Dr. Francesco ZÉrboli, Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza, landed at the Imperial and Royal Ricevitoria—the custom-house—at Oria, on the tenth day of September, 1854, just as a truly imperial and royal sun was rising above the ponderous bastions of Galbiga, glorifying the little pink custom-house and the oleanders and beans of Signora Peppina Bianconi, and summoning to his office, in accordance with the regulations, Signor Carlo Bianconi, her husband, that same Receiver of Customs who had scented conspiracy in manuscript music. Bianconi, whom his wife called el mÈ Carlascia,—"my big Charley"—and the people, el Biancon, a tall man, fat and solid, with a clean-shaven chin, a grey moustache, and the large dull eyes of a faithful mastiff, went down to meet that other clean-shaven Imperial and Royal one, of higher rank. There was no resemblance between the two, save in the Austrian nudity of their chins. ZÉrboli, dressed in black and carefully gloved, was short and stout, and wore a pair of fair moustaches flattened against his sallow face, out of which peered two small, sarcastic, and scornful sparks of eyes. His hair grew so low on his forehead that he was in the habit of shaving off a strip, and at times a shade showed there, that gave him the appearance of some strange beast. Quick in his movements, in his glance, in his speech, he spoke, with easy courtesy, a nasal Italian, having the modulations of the province of Trento. He now informed the Receiver that he had come to hold a convocato—the communal council of those days—at Castello, and that he had preferred to come early and climb the hill while it was cool, from Oria rather than from Casarico or Albogasio, that he might have the pleasure of greeting the Receiver.

The big, faithful mastiff did not at once understand that the Commissary had a second end in view, and poured forth his thanks in a medley of obsequious phrases, and short, silly laughs, rubbing his hands and offering coffee, milk, eggs, and the open air of the little garden. The other accepted the coffee, but declined the open air with a motion of his head and a wink so eloquent, that Carlascia, after shouting upstairs, "Peppina!" ushered him into the office where, feeling himself transformed (such was his double nature) from a receiver of customs into a police-officer, he composed himself, and put on an expression of austerity, as if about to enter into a sacramental union with the monarch himself. This office was a miserable hole on the ground floor, with iron gratings at the two small windows; an infectious and primitive cell, that already stunk of the great empire. The Commissary seated himself in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door that led from the landing-stage to the ante-room, the one leading from the ante-room to the office having been left open by his orders.

"Tell me something of Signor Maironi," said he.

"He is still watched," Bianconi answered, and continued in the Italian of Porta Tosa. "By the way—wait a moment—I have a report here that is nearly finished." And he began hunting and fumbling among his papers, in search of the report and of his glasses.

"You will send it in, you will send it in!" exclaimed the Commissary, who had a dread of the big mastiff's prose.

"Meanwhile speak. Tell me everything."

"He is as ill-intentioned as ever. We knew before he was ill-intentioned, but now it is very evident," the eloquent Receiver continued. "He has begun to wear that beard—you know—that midget—that moschetta—that pointed tuft, that filthy——" [I]

"Pardon me," said the Commissary, "you see I am new to the place. I have my instructions and I have received some information, but as yet I have no exact knowledge of the man and his family. You must describe them to me as minutely as you can. Let us begin with him."

"He is a proud man, violent and overbearing. He has quarrelled here at least fifty times over questions of duty. He will never give in, and he wants to teach me and the guard also. His eyes flash as if he were going to eat the custom-house. But it is no use being overbearing with me, even if he——For indeed he knows almost everything, and that is a fact! He knows law, finance, music, flowers, fish, and the devil knows what all else."

"And she?"

"She? Oh, she is a sly puss, but when she shows her claws they are worse than his; much worse! When he is angry he turns red and makes a great row, she turns pale and is devilish insolent. Of course I never tolerate her insolence, but—well, you understand. She is a talented woman, I can tell you. My Peppina is devoted to her. She is a woman who makes friends everywhere. Here in Oria they often send for her instead of sending for the doctor. If there is a quarrel in a family, they send for her. If an animal has the stomach-ache, she must come. All the children run after her, and she even makes little dolls for them at Carnival time. You know, those little puppets. Moreover this woman can play on the spinet, and knows French and German. I am so unfortunate as not to speak German, so I have been to her several times to get German documents explained, when such come to the office."

"Ah! So you go to the Maironis' house?"

"Yes, sometimes, for that purpose."

