The First of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates. Their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora. Leonora was her equal; they were her inferiors, and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm.
“If I win the bracelet, to-day,” said she to herself, “I will solicit the return of Leonora’s friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even the bracelet, and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me.” Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity. By constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable. So great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition.
Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education. Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter’s mind a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit which he justly deemed essential to the character of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth. What her father’s precepts inculcated, his example enforced; and even Cecilia’s virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female. All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.
Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female. Her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct. She had been habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield. Compliance in her seemed natural and graceful; yet notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia. She had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. The uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions.
By passive love we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend rather than anxious to oblige, which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.
Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character. It exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.
Without determining which species of love is the most flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our minds. We give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia’s companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.
Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia’s colour was red, Leonora’s white.
In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells; nothing talked of but the long expected event of the evening. Cecilia, following Leonora’s example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to their final determination.
They were both sitting together in Louisa’s room. Louisa was recovering from the measles. Everyone during her illness had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa, but Leonora’s want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them.
As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler who often used to come to the house. Downstairs they ran immediately, to ask Mrs. Villars’ permission to bring him into the hall. Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions. Then, first returning into the hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders.
“What would you be pleased to want, miss?” said the peddler; “I’ve all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts,” continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively.
“Oh!” said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, “these are not the things which I want. Have you any china figures? any mandarins?”
“Alack-a-day, miss, I had a great stock of that same chinaware; but now I’m quite out of them kind of things; but I believe,” said he, rummaging one of the deepest drawers, “I believe I have one left, and here it is.”
“Oh, that is the very thing! what’s its price?”
“Only three shillings, ma’am.” Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the peddler took out of his great-coat pocket a neat mahogany case. It was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps. It had besides, a small lock in the middle.
“What is that?” said Cecilia, eagerly.
“It’s only a china figure, miss, which I am going to carry to an elderly lady, who lives nigh hand, and who is mighty fond of such things.”
“Could you let me look at it?”
“And welcome, miss,” said he, and opened the case.
“Oh, goodness! how beautiful!” exclaimed Cecilia.
It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. “How I should like to give this to Louisa!” said she to herself; and, at last, breaking silence, “Did you promise it to the old lady?”
“Oh, no, miss, I didn’t promise it—she never saw it; and if so be that you’d like to take it, I’d make no more words about it.”
“And how much does it cost?”
“Why, miss, as to that, I’ll let you have it for half-a-guinea.”
Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and, emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings. Alas! there were but six shillings. “How provoking!” said she; “then I can’t have it. Where’s the mandarin? Oh, I have it,” said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust. “Is this the same that I had before?”
“Yes, miss, the very same,” replied the peddler, who, during this time, had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her money—it was of silver. “Why, ma’am,” said he, “since you’ve taken such a fancy to the piece, if you’ve a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take this here little box, if you care to part with it.”
Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. “No,” said Cecilia hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it.
“Oh, miss!” said he, returning it carelessly, “I hope there’s no offence. I meant but to serve you, that’s all. Such a rare piece of china-work has no cause to go a-begging,” added he. Then, putting the Flora deliberately into the case, and turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket; when, lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was preparing to depart.
“Oh, stay one minute!” said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a very warm conflict during the peddler’s harangue. “Louisa would so like this Flora,” said she, arguing with herself. “Besides, it would be so generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and she expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was. The gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her. Oh, yes! I will, and she will be so delighted! and then everybody will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten for ever.”
Here Cecilia’s hand moved, and she was just going to decide: “Oh, but stop,” said she to herself, “consider—Leonora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake. However, we have now quarrelled, and I dare say that she would not mind my parting with it. I’m sure that I should not care if she was to give away my keepsake, the smelling-bottle, or the ring which I gave her. Then what does it signify? Besides, is it not my own? and have I not a right to do what I please with it?”
At this moment, so critical for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened the door. She knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora’s becoming the prize of some higher bidder. “Here,” said she, hastily putting the box into the peddler’s hand, without looking at it; “take it, and give me the Flora.” Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently. She ran by, without seeming to mind any of her companions.
Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor, who will prevent their enjoying what they ill obtained.
In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own self-complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand to hand, each vying with the other in extolling the beauty of the gift and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with them, and even with their praise. From Louisa’s gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran upstairs to her room.
In the meantime, Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, the peddler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the very box which Cecilia had sold to him. Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia.
“I should like to have that box,” said she, “for it is like one of which I was very fond.”
The peddler named the price, and Leonora took the box. She intended to give it to little Louisa. On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat softly down by her bedside. Louisa opened her eyes.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” said Leonora.
“Oh, no. I didn’t hear you come in; but what have you got there?”
“Only a little box; would you like to have it? I bought on purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you, because it’s like that which I gave Cecilia.”
“Oh, yes! that out of which she used to give me Barbary drops. I am very much obliged to you; I always thought that exceedingly pretty, and this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can’t unscrew it; will you try?”
Leonora unscrewed it. “Goodness!” exclaimed Louisa, “this must be Cecilia’s box. Look, don’t you see a great L at the bottom of it?”
Leonora’s colour changed. “Yes,” she replied calmly, “I see that; but it is no proof that it is Cecilia’s. You know that I bought this box just now of the peddler.”
“That may be,” said Louisa; “but I remember scratching that L with my own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask her if she has lost her box—do,” repeated Louisa, pulling her by the ruffle, as she did not seem to listen.
Leonora, indeed, did not hear, for she was lost in thought. She was comparing circumstances, which had before escaped her attention. She recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall, without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed. She remembered that the peddler appeared unwilling to part with the box, and was going to put it again in his pocket with the halfpence. “And why should he keep it in his pocket, and not show it with his other things?” Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth, for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous.
