The Village Sempstress. WHEN the road leaves the church to steer for the valley's narrower end and to follow the river's course, it leads, before half a mile is gone, into the midst of a little hamlet that is one of San Matteo's prettiest parasites. And there stands a cottage that has always been a marked feature in the neighbourhood. It is the house of Marrina, the village sempstress. When the day's heat has abated, and the shadows begin to deepen, and the breezes to blow more freshly, let us, with the villagers, gather round one of the village's greatest characters. She is an old maid. An old maid with plenty of ditties, like most of her kind, ditties about the youthful days when Paolo proposed, and nothing but prudence induced her to send poor Giovanni about his business -he who was such a handsome young fellow, too, and had such a flourishing pasta business! But in spite of them all, Marrina is still single, though she is past fifty, and is of so portly a figure as to excuse any man for thinking twice about the necessary allowance of polenta and beans. If you ask her, she will praise the Virgin to your face, who has kept her a virgin in peace and contentment until this age, and will assure you that, though Giovanni and Paolo were dying of love, nothing should persuade her to change her determination. Has she not nephews and nieces of all sizes, sexes, natures, and ages to cheer her loneliness? Does she not nourish towards all the men whose coats she fashions, and whose breeches she mends, a love far greater and more philanthropic than any she could have borne to one poor single husband? It must surely be under no protest that Marrina is happy. Watch her broad, beaming face as she turns it round on the bystanders; listen to her good-humoured jests! She is no soured woman, though she has been lame from childhood, and has probably never been wooed as she pretends. She is proud of her position-the position which gowns and petticoats, corduroys and jackets, have won for her. With heavy figure, scantily clad in red and purple bordato-the homespun linen of the district—a bright yellow kerchief folded across her ample bosom, and her few grey locks neatly braided and packed into a lump behind her head, she sits on the stone bench beneath her cottage porch, two stockingless feet propped on an opposite P stool, while she clips rashly with great scissors, sewing, settling, and jabbering jocosely the while. A knot of peasants has gathered round; Marrina's porch is almost as common a meeting-ground as the church piazza on festas or the well at sunset. If there is any news rife anywhere, it is to be heard from the sempstress sooner than from anyone else; if there is any advice wanted, she is the one whose advice is asked at least, if rarely taken. A more sympathetic person could not be with whom to gossip over all matters of personal interest, with whom to weigh the pros and cons in all affairs of female indecision, and perhaps the taking of advice rarely includes much that is more definite. Besides the family circle-that children of brothers and of sisters, boys and girls of all ages, have swelled to goodly proportions around her-many inhabitants, not only of this hamlet, but of others in the parish, have met together to-night. Some have brought their own supper from home to eat, standing or lounging on steps and wall, others content themselves only with taking their evening rest. Amongst the men, many do not even talk; Marrina and her crew do it for them. 'I never knew a man like you, Gian-Battista, for wearing out the knees of your breeches! I've patched this pair for you three or four times! (And this may clearly be discerned, for stuffs of more than one colour The Village Sempstress. "I never knew a man like you, Gian Battista, for wearing out the knees of your breeches.' " } |