In truth the big mastiff also went there to get Franco to explain certain enigmatical passages in the customs-tariff to him, but he did not say so.

The Commissary continued his examination.

"And how is the house furnished?"

"Well, very well. Fine Venetian floorings, painted ceilings, sofas heavily draped, a spinet, a splendid dining-room all hung with portraits."

"And the Engineer-in-Chief?"

"The engineer is a jolly, old-fashioned, kind man; he resembles me, though he is older. But he is not here much. He comes for two weeks about this time of the year, and two weeks more in the Spring, and he pays a few short visits in between. Just leave him alone, and let him have his milk in the morning, his milk at night, his flask of Modena for dinner, his game of tarocchi, and his Milan Gazette, and Engineer Ribera is perfectly happy. But to return to Signor Maironi's beard. There is something even worse! I discovered yesterday that the gentleman has planted a jasmine in a wooden box painted red!" [J]

The Commissary, a man of parts, and probably in his secret heart, indifferent to all colours save that of his own complexion and his own tongue, could not refrain from slightly shrugging his shoulders. Nevertheless, he presently asked—

"Is the plant in blossom?"

"I don't know. I will ask the woman."

"Ask whom? Your wife? So your wife goes to Casa Maironi also?"

"Yes, from time to time."

ZÉrboli fixed his two little scornful eyes on Bianconi's face, and put the following question, enunciating every syllable very distinctly.

"Does she, or does she not, go there from good motives?"

"Well, as to that, it depends! She imagines she goes as a friend of Luisina's, to talk about the flowers, their sewing, and for little bits of gossip, and they chatter and chirp away as women will; you know the way. But I get out of her——"

"TÈ chÌ, tÈ chÌ! Behold, behold!" Signora Peppina Bianconi exclaimed in her Porta Ticinese dialect, as she came forward with the coffee, smiling pleasantly. "The Commissary! What a pleasure it is to see you! I am afraid the coffee isn't very good, but any way it is fresh made. It is a great nuisance not being able to have it from Lugano!"

"Tut, tut, tut!" grumbled her husband crossly.

"Well, what harm is that? I only said so in fun. You understood, didn't you, SÜr Commissari? That blessed man there never understands anything. I never get any coffee for myself, anyway. I am taking mallow-water now for a dizzy head."

"Don't talk so much, don't talk so much!" her husband interpolated, and the Commissary, setting down the empty cup, told the good woman that he was coming to see her flowers presently, and this gallantry was like the act of one who, at a cafÉ, throws the money upon the tray, that the waiter may take it and be gone.

Signora Peppina understood, and awed by the ferocious eyes of her Carlascia, withdrew in haste.

"Listen, listen, listen," the Commissary exclaimed, covering his brow with his left hand, and pressing his temples. "Oh!" he ejaculated, suddenly remembering, "I have it! I wanted to inquire if Engineer Ribera is in Oria at present."

"He is not here now, but I believe he is coming very shortly."

"Does Engineer Ribera spend much money on this Maironi family?"

"He certainly must spend a great deal. I don't believe Don Franco has more than three svanziche a day of his own, and she——" The Receiver blew across the palm of his hand. "So you see——! They keep a servant. They have a little girl about two years old, and so they must needs keep a maid to look after the child. They send away for flowers, books, music, and all sorts of things. Of an evening they play cards, and there is always a bottle of wine. It takes a good many svanziche to live in this way, you know." The Commissary reflected a moment with a clouded brow, and eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and then, in short, disjointed sentences that sounded like fragments of an oracle, he let it be understood that Engineer Ribera, an Imperial and Royal official, recently favoured by the Imperial and Royal government with a promotion in loco, should exert a better influence over his nephew's family. Then with further questionings and further observations touching the engineer's present weaknesses, he intimated to Bianconi that his paternal attention should be directed with special secrecy and delicacy towards their Imperial and Royal colleague, in order that—should this become necessary—they might be able to enlighten their Superiors concerning certain acts of tolerance which would be scandalous. He ended by inquiring if Bianconi was aware that the lawyer V. from Varenna and another individual from Loveno were in the habit of visiting the Maironis quite often. The Receiver knew this, and had learned from his Peppina that they came to make music. "I don't believe it," the Commissary announced, with sudden and unusual asperity. "Your wife does not understand at all. If you go on like this, my dear Bianconi, they will lead you by the nose. Those two are a couple of rascals, who would be better off at Kufstein. [K] You must seek for more information, and when you have obtained it, you will pass it on to me. And now let us go into the garden. By the way, when anything comes from Lugano for the Marchesa Maironi——" ZÉrboli finished the sentence with a gesture of amiable munificence, and started forward, followed by the deeply mortified mastiff.