“Louisa,” she began, but at this instant she heard a step, which, by its quickness, she knew to be Cecilia’s, coming along the passage. “If you love me, Louisa,” said Leonora, “say nothing about the box.”
“Nay, but why not? I daresay she had lost it.”
“No, my dear, I’m afraid she has not.” Louisa looked surprised. “But I have reasons for desiring you not to say anything about it.”
“Well, then, I won’t, indeed.”
Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good reception, and taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the mantlepiece, opposite to Louisa’s bed. “Dear, how beautiful!” cried Louisa, starting up.
“Yes,” said Cecilia, “and guess who it’s for.”
“For me, perhaps!” said the ingenuous Louisa.
“Yes, take it, and keep it, for my sake. You know that I broke your mandarin.”
“Oh, but this is a great deal prettier and larger than that.”
“Yes, I know it is; and I meant that it should be so. I should only have done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin.”
“Well,” replied Louisa, “and that would have been enough, surely; but what a beautiful crown of roses! and then that basket of flowers! they almost look as if I could smell them. Dear Cecilia, I’m very much obliged to you; but I won’t take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I’m sure you could not help that, and, besides, I should have broken it myself by this time. You shall give it to me entirely; and as your keepsake, I’ll keep it as long as I live.”
Louisa stopped short and coloured; the word keepsake recalled the box to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished. “But,” said she, looking up wistfully in Cecilia’s face, and holding the Flora doubtfully, “did you—”
Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave Louisa a look, which silenced her.
Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she neither perceived Leonora’s sign nor Louisa’s confusion, but continued showing off her present, by placing it in various situations, till at length she put it into the case, and laying it down with an affected carelessness upon the bed, “I must go now, Louisa. Good-bye,” said she, running up and kissing her; “but I’ll come again presently,” then, clapping the door after her she went. But as soon as the formentation of her spirits subsided, the sense of shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other sensations, rose uppermost in her mind. “What!” said she to herself, “is it possible that I have sold what I promised to keep for ever? and what Leonora gave me? and I have concealed it too, and have been making a parade of my generosity. Oh! what would Leonora, what would Louisa—what would everybody think of me, if the truth were known?”
Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in her own mind for some consoling idea. She began to compare her conduct with that of others of her own age; and at length, fixing her comparison upon her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she recollected that an almost similar circumstance had once happened to him, and that he had not only escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory, by an intrepid confession of his fault. Her father’s word to her brother, on the occasion, she also perfectly recollected.
“Come to me, George,” he said holding out his hand, “you are a generous, brave boy: they who dare to confess their faults will make great and good men.”
These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word men, which would have placed it in contradistinction to the word women. She willingly believed that the observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed her brother in merit if she owned a fault, which she thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess. “Yes, but,” said she, stopping herself, “how can I confess it? This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will be decided. Leonora or I shall win it. I have now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give up all my hopes—all that I have been labouring for this month past? Oh, I never can! If it were but to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate; but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it—well, why then I will—I think I will tell all—yes I will; I am determined,” said Cecilia.
Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unconstrained. “Surely,” said she to herself, “if Cecilia had done that which I suspect, she would not, she could not, look as she does.” But Leonora little knew the cause of her gaiety. Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession.
“Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will it be?” All eyes glanced first at Cecilia, and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled; Leonora blushed. “I see that it is not yet decided,” said Mrs. Villars; and immediately they ran upstairs, amidst confused whisperings.
Cecilia’s voice could be distinguished far above the rest. “How can she be so happy!” said Leonora to herself. “Oh Cecilia, there was a time when you could not have neglected me so! when we were always together the best of friends and companions; our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same! Surely she did once love me,” said Leonora; “but now she is quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake; and she would rather win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think so much superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my friendship for her whole life—yes, for her whole life, for I am sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh, that this bracelet had never been thought of, or that I were certain of her winning it; for I am sure that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather—a thousand times rather—that we were as we used to be than have all the glory in the world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please!—how candid she is!—how much she can improve herself! Let me be just, though she has offended me; she is wonderfully improved within this last month. For one fault, and that against myself, shall I forget all her merits?”
As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of her companions. They had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked softly at Louisa’s door. “Come in,” said Louisa; “I’m not asleep. Oh,” said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened; “I’m so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you all were making such a noise about. Have you forgot that the bracelet—”
“Oh, yes! is this the evening?” inquired Leonora.
“Well, here’s my white shell for you,” said Louisa. “I’ve kept it in my pocket this fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a great deal better.”
“I thank you, Louisa,” said Leonora, gratefully. “I will take your shell, and I shall value it as long as I live; but here is a red one, and if you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to Cecilia. I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves it.”
“Yes, if I could I would choose both of you,” said Louisa, “but you know I can only choose which I like the best.”
“If you mean, my dear Louisa,” said Leonora, “that you like me the best, I am very much obliged to you, for, indeed, I wish you to love me; but it is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain.”
“But why should it give her pain?” asked Louisa; “I don’t like her for being jealous of you.”
“Nay, Louisa, surely you don’t think Cecilia jealous? She only tries to excel, and to please; she is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more ambition. And it would really mortify her to lose this prize—you know that she proposed it herself. It has been her object for this month past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it.”
“But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?”
“Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such good friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love me again—I’m sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will again love me as a friend.”
Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, calling “Leonora! Leonora! will you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half-hour.”
Leonora smiled. “Well, Louisa,” said she, smiling, “will you promise me?”
“Oh, I am sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won’t give you the prize!” said the little Louisa, and the tears started into her eyes. “They love me, though, for all that,” said Leonora; “and as for the prize, you know whom I wish to have it.”
“Leonora! Leonora!” called her impatient companions; “don’t you hear us? What are you about?”
“Oh, she never will take any trouble about anything,” said one of the party; “let’s go away.”
“Oh, go, go! make haste!” cried Louisa; “don’t stay; they are so angry.”
