cook, who did just as he chose lately. Since Lucia and Alberto had come to pass the villa season with her, Caterina was more particular than ever as to her table. Those two were so delicate; they needed strong bouillon and light dishes; quite a different diet from Andrea’s, which was also hers. She and Andrea ate underdone meat and refreshing salads; and the fish question was a serious one at Caserta, an inland town, where the fish had to be sent from Naples and Gaeta, and was not always fresh. One day, in fact one evening, Caterina had sent Peppino, a labourer, to Naples, for soles; her two guests often partook of this delicate, innocuous fish. And now, what with official entertainments, banquets, and hotels filled to overflowing, the market was cleared out in a moment.
Mouzu Giovanni, with whom she held a consultation every morning, shook his head doubtfully on the slightest provocation, saying sceptically:
“If we can get any! If there is any in the market! If it isn’t all gone.”
This was the difficult question which Caterina was debating, while the Princess Caracciolo requested the ladies to proceed to the election of a vice-president, who in one report would combine those of six divisions. Caterina was in continual fear of not having sufficiently mastered the study of Lucia’s tastes, poor nervous creature that she was, whose digestion was completely destroyed. She had arranged a pretty, fresh, airy room for her—hung with Pompadour cretonne, a room full of pretty nicknacks, to please her. But she believed that in secret Lucia hankered after her prie-dieu, which she had taken away from her father’s house to her own in Via Bisignano. One afternoon, when Alberto and Andrea had gone out riding, Caterina had entered the room and found Lucia on her knees before a chair, just as she used to kneel at school. If she could but arrange with Alberto to send Peppino to Naples to fetch the prie-dieu, what a pleasant surprise for Lucia! It could surely be managed without much difficulty, and it would give her so much pleasure! Ah, she must remember to write to Naples for good tea—Souchong; for Lucia said that from September on she could only drink tea in the evening: coffee was too exciting for her nerves. The question was whether she should write to Caflish or to Van Bol for Souchong; Andrea would know; he was always well posted in such matters.
“Signora Lieti, will you come and vote?” broke in the Princess Caracciolo, gently.
Caterina, scarcely realising what she was doing, wrote the first name that occurred to her on her script, which she then rolled up and dropped in the crystal bowl. Looking at her little gold watch, she returned to her place. It was getting late; they had been there, losing their time, for nearly three hours.
Elsewhere, at home for instance, she could have employed it usefully. The washerwoman had brought home an enormous pile of washing, and Caterina never allowed it to be ironed until she had carefully examined it and ascertained where a button or a tape was missing. The linen was new, but she suspected the washerwoman of using potash, because of certain tiny holes she had discovered therein. She had taxed her with it, and the woman had replied that she was incapable of such deception, and that all she used was pure wood-ash and soap.