Signora Peppina allowed them to find her in the garden watering the flowers aided by a small boy. The Commissary looked, admired, and found a means of giving the subaltern police-officer a little lesson. By praising her flowers he easily led Signora Bianconi to mention Franco, but, as if quite indifferent to that gentleman, he did not dwell a moment upon him, but stuck to the flowers, declaring that Maironi could not possibly have finer ones. Little cries, groans, and ejaculations broke from the humble Signora Peppina, who was really embarrassed by such a comparison. But the Commissary insisted. How? Even the Casa Maironi fuchsias were finer? The heliotrope and the pelargonia also? How about the jasmine?

"The jasmine!" Signora Peppina exclaimed. "Why, Signor Maironi has the finest jasmine in the whole Valsolda, my dear sir!"

Thus, in the most natural way possible, did the Commissary presently discover that the famous jasmine had not yet blossomed. "I should like to see Don Franco's dahlias," said he. The ingenuous creature offered to accompany him to Casa Ribera that very day. "They will be so delighted!" But the Commissary expressed his desire to wait the coming of the Imperial and Royal Engineer-in-Chief, that he might have an opportunity of greeting him, whereupon Signora Peppina said approvingly: "That is right." Meanwhile the mastiff, humiliated by that superior skill, and wishing to show in some way that, at least, he was zealous, seized the boy with the watering-pot by the arm, and presented him:

"My nephew. Son of a sister of mine, married to an Imperial and Royal doorkeeper, at the police station in Bergamo. He has the honour to bear the names, Francesco Giuseppe—Francis Joseph—bestowed upon him by my express desire. Of course, you see, it would not be respectful to use these names ordinarily——"

"His mother calls him RatÌ, and his father calls him RatÙ, fancy that!" Aunt Peppina put in.

"Be quiet!" said his uncle. "I call him Francesco. He is a well-behaved boy, I must say; a very well-behaved boy. Now tell us, Francesco, what are you going to do when you are a man?"

RatÌ rattled off his answer as if he were reciting his catechism.

"When I am a man I shall always comport myself as behooves a faithful and devoted subject of His Majesty our Emperor, and a good Christian; and I hope, with the help of the Lord, to become some day, an Imperial and Royal Receiver of Customs like my uncle, that I may, at last, enter Paradise, and be duly rewarded for my virtuous actions."

"Well done, well done, well done!" said ZÉrboli, caressing RatÌ. "Always walk in the path of virtue."

"You be quiet, SÜr Commissari," Peppina once more burst out. "This morning the little villain ate half the sugar out of the sugar-basin!"

"What, what, what?" Carlascia exclaimed, forgetting his part in his astonishment. He remembered himself at once however, and declared: "It was your own fault. Things should be put away. Is not that true, Francesco?"

"Perfectly," RatÌ answered; and the Commissary vexed at this wrangle, and at the twist his paternal admonition had received, took himself off without ceremony.

