"So long as you do not make me die, too!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, with rather a pitying smile.
"Eh! To die--it is soon said! And yet, people do die. You, who are a doctor, should know that. And you do not wish to have said anything!
Bravo, doctor! Words are words. And yet they can sting. And after a thousand years, they still sting. You--what can you understand? Are you perhaps a father? You have not even a wife. Oh, blessed be G.o.d! You do not even know what you are saying. You know nothing. You think, perhaps, because you are a doctor, that you know more than I do. I will tell you that you are an ignorant!"
"Oh, beautiful!" cried the doctor, angrily, stung by what is still almost a mortal insult. "You--to me--ignorant! Oh, beautiful, most beautiful, this! From a peasant to a man of science! Perhaps you too have a diploma from the University of the Sapienza--"
"If I had, I should wrap half a pound of sliced ham--fat ham, you know--in it, for the first customer. What should I do with your diplomas! I ask you, what do you know? Do you know at all what a daughter is? Blood of my blood, heart of my heart, hand of this hand.
But I am a peasant, and you are a doctor. Therefore, I know nothing."
"And meanwhile you give me "ignorant" in my face!" retorted Sor Tommaso.
"Yes--and I repeat it!" cried Stefanone, leaning forwards, his clenched hand on the table. "I say it twice, three times--ignorant, ignorant, ignorant! Have you understood?"
"Say it louder! In that way every one can hear you! Beast of a sheep-grazer!"
"And you--crow-feeder! Furnisher of grave-diggers. And then--ignorant!
Oh--this time I have said it clearly!"
"And it seems to me that it is enough!" roared the doctor, across the table. "Ciociaro! Take that!"
"Ciociaro? I? Oh, your soul! If I get hold of you with my hands!"
A "ciociaro" is a hill-man who wears "cioce," or rags, bound upon his feet with leathern sandals and thongs. He is generally a shepherd, and is held in contempt by the more respectable people of the larger mountain towns. To call a man a "ciociaro" is a bitter insult.
Stefanone in his anger had half risen from his seat. But the wooden bench on which he had been sitting was close to the wall behind him, and the heavy oak table was pushed up within a few inches of his chest, so that his movements were considerably hampered as he stretched out his hands rather wildly towards his adversary. The latter, who possessed more moral than physical courage, moved his chair back and prepared to make his escape, if Stefanone showed signs of coming round the table.
At that moment a tall figure darkened the door that opened upon the street, and a quiet, dry voice spoke with a strong foreign accent. It was Angus Dalrymple, returning from a botanizing expedition in the hills, after being absent all day.
"That is a very uncomfortable way of fighting," he observed, as he stood still in the doorway. "You cannot hit a man across a table broader than your arm is long, Signor Stefano."
The effect of his words was instantaneous. Stefanone fell back into his seat. The doctor"s anxious and excited expression resolved itself instantly into a polite smile.
"We were only playing," he said suavely. "A little discussion--a mere jest. Our friend Stefanone was explaining something."
"If the table had been narrower, he would have explained you away altogether," observed Dalrymple, coming forward.
He laid a tin box which he had with him upon the table, and shook hands with Sor Tommaso. Then he slipped behind the table and sat down close to his host, as a precautionary measure in case the play should be resumed.
Stefanone would have had a bad chance of being dangerous, if the powerful Scotchman chose to hold him down. But the peasant seemed to have become as suddenly peaceful as the doctor.
"It was nothing," said Stefanone, quietly enough, though his eyes were bloodshot and glanced about the room in an unsettled way.
At that moment Annetta entered from a door leading to the staircase. Her eyes were fixed on Dalrymple"s face as she came forward, carrying a polished bra.s.s lamp, with three burning wicks, which she placed upon the table. Dalrymple looked up at her, and seeing her expression of inquiry, slowly nodded. With a laugh which drew her long red-brown lips back from her short white teeth, the girl produced a small flask and a gla.s.s, which she had carried behind her and out of sight when she came in. She set them before Dalrymple.
"I saw you coming," she said, and laughed again. "And then--it is always the same. Half a "foglietta" of the old, just for the appet.i.te."