“Remember, then, that you have promised me,” said Leonora, and she left the room.
During all this time, Cecilia had been in the garden with her companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize—the prize of superior talents and superior application—was not to be compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.
To employ her exuberant activity, Cecilia had been dragging branches of lilacs and laburnums, roses and sweet briar, to ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still at last to admire her works. Her companions all joined in loud applause. They were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of each individual. At last, “Where is Leonora?” cried one of them; and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call her.
Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her intolerably long. She was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed her. Even hope forsook her; and hope is a cordial which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled.
“The time is now come,” said Cecilia; “in a few moments all will be decided. In a few moments—goodness! How much do I hazard? If I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me? I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour! They are gone to seek for her. The moment she appears I shall be forgotten. What—what shall I do?” said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.
Such was Cecilia’s situation when Leonora, accompanied by her companions, opened the hall door. They most of them ran forwards to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia. “We are not rivals, but friends, I hope,” said she. Cecilia clasped her hand; but she was in too great agitation to speak.
The table was now set in the arbour—the vase was now placed in the middle. “Well!” said Cecilia, eagerly, “who begins?” Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the others successively. Cecilia’s emotion was hardly conceivable. “Now they are all in! Count them, Caroline!”
“One, two, three, four; the numbers are both equal.” There was a dead silence. “No, they are not,” exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward, and putting a shell into a vase. “I have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora.” Then, snatching the bracelet, “It is yours, Leonora,” said she; “take it, and give me back your friendship.” The whole assembly gave one universal clap and a general shout of applause.
“I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia,” said Leonora; “and do you then still love me as you used to do?”
“Oh, Leonora, stop! don’t praise me; I don’t deserve this,” said she, turning to her loudly applauding companions. “You will soon despise me. Oh, Leonora, you will never forgive me! I have deceived you; I have sold—”
At this instant, Mrs. Villars appeared. The crowd divided. She had heard all that passed, from her window. “I applaud your generosity, Cecilia,” said she, “but I am to tell you that, in this instance it is unsuccessful. You have not it in your power to give the prize to Leonora. It is yours. I have another vote to give to you. You have forgotten Louisa.”
“Louisa!” exclaimed Cecilia; “but surely, ma’am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does me.”
“She commissioned me, however,” said Mrs. Villars, “to give you a red shell; and you will find it in this box.”
Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death; it was the fatal box!
Mrs. Villars produced another box. She opened it; it contained the Flora. “And Louisa also desired me,” said she, “to return to you this Flora.” She put it into Cecilia’s hand. Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it. Leonora caught it.
“Oh, madam! Oh, Leonora!” exclaimed Cecilia; “now I have no hope left. I intended—I was just going to tell—”
“Dear Cecilia,” said Leonora, “you need not tell it me; I know it already; and I forgive you with all my heart.”
“Yes, I can prove to you,” said Mrs. Villars, “that Leonora has forgiven you. It is she who has given you the prize; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see her a little while ago; and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me what it was.
“‘Why, madam,’ said she, ‘Leonora has made me promise to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I don’t love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora. Besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.’ Whilst Louisa was speaking,” continued Mrs. Villars, “I saw this silver box lying on the bed. I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and how she came by it. ‘Indeed, madam,’ said Louisa, ‘I could have been almost certain that it was Cecilia’s; but Leonora gave it me, and she said that she bought it of the peddler this morning. If anybody else had told me so, I could not have believed them, because I remember the box so well; but I can’t help believing Leonora.’ But did not you ask Cecilia about it? said I. ‘No, madam,’ replied Louisa; ‘for Leonora forbade me. I guessed her reason.’ Well, said I, give me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia. ‘Then, madam,’ said she, ‘if I must give it her, pray do take the Flora, and return it to her first, that she may not think it is for that I do it.’”
“Oh, generous Louisa!” exclaimed Cecilia; “but, indeed, Leonora, I cannot take your shell.”
“Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it! you cannot refuse it; I only follow your example. As for the bracelet,” added Leonora, taking Cecilia’s hand, “I assure you I don’t wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it.”
“No,” said Cecilia, “indeed, I do not deserve it. Next to you, surely Louisa deserves it best.”
“Louisa! oh, yes, Louisa,” exclaimed everybody with one voice.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Villars, “and let Cecilia carry the bracelet to her; she deserves that reward. For one fault I cannot forget all your merits, Cecilia, nor, I am sure, will your companions.”
“Then, surely, not your best friend,” said Leonora, kissing her.
Everybody present was moved. They looked up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate admiration.
“Oh, Leonora, how I love you! and how I wish to be like you!” exclaimed Cecilia—“to be as good, as generous!”
“Rather wish, Cecilia,” interrupted Mrs. Villars, “to be as just; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent. Remember, that many of our sex are capable of great efforts—of making what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with prudence and good sense.”
THE LITTLE MERCHANTS.
CHAPTER I.
Chi di gallina nasce, convien che rozole.
As the old cock crows, so crows the young.
Those who have visited Italy give us an agreeable picture of the cheerful industry of the children of all ages in the celebrated city of Naples. Their manner of living and their numerous employments are exactly described in the following “Extract from a Traveller’s Journal.” [301]
“The children are busied in various ways. A great number of them bring fish for sale to town from Santa Lucia; others are very often seen about the arsenals, or wherever carpenters are at work, employed in gathering up the chips and pieces of wood; or by the sea-side, picking up sticks, and whatever else has drifted ashore, which, when their basket is full, they carry away.
“Children of two or three years old, who can scarcely crawl along upon the ground, in company with boys of five or six, are employed in this pretty trade. Hence they proceed with their baskets into the heart of the city, where in several places they form a sort of little market, sitting round with their stock of wood before them. Labourers, and the lower order of citizens, buy it of them to burn in the tripods for warming themselves, or to use in their scanty kitchens.
