“No one can help liking you, Mary; and I dare say he does not dislike me.”
“Is that all you think about it, my dear?”
“Of course it is. What more is there to think about it?” And then, as I knew I was blushing again, I went out of the room to take off my hat. But I did not care to go back to Mary directly, for fear she should say anything more to make me cross. So I ran down to Villa Casinelli to have a chat with the Vernons. I found them all in a state of very great excitement. Ida was looking anxious, her eyes glistening like diamonds, and a bright, hectic spot on each cheek—which I never like to see, knowing how delicate she is. Elizabeth, who is always calm and gentle, and rather slow in speaking and moving, was sitting opposite Ida, with her large, dark velvet eyes full of tears. As I entered, Ida started up, exclaiming:
“O Jane! what do you think those dreadful Casinelli have done now? This morning, before anybody was up, they cut down the chapel bell, which was hung outside the door on our floor, near the servants' rooms, so that Lucia might ring it every morning. And now, to-day, a feast-day, on which the congregation was sure to be numerous, when Lucia went to ring the bell for the first time (you know we always ring it thrice), she found that the rope was left dangling, but no bell. After hunting about everywhere, one of the Camerota, the father of your Paolino, found it tied to a fig-tree on the terrace just above the chapel. The contadini[121] are in a wild state of indignation, and I really am at a loss to imagine what will happen next; for what with the insult to religion, the annoyance to Padre Cataldo, and the constant anxiety to ourselves, I begin to think we shall have to throw it all up, and leave this place.”
I had already heard a great deal about the Casinelli and their extraordinary conduct. Indeed, ever since we had been near neighbors to the Vernons, the ins and outs of this intricate and truly Italian intrigue had formed one of the chief themes of our daily conversations. But to enable my readers to follow the plots and stratagems of this Macchiavelian family, I must give an account of the whole group. My story will represent a state of things not, I imagine, to be found anywhere out of Italy. Every nation has its characteristics, its qualities, and their corresponding defects. The peculiar finesse and acuteness of the Italians make them the best constructors of a plot that imagination can conceive, and give them a proportionate facility for carrying it on and working it out. They are natural born actors. And they can so identify themselves with the character they wish to assume that not only is it exceedingly difficult for the most diligent observer to detect the false from the true, but I doubt if even they themselves do not end in interiorly confusing the two so [pg 543] absolutely as to efface all moral lines of demarcation. They can make themselves a false conscience on a gigantic scale, and end in themselves believing the lies they have invented.
The Casinelli are a numerous family, consisting of seven daughters and two sons, all equally endowed with the faculty, of assuming a part, not for days or weeks, but for years or for a whole life. The one fixed and determinate object of the nine persons is, as is usual with Italians, to make money. To obtain wealth, and always more wealth, all means seem lawful to them, and no stratagem too low. The house, garden, and vineyards of Casinelli make altogether a nice and profitable little property, and, of course, it belongs to them all—that is, each has a share in it. They have wisely agreed that more will be gained by their all holding together, as regards the property, than by any division, especially as it is but small. They reserve a few rooms on the ground floor of the house for their own use, though their residence is principally in Naples. The other two sets of apartments in the house they let to strangers. But in order to make sure of all the fish that may come to the net, the elder brother is stated to be the owner of one of the suites of rooms, and one of the sisters of the other. The sister professes to be a very dragon of virtue, and will receive no tenants who do not bear an unspotted reputation, and who cannot also give evidence of a more than merely respectable position of life—they must be well, and even highly, connected. The brother, on the contrary, is quite ready to part with his rooms to anybody who pays his rent. “What does he care about who they are, or what they do, so long as he gets his money?” And in the case of the honest man happening to have a preference for the brother's rooms, while the gay Lothario has set his heart on the spinster's domain, ho! presto, the proprietorship is quickly changed; the brother owns the sister's side of the house, while the sister is the fair possessor of the brother's portion. If you are so ill advised as to look dubious and express an impression that it had been otherwise, you are met with a calm, indulgent smile at your evident deficiency of intelligence: “Dear me! no. Were you not aware it was nothing of the kind? Some repairs necessary to be made in my brother's rooms had led to his holding mine for a time. He wanted them for a friend of his. I regretted the fact; but I was not acquainted with the character of the tenant when I conceded my rooms to my brother, because I was myself called from home” (or some such reason), “and was unable to attend to the letting. I deeply regretted the fact; but it was done without my knowledge.” And thus they turn about; always contriving to run with the hare, and hunt with the hounds. As a rule, it is the sister who comes forward and acts as padrona[122] when the parties wishing to hire either set of rooms are evidently respectable. If they are the reverse, the rooms are let nevertheless, but then it is the brother who meets the storm. And thus they enact the little man and woman who come out of the clock: the lady in fair weather, the gentleman in great-coat and umbrella when it is wet.
