The Watercolourist (9 page)

St John’s Wort is in bloom during the period of the feast. Bianca has an idea, voices it, and it is approved. Her role is to prepare dozens of
boutonnières
: a cluster of
the little yellow flowers bound in ivy shoots. She sends out troops of children to search for the smallest ivy –
only the ends of the branches
,
about this long
,
no more
than that
,
be careful not to cut yourselves
,
don’t run with scissors in your hand
, and so on. Despite Nanny’s worrying and the devastating pruning job, the
mission is completed. When the ladies and gentlemen arrive, the children present them with these
boutonnières
, sprayed with water to appear fresh, from two trays in the foyer. The
guests, of course, remark on the children’s growth before pinning the gifts to their chests.

‘Oh, how big you’ve got, Giulietta. You look like a young lady.’

‘And is this Enrico? He looks like his grandmother. What a beautiful boy.’

Nanny watches the children from behind a pillar, ready to sweep up her prey as soon as the last guests make their entrance. The gates close, keeping out the local peasants, who are travelling to
their own festival in the village piazza, and who stop to watch the arrivals. They hang onto the gate and spy for a while on the gentlefolk and their painted carriages, neatly assembled along the
gravel drive like a collection of exotic insects.

‘See that one? That means Berlingieri is here, too. That light blue and black carriage is from Poma. Can you see the family crest on its door?’

Bianca watches the townspeople and listens to their voices, the rise and fall of their strange dialect, so difficult to understand. Once the soirée here is over, Pia and Minna will head
to the festival in town. They have been talking about it for days. They will let their hair down and dance like lunatics, they say. Whether it is her wild streak or simply her impetuousness, Bianca
knows that eventually her feet will lead her there too. The urge is irresistible. But not yet. The evening is about to commence. She greets the guests and leads them towards the refreshments,
illuminated by a fringe of lanterns.

La Farfalla
is Don Titta’s most recent and well-known literary work. It is so popular that even Bianca has heard of it. The master of the house recites some
appropriate verses, even as moths flit about them rather than the butterfly of the title. When he concludes, he bows and basks in the applause.

‘You’ve given us all a little flutter of excitement, Titta!’ says a beautiful lady in pale rose, causing her friends to laugh.

‘You must have swallowed a Lepidoptera,’ he answers back.

‘Oh, how horrid! You’re a Lepidoptera.’ More laughter follows.

‘Unfortunately, dear Adele, the butterfly is a female.’

‘Well, next time write about dogs then,’ says Young Count Bernocchi, strutting like a peacock to the front of the room.

The women in the kitchen, poets by association, have put Bianca on her guard when it comes to the young count, with a memorable verse:

With this introduction preceding him, Bianca is instinctively cautious. Young Count Bernocchi is definitely not handsome. He is short with an enormous belly. He wears a horrible, outdated white
wig that makes his forehead look excessively broad. And the socially inexpert Bianca suddenly finds herself standing next to him. As the guests begin to move off in different directions, he corners
her in the room, with the intention of keeping her there for some time.

‘So, Miss Bianca, have you grown accustomed to the wilderness? You’re surely used to big cities: London, Paris . . .’

‘Yes, I have been there,’ Bianca replies curtly and almost impolitely. Her short response doesn’t offer him anything to build on. She isn’t trying to be rude, though, she
simply lacks confidence. They have just been introduced to each other but he already seems to know a lot about her. Of course, the opposite is also true, but at least Bianca has sense enough not to
show it. The diminutive that precedes his name is a joke: despite his advanced age, he still has not inherited his father’s position as count. This father, the servants have told her, clings
to dear life with his teeth. So even though he is past forty, Young Count Bernocchi seems frozen in eternal adolescence.

He inspects her through an eyeglass that is so out of fashion it is deeply comical. It surely isn’t often that someone cuts him short. He furrows his brow and continues, as though nothing
has happened.

‘Vienna, Turin, Rome . . . In my opinion, the Grand Tour is nothing more than a grandiose invention. It allows for European
fainéants
to continue to practise the activities
they enjoy most. It prevents them from getting involved in the fields of humanities and economics, which they should leave to people summoned to that duty – and the true engine of the world
– and it gives them the opportunity to dissolve a giant portion of their assets into travel, hotels, rent and thoughtless purchases of mediocre works of art . . . Actually, this healthy
circulation of money does quite a bit of good.’

‘Didn’t you travel, too, in your youth?’ Tommaso suddenly appears at her side.

Bianca senses a slight tension in his tone, held in check by politeness. The phrase ‘your youth’ is actually a slight. Clearly Bernocchi cares a great deal about his appearance, but
his excessive regard for it only highlights the defects of his age. His over-enjoyment of food and wine has led to puffy features and skin coloured by a reddish network of veins.

‘But of course,’ he answers calmly. ‘And, rightly so; I include myself in the category of drones of which I speak. Let’s just say that I have always had the good sense
not to consider myself destined for great accomplishments and have been deaf to the callings of the Muses, who can do great harm if summoned forth by the wrong person.’

If this offhand comment is intended for Tommaso, he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he offers Bianca his arm and they move off. Disgruntled, Bernocchi follows the couple to the centre of
the sitting room. There everyone is seated, attentive, and ready to resume the show. Donna Julie seems lost in one of her daydreams. Innes’s long fingers fiddle impatiently with the hems of
his trousers. He provides silent company to the old priest, who appears either intimidated or profusely bored, or maybe a bit of both, thinks Bianca. His big white head droops forward over his
threadbare tunic as though he is inspecting a strange landscape.