“Other children carry about for sale the water of the sulphurous wells, which, particularly in the spring season, is drunk in great abundance. Others again endeavour to turn a few pence by buying a small matter of fruit, of pressed honey, cakes, and comfits, and then, like little peddlers, offer and sell them to other children, always for no more profit than that they may have their share of them free of expense.
“It is really curious to see how an urchin, whose whole stock and property consist in a board and a knife, will carry about a water-melon, or a half roasted gourd, collect a troup of children round him, set down his board, and proceed to divide the fruit into small pieces among them.
“The buyers keep a sharp look out to see that they have enough for their little piece of copper; and the Lilliputian tradesmen act with no less caution as the exigencies of the case may require, to prevent his being cheated out of a morsel.”
The advantages of truth and honesty, and the value of a character for integrity, are very early felt amongst these little merchants in their daily intercourse with each other. The fair dealer is always sooner or later seen to prosper. The most cunning cheat is at last detected and disgraced.
Numerous instances of the truth of this common observation were remarked by many Neapolitan children, especially by those who were acquainted with the characters and history of Piedro and Francisco, two boys originally equal in birth, fortune and capacity, but different in their education, and consequently in their habits and conduct. Francisco was the son of an honest gardener, who, from the time he could speak, taught him to love to speak the truth, showed him that liars are never believed—that cheats and thieves cannot be trusted, and that the shortest way to obtain a good character is to deserve it.
Youth and white paper, as the proverb says, take all impressions. The boy profited much by his father’s precepts, and more by his example; he always heard his father speak the truth, and saw that he dealt fairly with everybody. In all his childish traffic, Francisco, imitating his parents, was scrupulously honest, and therefore all his companions trusted him—“As honest as Francisco,” became a sort of proverb amongst them.
“As honest as Francisco,” repeated Piedro’s father, when he one day heard this saying. “Let them say so; I say, ‘As sharp as Piedro’; and let us see which will go through the world best.” With the idea of making his son sharp he made him cunning. He taught him, that to make a good bargain was to deceive as to the value and price of whatever he wanted to dispose of; to get as much money as possible from customers by taking advantage of their ignorance or of their confidence. He often repeated his favourite proverb—“The buyer has need of a hundred eyes; the seller has need but of one.” [302] And he took frequent opportunities of explaining the meaning of this maxim to his son. He was a fisherman; and as his gains depended more upon fortune than upon prudence, he trusted habitually to his good luck. After being idle for a whole day, he would cast his line or his nets, and if he was lucky enough to catch a fine fish, he would go and show it in triumph to his neighbour the gardener.
“You are obliged to work all day long for your daily bread,” he would say. “Look here; I work but five minutes, and I have not only daily bread, but daily fish.”
Upon these occasions, our fisherman always forgot, or neglected to count, the hours and days which were wasted in waiting for a fair wind to put to sea, or angling in vain on the shore.
Little Piedro, who used to bask in the sun upon the sea-shore beside his father, and to lounge or sleep away his time in a fishing-boat, acquired habits of idleness, which seemed to his father of little consequence whilst he was but a child.
“What will you do with Piedro as he grows up, neighbour?” said the gardener. “He is smart and quick enough, but he is always in mischief. Scarcely a day has passed for this fortnight but I have caught him amongst my grapes. I track his footsteps all over my vineyard.”
“He is but a child yet, and knows no better,” replied the fisherman.
“But if you don’t teach him better now he is a child, how will he know when he is a man?” said the gardener.
“A mighty noise about a bunch of grapes, truly!” cried the fisherman: “a few grapes more or less in your vineyard, what does it signify?”
“I speak for your son’s sake, and not for the sake of my grapes,” said the gardener; “and I tell you again, the boy will not do well in the world, neighbour, if you don’t look after him in time.”
“He’ll do well enough in the world, you will find,” answered the fisherman, carelessly. “Whenever he casts my nets, they never come up empty. ‘It is better to be lucky than wise.’” [303a]
This was a proverb which Piedro had frequently heard from his father, and to which he most willingly trusted, because it gave him less trouble to fancy himself fortunate than to make himself wise.
“Come here, child,” said his father to him, when he returned home after the preceding conversation with the gardener; “how old are you, my boy?—twelve years old, is not it?”
“As old as Francisco, and older by six months,” said Piedro.
“And smarter and more knowing by six years,” said his father. “Here, take these fish to Naples, and let us see how you’ll sell them for me. Venture a small fish, as the proverb says, to catch a great one. [303b] I was too late with them at the market yesterday, but nobody will know but what they are just fresh out of the water, unless you go and tell them.”
“Not I; trust me for that; I’m not such a fool,” replied Piedro, laughing; “I leave that to Francisco. Do you know, I saw him the other day miss selling a melon for his father by turning the bruised side to the customer, who was just laying down the money for it, and who was a raw servant-boy, moreover—one who would never have guessed there were two sides to a melon, if he had not, as you say, father, been told of it?”
“Off with you to market. You are a droll chap,” said his father, “and will sell my fish cleverly, I’ll be bound. As to the rest, let every man take care of his own grapes. You understand me, Piedro?”
“Perfectly,” said the boy, who perceived that his father was indifferent as to his honesty, provided he sold fish at the highest price possible. He proceeded to the market, and he offered his fish with assiduity to every person whom he thought likely to buy it, especially to those upon whom he thought he could impose. He positively asserted to all who looked at his fish, that they were just fresh out of the water. Good judges of men and fish knew that he said what was false, and passed him by with neglect; but it was at last what he called good luck to meet with the very same young raw servant-boy who would have bought the bruised melon from Francisco. He made up to him directly, crying, “Fish! Fine fresh fish! fresh fish!”
“Was it caught to-day?” said the boy.
“Yes, this morning; not an hour ago,” said Piedro, with the greatest effrontery.