Hardly had he disappeared when Carlascia scolded angrily: "You take the sugar again if you dare, you!" and hit Francis Joseph a formidable knock on the side of the head. This worthy had expected quite different treatment, and ran off to hide among the beans. Then Bianconi had it out with his wife, scolding her roundly, and swearing that in the future he would look after the sugar himself; and upon her daring retort: "What business is it of yours, after all?" he flung out: "Everything is my business, everything is my business!" and turning his back upon her, strode off, puffing and tingling, to the spot where his attentive wife had prepared the fishing-rod and the polenta, and began to bait the two great hooks he used in catching tench. In the olden days that little world was even more completely isolated from the great world than at present, and was, even more than at present, a world of silence and of peace, in which the functionaries of both State and Church, and, following their venerable example, many faithful subjects as well, dedicated several hours a day to edifying contemplation. Seated first on the West, the Receiver cast two hooks attached to a single line, two tempting mouthfuls of polenta, as far out from the shore as possible; when the line was stretched tight, when the float seemed firmly anchored in quiet expectation, the Imperial and Royal personage placed the short rod delicately upon the low wall, and sat down to contemplate. To the east of him the sedentario, as the customs-guard was then called, crouching on the humble landing-stage in front of another float, smoked his pipe and contemplated. A few steps beyond old, half-starved CÜstant, a retired white-washer, sacristan and churchwarden, one of the patricians of the village of Oria, sat in contemplation, on the prow of his boat, a lofty, prehistoric, tall hat on his head, the magic wand in his hand, his legs dangling above the water, and his soul concentrated on his own particular float. Seated on the edge of a small field, in the shade of a mulberry-tree and a large, black, straw hat, the puny, thin, be-spectacled Don Brazzova, parish-priest of Albogasio, was lost in contemplation, his image reflected in the clear water. In a kitchen-garden of Albogasio Inferiore, between the banks of the Ceron and that of Mandroeugn, another patrician in a jacket and high boots, the churchwarden Bignetta, called el Signoron, the fine gentleman, sitting stiff and solemn, upon an eighteenth century chair, with the famous rod in his hand, watched and contemplated. Under the fig-tree at Cadate, Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri sat in contemplation. At S. Mamette the doctor, the grocer, and the shoemaker were hanging over the water and contemplating most diligently. At Cressogno the Marchesa's florid cook was contemplating. Opposite Oria, on the shady deserted shore of Bisgnago, a dignified arch-priest from lower Lombardy was in the habit of leading a life of contemplation for forty days every year. All alone he sat, with three rods resting at his feet, while with the air of a bishop, he contemplated the three floats belonging to these rods—two with his eyes, one with his nose. If some one, passing far out on the lake could have seen all these brooding figures without perceiving the rods, the lines, and the floats, he would have thought himself in a country inhabited by hermits and ascetics, who, weary of the earth, were contemplating the sky in this liquid mirror, simply for the sake of greater convenience.

As a matter of fact, all these ascetics were fishing for tench, and no mystery the future of humanity might contain could be of more importance to them than those mysteries at which the little float secretly hinted, when, as if possessed by a spirit, it showed signs of growing unrest, and, at last, even of mental derangement; for, after dipping and jerking, now forward, now backward, it would at last, in the utter confusion of its ideas, choose the desperate course of plunging head foremost into the depths. These phenomena, however, occurred only at rare intervals, and some of the contemplators would pass whole half-days without noticing the slightest movement in their floats. Then each one, removing his eyes from the bit of cork, would follow a line of thought running parallel with the line attached to the rod. Thus it sometimes happened that the arch-priest would land an episcopal see, the "fine gentleman," a wood that had once belonged to his ancestors, the cook, a tench from the hills, rosy and fair, and CÜstant, an order from government to whitewash the peak of Cressogno. As to Carlascia, his second line was usually of a political nature, and the reason of this will be more readily grasped if we reflect that the main line, the one attached to the rod, often awoke in his big, dull head certain political considerations which the Commissary ZÉrboli had suggested to him. "You see, my dear Receiver," ZÉrboli had once said, when discoursing weakly about the events which had taken place on the sixth of February in Milan, "you who fish for tench, can easily understand this matter. Our great monarchy is fishing with a line. The twin baits are Lombardy and the Venetian provinces; two round and tempting morsels, with iron inside. Our monarchy has cast them there at its feet, opposite the lurking-place of that foolish little fish, Piedmont. In 1848 it grabbed at the bait Lombardy, but eventually succeeded in spitting it out and making off. Milan is our float. When Milan moves, it means that the little fish is just beneath. Last year the float moved a wee bit, but the dear little fish had only sniffed at the bait. But wait, some day there will be a violent movement, and we shall give a jerk; there will be some struggling, some floundering, but we shall land our little fish, and never let it escape again, the little white, red, and green pig!"

Bianconi had laughed heartily at this, and often when he sat down to fish, he would amuse himself by ruminating on this graceful simile, from which would generally arise other subtle and profound political musings. That morning the lake was quiet and most favourable to contemplation. The tallest grass of the precipitous bottom could be seen standing erect, a sign that there was no under-current. The baited hook cast far out, sunk straight and slowly, the line stretched evenly and smoothly below the float which sailed behind it a little way, surrounded by a series of tiny rings, that told of the ticklings of small carp, and then sunk into repose, a sign that the bait was resting on the bottom, and that the carp no longer worried it. The fisherman placed the short rod on the low wall, and fell to thinking of Engineer Ribera.

