THE SOUL OF A CITY
He hated Marco first of all because one day he undersold
him in the Campo, put him to shame in open market.
Figs were going cheap that October in spite of the
waning year; but there was no earthly reason why he
should give the English ladies more than four for
two soldi. What were soldi to English
people? The scratch of a flea! He would have
given them a handful, taken as they came, for their
piece of cinquanta, and reaped a tidy little
profit for himself. Who would have been the worse?
God knew he needed it. Mariola crumpled with the
ague like a dried leaf, and that long girl of his
growing up so fast, and still running wild with goat-herds
and marble quarrymen. How could he send her to
the nuns for a place unless he bought her some shoes
and a rosary? And then that pig Marco—thieving
old miser—peered forward with his mock candour
and silver-rimmed goggles and offered ten for
two soldi—ten! with the market price,
Dio mio, at twelve! And fichi totati
too! Do you wonder that the ladies in striped
blankets gave the cheek to Maso Cecci and turned to
Marco Zoppa?
That wasn’t all, but it was an accentuation
of a long series of spiteful injuries wrought him
by the wrinkled old villain. Maso endured, hating
the old man daily more and more; tried little tricks,
little revenges, upon him, upset his baskets, hid
his pipe; but they generally failed or recoiled with
a nasty swiftness upon himself. He only got deeper
and deeper into the bad odour of the neighbours who
traded in the Piazza with fruit and indifferent photographs.
Nothing went very well—thanks to that unspeakable
old Marco! His girl grew longer and lazier and
handsomer, with a shapelier bust and a pair of arms
like that snaky Bacchante in the Opera.
Maso had to quail more than he liked to admit before
the proud stare of her eyes; and when she dropped
the heavy lids upon them and sauntered away, arms
akimbo under her shawl, he could only swear. And
he always cursed Marco Zoppa who gave her chestnuts
and sage counsel for nothing. God only knew what
devilry he might be whispering to her in the shady
corner where the sun never came and the grass sprouted
between the flags—she leaning against the
wall, looking down at her toes, and he peering keen-eyed
into her face and muttering in his beard, sometimes
laying an old brown hand on her shoulder—Lord!
he did hate the man.
Then came the August races.
Maso had brought his Isotta into the city to see the
fun and she had disappeared in the press just before
the procession stayed by the Palazzo and the trumpets
sounded for the first race. Maso shrugged his
shoulders and cursed his luck, but didn’t budge.
The girl must look after herself. He was on the
upper rim of the great fountain craning his neck over
the pack of people: then he got a dig under the