The servant-boy was imposed upon; and being a foreigner, speaking the Italian language but imperfectly, and not being expert at reckoning the Italian money, he was no match for the cunning Piedro, who cheated him not only as to the freshness, but as to the price of the commodity. Piedro received nearly half as much again for his fish as he ought to have done.
On his road homewards from Naples to the little village of Resina, where his father lived, he overtook Francisco, who was leading his father’s ass. The ass was laden with large panniers, which were filled with the stalks and leaves of cauliflowers, cabbages, broccoli, lettuces, etc.—all the refuse of the Neapolitan kitchens, which are usually collected by the gardeners’ boys, and carried to the gardens round Naples, to be mixed with other manure.
“Well filled panniers, truly,” said Piedro, as he overtook Francisco and the ass. The panniers were indeed not only filled to the top, but piled up with much skill and care, so that the load met over the animal’s back.
“It is not a very heavy load for the ass, though it looks so large,” said Francisco. “The poor fellow, however, shall have a little of this water,” added he, leading the ass to a pool by the roadside.
“I was not thinking of the ass, boy; I was not thinking of any ass, but of you, when I said, ‘Well filled panniers, truly!’ This is your morning’s work, I presume, and you’ll make another journey to Naples to-day, on the same errand, I warrant, before your father thinks you have done enough?”
“Not before my father thinks I have done enough, but before I think so myself,” replied Francisco.
“I do enough to satisfy myself and my father, too,” said Piedro, “without slaving myself after your fashion. Look here,” producing the money he had received for the fish; “all this was had for asking. It is no bad thing, you’ll allow, to know how to ask for money properly.”
“I should be ashamed to beg, or borrow either,” said Francisco.
“Neither did I get what you see by begging, or borrowing either,” said Piedro, “but by using my wits; not as you did yesterday, when, like a novice, you showed the bruised side of your melon, and so spoiled your market by your wisdom.”
“Wisdom I think it still,” said Francisco.
“And your father?” asked Piedro.
“And my father,” said Francisco.
“Mine is of a different way of thinking,” said Piedro. “He always tells me that the buyer has need of a hundred eyes, and if one can blind the whole hundred, so much the better. You must know, I got off the fish to-day that my father could not sell yesterday in the market—got it off for fresh just out of the river—got twice as much as the market price for it; and from whom, think you? Why, from the very booby that would have bought the bruised melon for a sound one if you would have let him. You’ll allow I’m no fool, Francisco, and that I’m in a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as I have begun.”
“Stay,” said Francisco; “you forgot that the booby you took in to-day will not be so easily taken in to-morrow. He will buy no more fish from you, because he will be afraid of your cheating him; but he will be ready enough to buy fruit from me, because he will know I shall not cheat him—so you’ll have lost a customer, and I gained one.”
“With all my heart,” said Piedro. “One customer does not make a market; if he buys no more from me, what care I? there are people enough to buy fish in Naples.”
“And do you mean to serve them all in the same manner?” asked Francisco.
“If they will be only so good as to give me leave,” said Piedro, laughing, and repeating his father’s proverb, “‘Venture a small fish to catch a large one.’” [306] He had learned to think that to cheat in making bargains was witty and clever.
“And you have never considered, then,” said Francisco, “that all these people will, one after another, find you out in time?”
“Ay, in time; but it will be some time first. There are a great many of them, enough to last me all the summer, if I lose a customer a day,” said Piedro.
“And next summer,” observed Francisco, “what will you do?”
“Next summer is not come yet; there is time enough to think what I shall do before next summer comes. Why, now, suppose the blockheads, after they had been taken in and found it out, all joined against me, and would buy none of our fish—what then? Are there no trades but that of a fisherman? In Naples, are there not a hundred ways of making money for a smart lad like me? as my father says. What do you think of turning merchant, and selling sugar-plums and cakes to the children in their market? Would they be hard to deal with, think you?”
“I think not,” said Francisco; “but I think the children would find out in time if they were cheated, and would like it as little as the men.”
“I don’t doubt them. Then in time I could, you know, change my trade—sell chips and sticks in the wood-market—hand about the lemonade to the fine folks, or twenty other things. There are trades enough, boy.”
“Yes, for the honest dealer,” said Francisco, “but for no other; for in all of them you’ll find, as my father says, that a good character is the best fortune to set up with. Change your trade ever so often, you’ll be found out for what you are at last.”
“And what am I, pray?” said Piedro, angrily. “The whole truth of the matter is, Francisco, that you envy my good luck, and can’t bear to hear this money jingle in my hand. Ay, stroke the long ears of your ass, and look as wise as you please. It’s better to be lucky than wise, as my father says. Good morning to you. When I am found out for what I am, or when the worst comes to the worst, I can drive a stupid ass, with his panniers filled with rubbish, as well as you do now, honest Francisco.”
“Not quite so well. Unless you were honest Francisco, you would not fill his panniers quite so readily.”.
This was certain, that Francisco was so well known for his honesty amongst all the people at Naples with whom his father was acquainted, that everyone was glad to deal with him; and as he never wronged anyone, all were willing to serve him—at least, as much as they could without loss to themselves: so that after the market was over, his panniers were regularly filled by the gardeners and others with whatever he wanted. His industry was constant, his gains small but certain, and he every day had more and more reason to trust to his father’s maxim—That honesty is the best policy.