Though he was not aware of it Bianconi had a large dose of meekness in one corner of his heart which God, without informing him of it, had made with a false bottom. The world had proof of this in 1859, when the dear little fish, having swallowed the bait Lombardy, with the hook, the line, the rod, the Commissary, and everything else, Bianconi took to planting national and constitutional cabbages at Precotto. In spite of this hidden meekness, as he now laid down his rod and reflected that poor, old Engineer Ribera was to be fished for, he experienced a singular satisfaction, neither in his heart, nor his head, nor in any of the usual senses, but in a particular sense of his own, purely Imperial and Royal! Indeed he had no consciousness of himself as distinct from the Austrian governing organism. Receiver at a small frontier customs-house, he considered himself the point of the nail on a finger of the state; then, as a police-agent, he considered himself a microscopic eye under that nail. His life was that of the monarchy. If the Russians tickled the skin of Galicia, he felt the itching at Oria. The greatness, the power, the glory of Austria inflated him with unbounded pride. He would not admit that Brazil was vaster than the Austrian Empire, or that China was more thickly populated, or that the Archangel Michael could take Peschiera, or the Almighty Himself take Verona. His real Almighty was the Emperor; he respected the One in Heaven as an ally of the one at Vienna.

So, although he had never suspected that Engineer Ribera was an unfaithful subject, the Commissary's words—gospel truth to him—had carried conviction with them, and the idea of getting hold of this untrustworthy servant fired the zeal of the royal eye and the imperial finger nail. He called himself an ass for not having seen through this man before. Oh, but there was still time to catch him and hold him fast, fast, fast! "You just leave it to me! Just leave it to me, Signor Comm——"

He broke off suddenly and seized the rod. Gently, almost without moving, the float had printed a ring on the water, the sign of a tench. Bianconi clutched the rod tight, holding his breath. Another dip of the float, another and larger ring; the float moved slowly, slowly upon the water, and then stopped. Bianconi's heart was beating violently; the float moved still a little further on the surface, and then went under; zag! Bianconi gave a jerk, and the rod bowed with the tugging on the line of a hidden fish. "Peppina, I've got him!" shouted Carlascia, losing his head. "The guadÈll, the guadÈll!" The customs-guard turned round enviously: "Have you got him, Scior RecitÒr?" CÜstant, consumed with envy, gave no sign, not even turning his tall hat. RatÌ and Signora Peppina came rushing up, the latter bringing the guadÈll, a long pole with a large net at the end of it, used for bagging the tench in the water, for it would be a desperate risk to lift it up by the line. Bianconi took the line and began drawing it in very slowly. The tench was not yet visible, but must surely be enormous. The line came in smoothly for a few feet, and then was jerked violently back; then it began to come in again, nearer, ever nearer, until, far down below the surface, underneath the very noses of the three personages, something yellow flashed, a monstrous shadow! "Oh, the beauty!" said Signora Peppina under her breath. RatÌ exclaimed: "Madone, Madone!" But Bianconi spoke never a word, and only pulled and pulled cautiously. It was a fine, big fellow, short and fat, with a dark back and a yellow belly, this fish that was coming up from the depths, nearly exhausted and moving crosswise with evident reluctance.

The three faces did not please the fish, for it suddenly turned tail upon them, and once more dived furiously towards the depths. At last, however, completely exhausted, it followed the line, and appeared at the foot of the wall, its gilded belly uppermost. Signora Peppina, almost upside down on the parapet, plunged her rod as far as it would go, seeking in vain to bag the unhappy fish. "By the head!" shouted her husband. "By the tail!" piped RatÌ. At the noise, at sight of that terrible net, the fish struggled and dived. Peppina worked harder than ever, but could find neither head nor tail. Bianconi pulled and the tench rose to the surface once more, coiled itself up, and with a mighty jerk, snapped the line, and shot off amid the foam. "Madone!" exclaimed RatÌ, while Peppina continued to hunt about in the water with her rod. "Where is that fish? Where is that fish?" Bianconi, who had sat as one petrified, still grasping the line, now faced about in a rage; he kicked RatÌ, caught his wife by the shoulder, and shook her like a bag of nuts, loading her with reproaches. "Has it made off, Scior RecitÒr?" asked the customs-guard mellifluously. CÜstant turned his tall hat just a little, glanced towards the scene of the disaster, and then, returning to the contemplation of his own placid float, mumbled in an indulgent tone: "Minga pratich! Not skillful!"

Meanwhile the tench had returned to its native grass-grown depths, melancholy but free, like Piedmont after Novara. It is, however, doubtful if the poor Engineer-in-Chief will be equally fortunate.