The first report announced that a grand masked ball was to be given at the Melani Palace, to celebrate the day on which the heir of the house attained2 his majority. All the friends of the family were delighted at the prospect3 of this festival; for the old Marquis Melani had the reputation of being one of the most hospitable4, and, at the same time, one of the most eccentric men in Pisa. Every one expected, therefore, that he would secure for the entertainment of his guests, if he really gave the ball, the most whimsical novelties in the way of masks, dances, and amusements generally, that had ever been seen.
The second report was, that the rich widower5, Fabio d’Ascoli, was on the point of returning to Pisa, after having improved his health and spirits by traveling in foreign countries; and that he might be expected to appear again in society, for the first time since the death of his wife, at the masked ball which was to be given in the Melani Palace. This announcement excited special interest among the young ladies of Pisa. Fabio had only reached his thirtieth year; and it was universally agreed that his return to society in his native city could indicate nothing more certainly than his desire to find a second mother for his infant child. All the single ladies would now have been ready to bet, as confidently as Brigida had offered to bet eight months before, that Fabio d’Ascoli would marry again.
For once in a way, report turned out to be true, in both the cases just mentioned. Invitations were actually issued from the Melani Palace, and Fabio returned from abroad to his home on the Arno.
In settling all the arrangements connected with his masked ball, the Marquis Melani showed that he was determined6 not only to deserve, but to increase, his reputation for oddity. He invented the most extravagant7 disguises, to be worn by some of his more intimate friends; he arranged grotesque8 dances, to be performed at stated periods of the evening by professional buffoons9, hired from Florence. He composed a toy symphony, which included solos on every noisy plaything at that time manufactured for children’s use. And not content with thus avoiding the beaten track in preparing the entertainments at the ball, he determined also to show decided10 originality11, even in selecting the attendants who were to wait on the company. Other people in his rank of life were accustomed to employ their own and hired footmen for this purpose; the marquis resolved that his attendants should be composed of young women only; that two of his rooms should be fitted up as Arcadian bowers12; and that all the prettiest girls in Pisa should be placed in them to preside over the refreshments14, dressed, in accordance with the mock classical taste of the period, as shepherdesses of the time of Virgil.
The only defect of this brilliantly new idea was the difficulty of executing it. The marquis had expressly ordered that not fewer than thirty shepherdesses were to be engaged—fifteen for each bower13. It would have been easy to find double this number in Pisa, if beauty had been the only quality required in the attendant damsels. But it was also absolutely necessary, for the security of the marquis’s gold and silver plate, that the shepherdesses should possess, besides good looks, the very homely15 recommendation of a fair character. This last qualification proved, it is sad to say, to be the one small merit which the majority of the ladies willing to accept engagements at the palace did not possess. Day after day passed on; and the marquis’s steward16 only found more and more difficulty in obtaining the appointed number of trustworthy beauties. At last his resources failed him altogether; and he appeared in his master’s presence about a week before the night of the ball, to make the humiliating acknowledgment that he was entirely18 at his wits’ end. The total number of fair shepherdesses with fair characters whom he had been able to engage amounted only to twenty-three.
“Nonsense!” cried the marquis, irritably19, as soon as the steward had made his confession20. “I told you to get thirty girls, and thirty I mean to have. What’s the use of shaking your head when all their dresses are ordered? Thirty tunics21, thirty wreaths, thirty pairs of sandals and silk stockings, thirty crooks22, you scoundrel—and you have the impudence23 to offer me only twenty-three hands to hold them. Not a word! I won’t hear a word! Get me my thirty girls, or lose your place.” The marquis roared out this last terrible sentence at the top of his voice, and pointed17 peremptorily24 to the door.
The steward knew his master too well to remonstrate25. He took his hat and cane26, and went out. It was useless to look through the ranks of rejected volunteers again; there was not the slightest hope in that quarter. The only chance left was to call on all his friends in Pisa who had daughters out at service, and to try what he could accomplish, by bribery27 and persuasion28, that way.
After a whole day occupied in solicitations, promises, and patient smoothing down of innumerable difficulties, the result of his efforts in the new direction was an accession of six more shepherdesses. This brought him on bravely from twenty-three to twenty-nine, and left him, at last, with only one anxiety—where was he now to find shepherdess number thirty?
He mentally asked himself that important question, as he entered a shady by-street in the neighborhood of the Campo Santo, on his way back to the Melani Palace. Sauntering slowly along in the middle of the road, and fanning himself with his handkerchief after the oppressive exertions29 of the day, he passed a young girl who was standing30 at the street door of one of the houses, apparently31 waiting for somebody to join her before she entered the building.