The foreign servant lad, to whom Francisco had so honestly, or, as Piedro said, so sillily, shown the bruised side of the melon, was an Englishman. He left his native country, of which he was extremely fond, to attend upon his master, to whom he was still more attached. His master was in a declining state of health, and this young lad waited on him a little more to his mind than his other servants. We must, in consideration of his zeal, fidelity and inexperience, pardon him for not being a good judge of fish. Though he had simplicity enough to be easily cheated once, he had too much sense to be twice made a dupe. The next time he met Piedro in the market, he happened to be in company with several English gentlemen’s servants, and he pointed Piedro out to them all as an arrant knave. They heard his cry of “Fresh fish! fresh fish! fine fresh fish!” with incredulous smiles, and let him pass, but not without some expressions of contempt, though uttered in English, he tolerably well understood; for the tone of contempt is sufficiently expressive in all languages. He lost more by not selling his fish to these people than he had gained the day before by cheating the English booby. The market was well supplied, and he could not get rid of his cargo.
“Is not this truly provoking?” said Piedro, as he passed by Francisco, who was selling fruit for his father. “Look, my basket is as heavy as when I left home and look at ’em yourself, they really are fine fresh fish to-day and yet, because that revengeful booby told how I took him in yesterday, not one of yonder crowd would buy them; and all the time they really are fresh to-day!”
“So they are,” said Franscisco, “but you said so yesterday, when they were not; and he that was duped then, is not ready to believe you to-day. How does he know that you deserve it better?”
“He might have looked at the fish,” repeated Piedro; “they are fresh to-day. I am sure he need not have been afraid.”
“Ay,” said Francisco; “but as my father said to you once—the scalded dog fears cold water.” [308]
Here their conversation was interrupted by the same English lad, who smiled as he came up to Francisco, and taking up a fine pine-apple, he said, in a mixture of bad Italian and English—“I need not look at the other side of this; you will tell me if it is not as good as it looks. Name your price; I know you have but one, and that an honest one; and as to the rest, I am able and willing to pay for what I buy; that is to say, my master is, which comes to the same thing. I wish your fruit could make him well, and it would be worth its weight in gold to me, at least. We must have some of your grapes for him.”
“Is he not well?” inquired Francisco. “We must, then, pick out the best for him,” at the same time singling out a tempting bunch. “I hope he will like these; but if you could some day come as far as Resina (it is a village but a few miles out of town, where we have our vineyard), you could there choose for yourself, and pluck them fresh from the vines for your poor master.”
“Bless you, my good boy; I should take you for an Englishman, by your way of dealing. I’ll come to your village. Only write me down the name; for your Italian names slip through my head. I’ll come to the vineyard if it was ten miles off; and all the time we stay in Naples (may it not be so long as I fear it will!), with my master’s leave, which he never refuses me to anything that’s proper, I’ll deal with you for all our fruit, as sure as my name’s Arthur, and with none else, with my good will. I wish all your countrymen would take after you in honesty, indeed I do,” concluded the Englishman, looking full at Piedro, who took up his unsold basket of fish, looking somewhat silly, and gloomily walked off.
Arthur, the English servant, was as good as his word. He dealt constantly with Francisco, and proved an excellent customer, buying from him during the whole season as much fruit as his master wanted. His master, who was an Englishman of distinction, was invited to take up his residence, during his stay in Italy, at the Count de F.’s villa, which was in the environs of Naples—an easy walk from Resina. Francisco had the pleasure of seeing his father’s vineyard often full of generous visitors, and Arthur, who had circulated the anecdote of the bruised melon, was, he said, “proud to think that some of this was his doing, and that an Englishman never forgot a good turn, be it from a countryman or foreigner.”
“My dear boy,” said Francisco’s father to him, whilst Arthur was in the vineyard helping to tend the vines, “I am to thank you and your honesty, it seems, for our having our hands so full of business this season. It is fair you should have a share of our profits.”
“So I have, father, enough and enough, when I see you and mother going on so well. What can I want more?”
“Oh, my brave boy, we know you are a grateful, good son; but I have been your age myself; you have companions, you have little expenses of your own. Here; this vine, this fig-tree, and a melon a week next summer shall be yours. With these make a fine figure amongst the little Neapolitan merchants; and all I wish is that you may prosper as well, and by the same honest means, in managing for yourself, as you have done managing for me.”
“Thank you, father; and if I prosper at all, it shall be by those means, and no other, or I should not be worthy to be called your son.”
Piedro the cunning did not make quite so successful a summer’s work as did Francisco the honest. No extraordinary events happened, no singular instance of bad or good luck occurred; but he felt, as persons usually do, the natural consequences of his own actions. He pursued his scheme of imposing, as far as he could, upon every person he dealt with; and the consequence was, that at last nobody would deal with him.
“It is easy to outwit one person, but impossible to outwit all the world,” said a man [309] who knew the world at least as well as either Piedro or his father.
Piedro’s father, amongst others, had reason to complain. He saw his own customers fall off from him, and was told, whenever he went into the market, that his son was such a cheat there was no dealing with him. One day, when he was returning from the market in a very bad humour, in consequence of these reproaches, and of his not having found customers for his goods, he espied his smart son Piedro at a little merchant’s fruit-board devouring a fine gourd with prodigious greediness. “Where, glutton, do you find money to pay for these dainties?” exclaimed his father, coming close up to him, with angry gestures. Piedro’s mouth was much too full to make an immediate reply, nor did his father wait for any, but darting his hand into the youth’s pocket, pulled forth a handful of silver.
“The money, father,” said Piedro, “that I got for the fish yesterday, and that I meant to give you to-day, before you went out.”
“Then I’ll make you remember it against another time, sirrah!” said his father. “I’ll teach you to fill your stomach with my money. Am I to lose my customers by your tricks, and then find you here eating my all? You are a rogue, and everybody has found you out to be a rogue; and the worst of rogues I find you, who scruples not to cheat his own father.”
Saying these words, with great vehemence he seized hold of Piedro, and in the very midst of the little fruit-market gave him a severe beating. This beating did the boy no good; it was vengeance not punishment. Piedro saw that his father was in a passion, and knew that he was beaten because he was found out to be a rogue, rather than for being one. He recollected perfectly that his father once said to him: “Let everyone take care of his own grapes.”
