The Wheat Princess Page 5

  CHAPTER IV

  THE announcement that a _principe Americano_ was coming to live inVilla Vivalanti occasioned no little excitement in the village. Wagonswith furnishings from Rome had been seen to pass on the road below thetown, and the contadini in the wayside vineyards had stopped their workto stare, and had repeated to each other rumours of the fabulous wealththis signor _principe_ was said to possess. The furniture they allowedto pass without much controversy. But they shook their heads dubiouslywhen two wagons full of flowering trees and shrubs wound up the roadwaytoward the villa. This foreigner must be a grasping person--as if therewere not trees enough already in the Sabine hills, that he must bringout more from Rome!

  The dissection of the character of Prince Vivalanti's new tenantoccupied so much of the people's time that the spring pruning of thevineyards came near to being slighted. The fountainhead of allknowledge on the subject was the landlord of the _Croce d'Oro_. Hehimself had had the honour of entertaining their excellencies atbreakfast, on the occasion of their first visit to Castel Vivalanti,and with unvarying eloquence he nightly recounted the story to aninterested group of loungers in the _trattoria_ kitchen: of how he hadmade the omelet without garlic because princes have delicate stomachsand cannot eat the food one would cook for ordinary men; of how theyhad sat at that very table, and the young _signorina principessa_, whowas beautiful as the holy angels in paradise, had told him with her ownlips that it was the best omelet she had ever eaten; and of how theyhad paid fifteen lire for their breakfast without so much as a word ofprotest, and then of their own accord had given three lire more for_mancia_]. Eighteen lire. _Corpo di Bacco!_ that was the kind of guestshe wished would drop in every day.

  But when Domenico Paterno, the baker of Castel Vivalanti, heard thestory, he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his palms, and assertedthat a prince was a prince all over the world; and that the _Americano_had allowed himself to be cheated from stupidity, not generosity. Forhis part, he thought the devil was the same, whether he talked Americanor Italian. But it was reported, on the other hand, that Bianca Rosinihad also talked with the _forestieri_ when she was washing clothes inthe stream. They had stopped their horses to watch the work, and thesignorina had smiled and asked if the water were not cold; for herpart, she was sure American nobles had kind hearts.

  Domenico, however, was not to be convinced by any such counter-evidenceas this. 'Smiles are cheap,' he returned sceptically. 'Does any oneknow of their giving money?'

  No one did know of their giving money, but there were plenty of boys totestify that they had run by the side of the carriage fully a kilometreasking for soldi, and the signore had only shaken his head to pay themfor their trouble.

  '_Si, si_, what did I tell you?' Domenico finished in triumph.'American princes are like any others--perhaps a little more stupid,but for the rest, exactly the same.'

  There were no facts at hand to confute such logic.

  And one night Domenico appeared at the _Croce d'Oro_ with a fresh pieceof news; his son, Tarquinio, who kept an osteria in Rome, had told thewhole story.

  'His name is Copli--Signor Edoardo Copli--and it is because ofhim'--Domenico scowled--'that I pay for my flour twice the usual price.When the harvests failed last year, and he saw that wheat was going tobe scarce, he sent to America and he bought all the wheat in the landand he put it in storehouses. He is holding it there now while theprice goes up--up--up. And when the poor people in Italy get very, veryhungry, and are ready to pay whatever he asks, then perhaps--verycharitably--he will agree to sell. _Gia_, that is the truth,' heinsisted darkly. 'Everybody knows it in Rome. Doubtless he thinks toescape from his sin up here in the mountains--but he will see--it willfollow him wherever he goes. _Mache!_ It is the story of the Bad Princeover again.'

  Finally one morning--one Friday morning--some of the children of thevillage who were in the habit of loitering on the highway in the hopeof picking up stray soldi, reported that the American's horses andcarriages had come out from Rome, and that the drivers had stopped atthe inn of _Sant' Agapito_ and ordered wine like gentlemen. It wasfurther rumoured that the _principe_ himself intended to follow in theafternoon. The matter was discussed with considerable interest beforethe usual noonday siesta.

  'It is my opinion,' said Tommaso Ferri, the blacksmith, as he sat inthe baker's doorway, washing down alternate mouthfuls of bread andonion with Vivalanti wine--'it is my opinion that the Signor Americanomust be a very reckless man to venture on so important a journey onFriday--and particularly in Lent. It is well known that if a poor manstarts for market on Friday, he will break his eggs on the way; andbecause a rich man has no eggs to break, is that any reason the _buonDio_ should overlook his sin? Things are more just in heaven than onearth,' he added solemnly; 'and in my opinion, if the foreigner comesto-day, he will not prosper in the villa.'

  Domenico nodded approvingly.

  '_Si, si_, Tommaso is right. The Americano has already tempted heavenfar enough in this matter of the wheat, and it will not be the part ofwisdom for him to add to the account. Apoplexies are as likely to fallon princes as on bakers, and a dead prince is no different from anyother dead man--only that he goes to purgatory.'

  It was evident, however, that the foreigner was in truth going to temptFate; for in the afternoon two empty carriages came back from the villaand turned toward Palestrina, obviously bound for the station. All the_ragazzi_ of Castel Vivalanti waited on the road to see them pass andbeg for coppers; and it was just as Domenico had foretold: they neverreceived a single soldo.

  The remarks about the _principe Americano_ were not complimentary inCastel Vivalanti that night; but the little yellow-haired _principino_was handled more gently. The black-haired little Italian boys told howhe had laughed when they turned somersaults by the side of thecarriage, and how he had cried when his father would not let him throwsoldi; and the general opinion seemed to be that if he died young, heat least had a chance of paradise.