“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the steward (using one of those old Pagan ejaculations which survive in Italy even to the present day), “there stands the prettiest girl I have seen yet. If she would only be shepherdess number thirty, I should go home to supper with my mind at ease. I’ll ask her, at any rate. Nothing can be lost by asking, and everything may be gained. Stop, my dear,” he continued, seeing the girl turn to go into the house as he approached her. “Don’t be afraid of me. I am steward to the Marquis Melani, and well known in Pisa as an eminently32 respectable man. I have something to say to you which may be greatly for your benefit. Don’t look surprised; I am coming to the point at once. Do you want to earn a little money? honestly, of course. You don’t look as if you were very rich, child.”
“I am very poor, and very much in want of some honest work to do,” answered the girl, sadly.
“Then we shall suit each other to a nicety; for I have work of the pleasantest kind to give you, and plenty of money to pay for it. But before we say anything more about that, suppose you tell me first something about yourself—who you are, and so forth33. You know who I am already.”
“I am only a poor work-girl, and my name is Nanina. I have nothing more, sir, to say about myself than that.”
“Do you belong to Pisa?”
“Yes, sir—at least, I did. But I have been away for some time. I was a year at Florence, employed in needlework.”
“All by yourself?”
“No, sir, with my little sister. I was waiting for her when you came up.”
“Have you never done anything else but needlework? never been out at service?”
“Yes, sir. For the last eight months I have had a situation to wait on a lady at Florence, and my sister (who is turned eleven, sir, and can make herself very useful) was allowed to help in the nursery.”
“How came you to leave this situation?”
“The lady and her family were going to Rome, sir. They would have taken me with them, but they could not take my sister. We are alone in the world, and we never have been parted from each other, and never shall be—so I was obliged to leave the situation.”
“And here you are, back at Pisa—with nothing to do, I suppose?”
“Nothing yet, sir. We only came back yesterday.”
“Only yesterday! You are a lucky girl, let me tell you, to have met with me. I suppose you have somebody in the town who can speak to your character?”
“The landlady34 of this house can, sir.”
“And who is she, pray?”
“Marta Angrisani, sir.”
“What! the well-known sick-nurse? You could not possibly have a better recommendation, child. I remember her being employed at the Melani Palace at the time of the marquis’s last attack of gout; but I never knew that she kept a lodging-house.”
“She and her daughter, sir, have owned this house longer than I can recollect35. My sister and I have lived in it since I was quite a little child, and I had hoped we might be able to live here again. But the top room we used to have is taken, and the room to let lower down is far more, I am afraid, than we can afford.”
“How much is it?”
Nanina mentioned the weekly rent of the room in fear and trembling. The steward burst out laughing.
“Suppose I offered you money enough to be able to take that room for a whole year at once?” he said.
Nanina looked at him in speechless amazement36.
“Suppose I offered you that?” continued the steward. “And suppose I only ask you in return to put on a fine dress and serve refreshments in a beautiful room to the company at the Marquis Melani’s grand ball? What should you say to that?”
Nanina said nothing. She drew back a step or two, and looked more bewildered than before.
“You must have heard of the ball,” said the steward, pompously37; “the poorest people in Pisa have heard of it. It is the talk of the whole city.”
Still Nanina made no answer. To have replied truthfully, she must have confessed that “the talk of the whole city” had now no interest for her. The last news from Pisa that had appealed to her sympathies was the news of the Countess d’Ascoli’s death, and of Fabio’s departure to travel in foreign countries. Since then she had heard nothing more of him. She was as ignorant of his return to his native city as of all the reports connected with the marquis’s ball. Something in her own heart—some feeling which she had neither the desire nor the capacity to analyze—had brought her back to Pisa and to the old home which now connected itself with her tenderest recollections. Believing that Fabio was still absent, she felt that no ill motive38 could now be attributed to her return; and she had not been able to resist the temptation of revisiting the scene that had been associated with the first great happiness as well as with the first great sorrow of her life. Among all the poor people of Pisa, she was perhaps the very last whose curiosity could be awakened, or whose attention could be attracted by the rumor39 of gayeties at the Melani Palace.
But she could not confess all this; she could only listen with great humility40 and no small surprise, while the steward, in compassion41 for her ignorance, and with the hope of tempting42 her into accepting his offered engagement, described the arrangements of the approaching festival, and dwelt fondly on the magnificence of the Arcadian bowers, and the beauty of the shepherdesses’ tunics. As soon as he had done, Nanina ventured on the confession that she should feel rather nervous in a grand dress that did not belong to her, and that she doubted very much her own capability43 of waiting properly on the great people at the ball. The steward, however, would hear of no objections, and called peremptorily for Marta Angrisani to make the necessary statement as to Nanina’s character. While this formality was being complied with to the steward’s perfect satisfaction, La Biondella came in, unaccompanied on this occasion by the usual companion of all her walks, the learned poodle Scarammuccia.