When Pia enters the room with a tray of refreshments, the old priest is shaken out of his stupor. A beautiful smile, affectionate and warm, spreads across his worn face. A grandfatherly
expression, Bianca thinks. Pia is silent. After depositing her tray on a small table, she takes a step back to make room for Minna, then responds to the priest’s gaze with a kind smile. At
times she seems to go back to being a child, the way she likely was before her work aroused an endless guile within her. Right now she looks like an infant who wants to take her old
guardian’s hand and let herself be guided. But of course she cannot. The moment passes. Pia bows, turns around and disappears. A smile lingers for a few more seconds on the old man’s
face until a glass is forced into his hand and he comes back to his senses.

Bianca is not the only one to have noticed the exchange. Donna Clara, for whom Innes has given up his seat, turns to the pious man.

‘Did you see how grown up your student has become?’

‘Yes,’ Don Dionisio says, sipping his drink.

‘There’s not a holy dove story there, is there, Father?’ Young Count Bernocchi asks, stifling a yawn. ‘Charity is best when we practise it on ourselves, Donna Clara. At
least that way we don’t risk delusions.’

Donna Julie shoots him a glance.

‘Do you know that Pia reads stories to the girls? She plays with them and cares for them too. She’s so precious to us, our Pia.’

‘Do you mean to say that she even knows how to read? How is this possible?’ Bernocchi asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘And why not?’ Don Dionisio says, putting his glass down on the tray excitedly and with a dangerous rattle. ‘Pia is a girl just like any other. And she’s quick to
learn.’

‘Don’t tell me she knows Greek and Latin, too,’ Bernocchi says with a smile.

‘A bit, actually,’ retorts Don Dionisio, before withdrawing into a hostile silence.

‘Ah, how generous and enlightened contemporary Milan is! Not only does it take in, raise and feed orphaned children, it also follows them step by step down the road of life, providing them
with a higher education which will certainly come in handy when they are milking cows, raking hay and waxing the floors! Even the great Rousseau entrusted his bastard children to public care. And
who better than he, with his illustrious work to prove it, to know the best way to raise a child?’

‘Oh, you . . . you speak nonsense. And anyway, Rousseau was wrong.’ Donna Julie speaks quickly, animatedly, as if a flame of thought has been lit from deep inside. She casts a
feverish look at Bernocchi. She is no longer the poised, invisible creature she usually is. ‘Rousseau was a monster to force poor Thérèse to give up her children. They ought to
remain with their parents. They ought to live with them, enjoy their affection, receive kisses and spankings alike . . . only in this way will they learn to love: by example. Isn’t this true,
my dear husband?’

Don Titta bows his head in agreement. Bianca watches Donna Julie attentively as she recomposes herself, the colour in her cheeks fading. Never has she spoken with such vehemence.

‘I know you have your ideas, Donna Julie,’ Bernocchi retorts. ‘You even nursed your children yourself, isn’t that true? Or at least, that’s what people said. I must
say that I never saw you do it, but I would have liked to . . . you, the most spiritual of women, engaged in such an animalistic act. What a strange spectacle that must have been.’

‘It wasn’t for the public,’ says Don Titta, frowning.

‘Come, come,’ Donna Clara interrupts, throwing her hands in the air. ‘We don’t want to start a fight on account of that boring man, Rousseau.’

She laughs her full-bodied laugh, throaty and frivolous.

‘Donna Clara, you will never change,’ Bernocchi speaks gallantly. ‘You always were the queen of the salon.’ As soon as he says this, though, he bites his lip, aware of
the involuntary offence that does not go unnoticed.

‘Oh, yes, dear Bernocchi. Those were good times. Now vanished forever.’ She sighs and puffs out her taffeta chest, and with another gesture – her hands are never still –
she shoos away a thought. ‘But we are all much simpler and happier now. A little wild, but happy. Isn’t that right, Julie? Isn’t that right, my son?’

‘Really, you are very special,’ says Annina Maffei, a dark-haired lady in an intricate dress. ‘You’ve created your own entourage. You pride yourself on being simple and
rustic, but deep down you are very unique. You have a governess for the children, whom you refer to as Nanny even though she’s French. You have dear Stuart for English, which, if you
don’t mind my saying, is an incomprehensible and violent language, worse than German. You even have a domestic painter and a poet in residence. Everyone in Milan gossips about you. And here
you all are, hiding out. What I would do to bring you to a show at La Scala!’

Donna Clara seizes on this comment.

‘Have you seen the most recent performance by Signorina Galli? How is she?’

‘Signorina Brignani is far better, in my modest opinion,’ replies Bernocchi. ‘Signorina Galli is always the same. Exquisite and angelic, a little too much so. Signorina
Brignani is small, exotic and spicy . . . if you know what I mean,’ he adds, looking for signs of understanding from the men. ‘But anything’s better than the sylph-like doldrums
of Signorina Pallarini.’

Tommaso nods with an all-too brief smile. Innes contemplates a corolla of tulips in a vase on a table behind him. Don Titta assumes that distanced stare which is his usual defence against the
world. Don Dionisio, the old priest, is immersed in his own private meditations, which look dangerously similar to sleep. And Bernocchi is vexed: he hates it when his quips fall flat. So he stares
at Bianca, cocking his head slightly to one side and wetting his lips lasciviously. Despite herself, she blushes. A second later, his gaze drifts over to Pia, who ought to have been dismissed by
now but who stands staring at Contessa Maffei’s too ornate but nonetheless extremely enchanting gown. Pia neither notices Bernocchi nor feels his gaze on her, which even from a distance
lingers a little too long.