I am not aware of what the Casinelli family motto is; but it ought [pg 544] to be, “Divide and govern.” For they adopt the same double-surface process as regards politics. One brother is a staunch Bourbonist, the other a fervent Liberal. In public each bewails the opinions of the other. And thus, between the two, they catch the favor of both parties, and divide the spoils between them. If circumstances call for extreme measures in order to gain some end in view, the whole family will combine together to fall upon one particular member who, for the time being, represents some political view at that moment discredited. Their lamentations over the one black sheep are long and loud. Everybody's sympathy is appealed to; everybody must lend an ear to the terrible calamity which has befallen their illustrious family, inasmuch as one of the race has been, or is, guilty of—, whatever the crime in question may be. Such grief, such indignation, expressed on the highest moral grounds, attracts attention, procures small favors from compassionating friends, creates at least an interest, and adds to their importance and consideration; while all the time the black sheep himself is privy to the whole affair, and receives, in the secrecy of the domestic circle, his full share of indemnification for having stood as whipping-boy for the rest of the family. He keeps quiet for a little while, as being under a cloud. Then presently he reappears to enjoy the results of his own condemnation. The elder brother and sister, who are the prima donna and tenor of the domestic comic opera, are always said to be on bad terms with each other; not that they are so in reality, but because, if one has made a bad bargain or inconveniently offended anybody, the other can immediately step forward, pretending severely to blame the delinquent, and offering his or her services to repair the injury, or, in the case of a bad bargain having been made, insisting on a readjustment of the case; not from personal motives, having, as he or she states, no interest in the matter, but solely from a sense of justice. In short, they “hedge” in a way that would make their fortune a thousand times over at Epsom or Ascot. No matter what horse loses, they are sure to have made up their book in such a way that they must win something out of whatever happens. And, meanwhile, the member of the family who appears to the outsider to take his part against all his own kith and kin obtains the eternal gratitude of the deluded individual, who is not aware that he has been assisting at a family intrigue, based upon his own misfortune, and intimately and minutely combined by the whole set of them. When the Vernons wished to rent one of the suites of apartments, it was the elder sister who came forward with expressions of the warmest delight. What she had long desired had been that some family should reside there who had a chaplain, and that thus their pretty little chapel, entirely cut out in the tufa rock on the sands of the sea-shore, which rock forms the foundation of the house, would again come into use. She was eloquent in describing how that formerly that chapel had been so useful to the numerous vignaiuoli and their families living on and near the premises. They themselves, she stated, were no longer rich enough to afford themselves so great a consolation, now that the one brother who had been in the priesthood was dead. She was quite certain [pg 545] that Padre Cataldo was a saint; and, for her part, no one but the Vernons should inhabit that part of the house, for their mere presence would bring a blessing on all the rest. She even talked of restoring whatever was wanting in the chapel, and doing it up. It had been sadly neglected, and the cobwebs hung in festoons from the rude but effective carving above the altar on the coved roof and the walls. The subject of the bas-reliefs was the Assumption, and, though roughly done, it had a very good effect, scrolls and angels' heads being intermixed with the principal figures, and the whole distempered in white picked out with bright blue. A great deal was said about the reparations, and the Vernons, who did not then know what sort of people they had to deal with, imagined all that was required for the use of the chapel would be found. They soon discovered their mistake, and, beyond a little cleaning done, they had to provide almost everything. As soon as the Vernons had prepared it, the eldest Casinelli brought all her friends to look at it, that they might admire the piety of her family, and learn the sacrifices they had made in order to afford this consolation to the neighborhood!