Indeed it was scarcely reasonable to expect that a boy who had been educated to think that he might cheat every customer he could in the way of trade, should be afterwards scrupulously honest in his conduct towards the father whose proverbs encouraged his childhood in cunning.
Piedro writhed with bodily pain as he left the market after his drubbing, but his mind was not in the least amended. On the contrary, he was hardened to the sense of shame by the loss of reputation. All the little merchants were spectators of this scene, and heard his father’s words: “You are a rogue, and the worst of rogues, who scruples not to cheat his own father.”
These words were long remembered, and long did Piedro feel their effects. He once flattered himself that, when his trade of selling fish failed him, he could readily engage in some other; but he now found, to his mortification, that what Francisco’s father said proved true: “In all trades the best fortune to set up with is a good character.”
Not one of the little Neapolitan merchants would either enter into partnership with him, give him credit, or even trade with him for ready money. “If you would cheat your own father, to be sure you will cheat us,” was continually said to him by these prudent little people.
Piedro was taunted and treated with contempt at home and abroad. His father, when he found that his son’s smartness was no longer useful in making bargains, shoved him out of his way whenever he met him. All the food or clothes that he had at home seemed to be given to him grudgingly, and with such expressions as these: “Take that; but it is too good for you. You must eat this, now, instead of gourds and figs—and be thankful you have even this.”
Piedro spent a whole winter very unhappily. He expected that all his old tricks, and especially what his father had said of him in the market-place, would be soon forgotten; but month passed after month, and still these things were fresh in the memory of all who had known them.
It is not easy to get rid of a bad character. A very great rogue [311] was once heard to say, that he would, with all his heart, give ten thousand pounds for a good character, because he knew that he could make twenty thousand by it.
Something like this was the sentiment of our cunning hero when he experienced the evils of a bad reputation, and when he saw the numerous advantages which Francisco’s good character procured. Such had been Piedro’s wretched education, that even the hard lessons of experience could not alter its pernicious effects. He was sorry his knavery had been detected, but he still thought it clever to cheat, and was secretly persuaded that, if he had cheated successfully, he should have been happy. “But I know I am not happy now,” said he to himself one morning, as he sat alone disconsolate by the sea-shore, dressed in tattered garments, weak and hungry, with an empty basket beside him. His fishing-rod, which he held between his knees, bent over the dry sands instead of into the water, for he was not thinking of what he was about; his arms were folded, his head hung down, and his ragged hat was slouched over his face. He was a melancholy spectacle.
Francisco, as he was coming from his father’s vineyard with a large dish of purple and white grapes upon his head, and a basket of melons and figs hanging upon his arm, chanced to see Piedro seated in this melancholy posture. Touched with compassion, Francisco approached him softly; his footsteps were not heard upon the sands, and Piedro did not perceive that anyone was near him till he felt something cold touch his hand; he then started, and, looking up, saw a bunch of grapes, which Francisco was holding over his head.
“Eat them: you’ll find them very good, I hope,” said Francisco, with a benevolent smile.
“They are excellent—most excellent, and I am much obliged to you, Francisco,” said Piedro. “I was very hungry, and that’s what I am now, without anybody’s caring anything about it. I am not the favourite I was with my father, but I know it is all my own fault.”
“Well, but cheer up,” said Francisco; “my father always says, ‘One who knows he has been in fault, and acknowledges it, will scarcely be in fault again.’ Yes, take as many figs as you will,” continued he; and held his basket closer to Piedro, who, as he saw, cast a hungry eye upon one of the ripe figs.
“But,” said Piedro, after he had taken several, “shall not I get you into a scrape by taking so many? Won’t your father be apt to miss them?”
“Do you think I would give them to you if they were not my own?” said Francisco, with a sudden glance of indignation.
“Well, don’t be angry that I asked the question; it was only from fear of getting you into disgrace that I asked it.”
“It would not be easy for anybody to do that, I hope,” said Francisco, rather proudly.
“And to me less than anybody,” replied Piedro, in an insinuating tone, “I, that am so much obliged to you!”
“A bunch of grapes, and a few figs, are no mighty obligation,” said Francisco, smiling; “I wish I could do more for you. You seem, indeed, to have been very unhappy of late. We never see you in the markets as we used to do.”
“No; ever since my father beat me, and called me rogue before all the children there, I have never been able to show my face without being gibed at by one or t’other. If you would but take me along with you amongst them, and only just seem my friend, for a day or two, or so, it would quite set me up again; for they all like you.”
“I would rather be than seem your friend, if I could,” said Francisco.
“Ay, to be sure; that would be still better,” said Piedro, observing that Francisco, as he uttered his last sentence, was separating the grapes and other fruits into two equal divisions. “To be sure I would rather you would be than seem a friend to me; but I thought that was too much to ask at first, though I have a notion, notwithstanding I have been so unlucky lately—I have a notion you would have no reason to repent of it. You would find me no bad hand, if you were to try, and take me into partnership.”
“Partnership!” interrupted Francisco, drawing back alarmed; “I had no thoughts of that.”
“But won’t you? can’t you?” said Piedro, in a supplicating tone; “can’t you have thoughts of it? You’d find me a very active partner.”
Franscisco still drew back, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. He was embarrassed; for he pitied Piedro, and he scarcely knew how to point out to him that something more is necessary in a partner in trade besides activity, and that is honesty.
“Can’t you?” repeated Piedro, thinking that he hesitated from merely mercenary motives. “You shall have what share of the profits you please.”
“I was not thinking of the profits,” said Francisco; “but without meaning to be ill-natured to you, Piedro, I must say that I cannot enter into any partnership with you at present; but I will do what, perhaps, you will like as well,” said he, taking half the fruit out of his basket; “you are heartily welcome to this; try and sell it in the children’s fruit market. I’ll go on before you, and speak to those I am acquainted with, and tell them you are going to set up a new character, and that you hope to make it a good one.”