“This is Nanina’s sister,” said the good-natured sick-nurse, taking the first opportunity of introducing La Biondella to the great marquis’s great man. “A very good, industrious44 little girl; and very clever at plaiting dinner-mats, in case his excellency should ever want any. What have you done with the dog, my dear?”
“I couldn’t get him past the pork butcher’s, three streets off,” replied La Biondella. “He would sit down and look at the sausages. I am more than half afraid he means to steal some of them.”
“A very pretty child,” said the steward, patting La Biondella on the cheek. “We ought to have her at the hall. If his excellency should want a Cupid, or a youthful nymph, or anything small and light in that way, I shall come back and let you know. In the meantime, Nanina, consider yourself Shepherdess Number Thirty, and come to the housekeeper’s room at the palace to try on your dress to-morrow. Nonsense! don’t talk to me about being afraid and awkward. All you’re wanted to do is to look pretty; and your glass must have told you you could do that long ago. Remember the rent of the room, my dear, and don’t stand in your light and your sister’s. Does the little girl like sweetmeats? Of course she does! Well, I promise you a whole box of sugar-plums to take home for her, if you will come and wait at the ball.”
“Oh, go to the ball, Nanina; go to the ball!” cried La Biondella, clapping her hands.
“Of course she will go to the ball,” said the nurse. “She would be mad to throw away such an excellent chance.”
Nanina looked perplexed45. She hesitated a little, then drew Marta Angrisani away into a corner, and whispered this question to her:
“Do you think there will be any priests at the palace where the marquis lives?”
“Heavens, child, what a thing to ask!” returned the nurse. “Priests at a masked ball! You might as well expect to find Turks performing high mass in the cathedral. But supposing you did meet with priests at the palace, what then?”
“Nothing,” said Nanina, constrainedly46. She turned pale, and walked away as she spoke47. Her great dread48, in returning to Pisa, was the dread of meeting with Father Rocco again. She had never forgotten her first discovery at Florence of his distrust of her. The bare thought of seeing him any more, after her faith in him had been shaken forever, made her feel faint and sick at heart.
“To-morrow, in the housekeeper’s room,” said the steward, putting on his hat, “you will find your new dress all ready for you.”
Nanina courtesied, and ventured on no more objections. The prospect of securing a home for a whole year to come among people whom she knew, reconciled her—influenced as she was also by Marta Angrisani’s advice, and by her sister’s anxiety for the promised present—to brave the trial of appearing at the ball.
“What a comfort to have it all settled at last,” said the steward, as soon as he was out again in the street. “We shall see what the marquis says now. If he doesn’t apologize for calling me a scoundrel the moment he sets eyes on Number Thirty, he is the most ungrateful nobleman that ever existed.”
Arriving in front of the palace, the steward found workmen engaged in planning the external decorations and illuminations for the night of the ball. A little crowd had already assembled to see the ladders raised and the scaffoldings put up. He observed among them, standing near the outskirts49 of the throng50, a lady who attracted his attention (he was an ardent51 admirer of the fair sex) by the beauty and symmetry of her figure. While he lingered for a moment to look at her, a shaggy poodle-dog (licking his chops, as if he had just had something to eat) trotted52 by, stopped suddenly close to the lady, sniffed53 suspiciously for an instant, and then began to growl54 at her without the slightest apparent provocation55. The steward advancing politely with his stick to drive the dog away, saw the lady start, and heard her exclaim to herself amazedly:
“You here, you beast! Can Nanina have come back to Pisa?”
This last exclamation56 gave the steward, as a gallant57 man, an excuse for speaking to the elegant stranger.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said, “but I heard you mention the name of Nanina. May I ask whether you mean a pretty little work-girl who lives near the Campo Santo?”
“The same,” said the lady, looking very much surprised and interested immediately.
“It may be a gratification to you, madam, to know that she has just returned to Pisa,” continued the steward, politely; “and, moreover, that she is in a fair way to rise in the world. I have just engaged her to wait at the marquis’s grand ball, and I need hardly say, under those circumstances, that if she plays her cards properly her fortune is made.”
The lady bowed, looked at her informant very intently and thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly walked away without uttering a word.
“A curious woman,” thought the steward, entering the palace. “I must ask Number Thirty about her to-morrow.”
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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2
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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3
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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4
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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7
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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8
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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9
buffoons
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| n.愚蠢的人( buffoon的名词复数 )；傻瓜；逗乐小丑；滑稽的人 | |
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10
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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11
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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12
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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13
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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14
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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15
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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16
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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17
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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18
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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19
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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20
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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21
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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22
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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24
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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25
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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26
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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27
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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28
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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29
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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30
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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31
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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32
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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33
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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34
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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35
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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36
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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37
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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38
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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39
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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40
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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41
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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42
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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43
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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44
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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45
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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46
constrainedly
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| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
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47
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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49
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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50
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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51
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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52
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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53
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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54
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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55
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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56
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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57
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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