Sor Tommaso glanced at Stefanone in a meaning way, but the girl"s father affected not to see him. Dalrymple nodded his thanks, poured a few drops of wine into the gla.s.s and scattered them upon the brick floor according to the ancient custom, both for rinsing the gla.s.s and as a libation, and then offered to fill the gla.s.ses of each of the two men, who smiled, shook their heads, and covered their tumblers with their right hands. At last Dalrymple helped himself, nodded politely to his companions, and slowly emptied the gla.s.s which held almost all the contents of the little flask. The "foglietta," or "leaflet" of wine, is said to have been so called from the twisted and rolled vine leaf which generally serves it for a stopper. A whole "foglietta" contained a scant pint.
"Will you eat now?" asked Annetta, still smiling.
"Presently," answered Dalrymple. "What is there to eat? I am hungry."
"It seems that you have to say so!" laughed the girl. "It is a new thing. There is beefsteak or mutton, if you wish to know. And ham--a fresh ham cut to-day. It is one of the Grape-eater"s, and it seems good.
You remember, Sor Tommaso, the--speaking with respect to your face--the pig we called the Grape-eater last year? Speaking with respect, he was a good pig. It is one of his hams that we have cut. There is also salad, and fresh bread, which you like. And wine, I will not speak of it. Eh, he likes wine, the Englishman! He comes in with a long, long face--and when he goes to bed, his face is wide, wide. That is the wine. But then, it does nothing else to him. It only changes his face. When I look at him, I seem to see the moon waxing."
"You talk too much," said Stefanone.
"Never mind, papa! Words are not pennies. The more one wastes, the more one has!"
Dalrymple said nothing; but he smiled as she turned lightly with a toss of her small dark head and left the room.
"Fine blood," observed the doctor, with a conciliatory glance at the girl"s father.
"You will be wanted before long, Sor Tommaso," said Dalrymple, gravely.
"I hear that the abbess is very ill."
The doctor looked up with sudden interest, and put on his professional expression.
"The abbess, you say? Dear me! She is not young! What has she? Who told you, Sor Angoscia?"
Now, "Sor Angoscia" signifies in English "Sir Anguish," but the doctor in spite of really conscientious efforts could not get nearer to the p.r.o.nunciation of Angus. Nevertheless, with northern persistency, Dalrymple corrected him for the hundredth time. The doctor"s first attempt had resulted in his calling the Scotchman "Sor Langusta," which means "Sir Crayfish"--and it must be admitted that "Anguish" was an improvement.
"Angus," said Dalrymple. "My name is Angus. The abbess has caught a severe cold from sitting in a draught when she was overheated. It has immediately settled on her lungs, and you may be sent for at any moment.
I pa.s.sed by the back of the convent on my way down, and the gardener was just coming out of the postern. He told me."
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Sor Tommaso, shaking his head.
"Cold--bronchitis, pleurisy, pneumonia--it is soon done! One would be enough! Those nuns, what do they eat? A little gra.s.s, a little boiled paste, a little broth of meat on Sundays. What strength should they have? And then pray, pray, sing, sing! It needs a chest! Poor lungs! I will go to my home and get ready--blisters--mustard--a lancet--they will not allow a barber in the convent to bleed them. Well--I make myself the barber! What a life, what a life! If you wish to die young, be a doctor at Subiaco, Sor Angoscia. Good night, dear friend. Good night, Stefanone. I wish not to have said anything--you know--that little affair. Let us speak no more about it. I am more beast than you, because I said anything. Good night."
Sor Tommaso got his stick from a dark corner, pressed his broad catskin hat upon his head, and took his respectability away on its tightly encased black legs.
"And may the devil go with you," said Stefanone, under his breath, as the doctor disappeared.
"Why?" inquired Dalrymple, who had caught the words.
"I said nothing," answered the peasant, thoughtfully tr.i.m.m.i.n.g one wick of the lamp with the bent bra.s.s wire which, with the snuffers, hung by a chain from the ring by which the lamp was carried.
"I thought you spoke," said the Scotchman. "Well--the abbess is very ill, and Sor Tommaso has a job."
"May he do it well! So that it need not be begun again."
"What do you mean?" Dalrymple slowly sipped the remains of his little measure of wine.
"Those nuns!" exclaimed Stefanone, instead of answering the question.
"What are they here to do, in this world? Better make saints of them--and good night! There would be one misery less. Do you know what they do? They make wine. Good! But they do not drink it. They sell it for a farthing less by the foglietta than other people. The devil take them and their wine!"
Dalrymple glanced at the angry peasant with some amus.e.m.e.nt, but did not make any answer.
"Eh, Signore!" cried Stefanone. "You who are a foreigner and a Protestant, can you not say something, since it would be no sin for you?"