But wisely judging that unforeseen circumstances might occur which would show their interests and the way to make more money might lie in another direction, the eldest brother was directed to assume quite another tone. He was therefore deputed to act the sceptic on the occasion, and make supercilious remarks about his sister's excess of piety, and the inconvenience and folly of these extremes of devotion. He shrugged his shoulders about it, and lamented that, not being master, he could do nothing to refrain her from so rashly committing herself to possible expenses, and even to probable difficulties with the present government, from the presence of a zealous and hard-working Jesuit father. At the same time, he gave no handle against himself in the matter, but preserved an outwardly civil manner towards the Vernons, and a cold regret towards Padre Cataldo. As time went on, the Vernons discovered that there was an ever-increasing difficulty about all that was requisite for the altar. The altar linen was withdrawn, and they had to find their own. The vestments were borrowed one day, and never returned. By the time we arrived, almost everything for the service of the altar was the property of the Vernons; and Ida's active fingers had achieved the happiest results from very limited materials.
Meanwhile, there could be no doubt of the good that was being done in the neighborhood from the reopening of the little chapel and the active piety of Padre Cataldo. The parish church is a long way off, and up a very steep hill. The result is that few of the little children and women could get to church at all. There is a chapel, dedicated to Our Lady of Dolors, by the roadside at Posilippo, but it is very small. And there is another built by the Minutoli when, for love of the poor, they left their beautiful villa of “Mon Caprice,” and raised an asylum for the aged poor, and a house to which they themselves retired, giving away all they could spare from their own modest requirements. But this also is somewhat at a distance; and, moreover, the population is large, and the accommodation altogether but scanty.
I have seldom seen more fervor and devotion than in the little chapel at Casinelli, hewn out of a rock, with its simple decorations and a few natural flowers on the altar. There was no music, and I cannot for a moment pretend that there was the slightest approach to harmony in the loud, harsh, powerful shouting which the Italian peasantry are content to mistake for singing. But, at least, there was real devotion, as they sat with eyes fixed on the preacher, who so beautifully and so earnestly discoursed to them as a father might to his children. I have often seen the tears streaming down their cheeks; and then from time to time we would hear of first this and then that hardened sinner who came creeping back to his or her duties, and making us all glad. Several small boys served at the altar; and as the honor was highly prized, they had been made to come in rotation to obviate quarrels. One small creature of about four years of age, and who had quite the most marvellous eyes and the longest lashes I ever saw, was specially pertinacious about his rights. In short, there was something touchingly primitive and real about the whole thing which could not fail deeply to impress us who came as strangers into this little seaside sanctuary. As we sat waiting for the priest to arrive, or in the silent parts of the Mass, we could hear the waves lapping the yellow sands just outside the half-closed door. This was the public entrance; and sometimes, in rough weather, I think it must have entailed a little sprinkling of salt water on the worshippers. We entered the chapel by a flight of marble stairs, in a tower which led from the inner court of the Villa Casinelli, and which stairs brought us into an aisle of the chapel, cut further in the rock, and consequently always somewhat dark. I remember Mary's going to Mass before breakfast, and having desired Paolino to bring her coffee, and put it in one of the niches of the marble staircase; which he did, greatly amused and pleased at so unusual a proceeding. It was never, however, repeated, for the wind blew fresh and cold, and the Vernons were almost hurt at what might look like a mistrust of their ever-ready and abundant hospitality.