“Hey, shall I! Thank you for ever, dear Francisco,” cried Piedro, seizing his plentiful gift of fruit. “Say what you please for me.”
“But don’t make me say anything that is not true,” said Francisco, pausing.
“No, to be sure not,” said Piedro; “I do mean to give no room for scandal. If I could get them to trust me as they do you, I should be happy indeed.”
“That is what you may do, if you please,” said Francisco. “Adieu, I wish you well with all my heart; but I must leave you now, or I shall be too late for the market.”
CHAPTER II.
Chi va piano va sano, e anché lontano.
Fair and softly goes far in a day.
Piedro had now an opportunity of establishing a good character. When he went into the market with his grapes and figs, he found that he was not shunned or taunted as usual. All seemed disposed to believe in his intended reformation, and to give him a fair trial.
These favourable dispositions towards him were the consequence of Francisco’s benevolent representations. He told them that he thought Piedro had suffered enough to cure him of his tricks, and that it would be cruelty in them, because he might once have been in fault, to banish him by their reproaches from amongst them, and thus to prevent him from the means of gaining his livelihood honestly.
Piedro made a good beginning, and gave what several of the younger customers thought excellent bargains. His grapes and figs were quickly sold, and with the money that he got for them he the next day purchased from a fruit dealer a fresh supply; and thus he went on for some time, conducting himself with scrupulous honesty, so that he acquired some credit among his companions. They no longer watched him with suspicious eyes. They trusted to his measures and weights, and they counted less carefully the change which they received from him.
The satisfaction he felt from this alteration in their manners was at first delightful to Piedro; but in proportion to his credit, his opportunities of defrauding increased; and these became temptations which he had not the firmness to resist. His old manner of thinking recurred.
“I make but a few shillings a day, and this is but slow work,” said he to himself. “What signifies my good character, if I make so little by it?”
Light gains, and frequent, make a heavy purse, [314] was one of Francisco’s proverbs. But Piedro was in too great haste to get rich to take time into his account. He set his invention to work, and he did not want for ingenuity, to devise means of cheating without running the risk of detection. He observed that the younger part of the community were extremely fond of certain coloured sugar plums, and of burnt almonds.
With the money he had earned by two months’ trading in fruit he laid in a large stock of what appeared to these little merchants a stock of almonds and sugar-plums, and he painted in capital gold coloured letters upon his board, “Sweetest, largest, most admirable sugar-plums of all colours ever sold in Naples, to be had here; and in gratitude to his numerous customers, Piedro adds to these, ‘Burnt almonds gratis.’”.
This advertisement attracted the attention of all who could read; and many who could not read heard it repeated with delight. Crowds of children surrounded Piedro’s board of promise, and they all went away the first day amply satisfied. Each had a full measure of coloured sugar-plums at the usual price, and along with these a burnt almond gratis. The burnt almond had such an effect upon the public judgment, that it was universally allowed that the sugar-plums were, as the advertisement set forth, the largest, sweetest, most admirable ever sold in Naples; though all the time they were, in no respect, better than any other sugar-plums.
It was generally reported that Piedro gave full measure—fuller than any other board in the city. He measured the sugar-plums in a little cubical tin box; and this, it was affirmed, he heaped up to the top, and pressed down before he poured out the contents into the open hands of his approving customers. This belief, and Piedro’s popularity, continued longer even than he had expected; and, as he thought his sugar-plums had secured their reputation with the generous public, he gradually neglected to add burnt almonds gratis.
One day a boy of about ten years old passed carelessly by, whistling as he went along, and swinging a carpenter’s rule in his hand. “Ha! what have we here?” cried he, stopping to read what was written on Piedro’s board. “This promises rarely. Old as I am, and tall of my age, which makes the matter worse, I am still as fond of sugar-plums as my little sister, who is five years younger than I. Come, Signor, fill me quick, for I’m in haste to taste them, two measures of the sweetest, largest, most admirable sugar-plums in Naples—one measure for myself and one for my little Rosetta.”
“You’ll pay for yourself and your sister, then,” said Piedro, “for no credit is given here.”
“No credit do I ask,” replied the lively boy; “when I told you I loved sugar-plums, did I tell you I loved them, or even my sister, so well as to run in debt for them? Here’s for myself, and here’s for my sister’s share,” said he, laying down his money; “and now for the burnt almonds gratis, my good fellow.”
“They are all out; I have been out of burnt almonds this great while,” said Piedro.
“Then why are they in your advertisement here?” said Carlo.
“I have not had time to scratch them out of the board.”
“What! not when you have, by your own account, been out of them a great while? I did not know it required so much time to blot out a few words—let us try”; and as he spoke, Carlo, for that was the name of Piedro’s new customer, pulled a bit of white chalk out of his pocket, and drew a broad score across the line on the board which promised burnt almonds gratis.
“You are most impatient,” said Piedro; “I shall have a fresh stock of almonds to-morrow.”
“Why must the board tell a lie to-day?”
“It would ruin me to alter it,” said Piedro.
“A lie may ruin you, but I could scarcely think the truth could.”
“You have no right to meddle with me or my board,” said Piedro, put off his guard, and out of his usual soft voice of civility, by this last observation. “My character, and that of my board, are too firmly established now for any chance customer like you to injure.”
“I never dreamed of injuring you or anyone else,” said Carlo—“I wish, moreover, you may not injure yourself. Do as you please with your board, but give me my sugar-plums, for I have some right to meddle with those, having paid for them.”
“Hold out your hand, then.”
“No, put them in here, if you please; put my sister’s, at least, in here; she likes to have them in this box: I bought some for her in it yesterday, and she’ll think they’ll taste the better out of the same box. But how is this? your measure does not fill my box nearly; you give us very few sugar-plums for our money.”