The Blind Goddess

by VITTORIA DI SERMONETA

IT happened in Rome, during the days of Mussolini’s power. Miss Julia Duncan and her guest, the old Marchesa del Carmine, had just sat down to luncheon in the former’s apartment in Rome when a violent clamor of passionate female voices arose, proceeding from the kitchen and penetrating to the sanctity of the dining room. Miss Julia, dismayed, stared at her faithful butler Giuseppe, who shook his head and departed on a punitive expedition towards the back premises. But, strangely enough, his voice was heard added to the others in shrill exclamations, and when he returned to where the two ladies, with unfolded napkins, sat waiting for their risotto ai fegatini, he was in a state of excitement bordering on collapse.

“Signora!” he panted. “Something terrible has happened!”

Miss Duncan, who was gray-haired and eminently respectable, turned quite pale. She had come to Italy as a tourist soon after the First World War and had fallen deeply in love with the whole country. After wandering about from hotel to hotel in Milan, Bologna, Firenze, Perugia, Lucca, and many other towns, like a bee in a herbaceous border, she finally settled down in Rome; and, as she adored local color and disliked everything modern, she rented a small apartment in an old Palazzo.

The plumbing and the sanitary arrangements were very sketchy and the geyser in the shabby bathroom blew up periodically with a truly frightening explosion, but the drawing room was vast, with a lofty ceiling exquisitely decorated with frescoes. On a vine-covered trellis, festooned with pale-green and purple grapes, peacocks and monkeys were pursued by agile amorini, while small birds flew across the spaces of azure sky. This ceiling gave Miss Duncan much pleasure and she never failed to point out the quaintest monkey and the prettiest amorino to her visitors.

Her chief pride was neither of these, however, but her brother, who was a bishop. She talked of him whenever it was possible to bring him into the conversation, and it was remarkable how often this occurred. Whether you spoke of cabbages or kings, Miss Duncan would begin: “As my brother the Bishop wrote to me the other day— ” and she was off, perfectly happy, vaunting his sagacity and saintliness.

It was therefore natural, when the faithful Giuseppe was about to announce a catastrophe, that her thoughts should fly to the person she cared for most.

“My brother the Bishop— ” she faltered, and could say no more.

“No, no,” groaned Giuseppe, “it is Maddalena. What a calamity for us all, che disgrazia!”

“Just my luck!” thought the old Marchesa, who knew that Maddalena was the cook.

Miss Duncan rose from her chair. “Has she been taken ill, poor thing?” she exclaimed. “I must go to her.”

But the butler threw out his hands.

“There is nothing to be done, it is too late,” he answered, and Miss Duncan sank back half fainting.

“Not dead?” she whispered.

“Signora, what an idea! She is perfectly well, but she forgot to play at the Lotto yesterday.

Miss Duncan did not know what he was talking about, but the Marchesa del Carmine was suddenly galvanized into intense interest. She turned her ferret nose in the direction of the butler.

“And did her numbers come out?” she inquired eagerly.

“Every one of them, Signora Marchesa, all four! It would have been the quaterna, just think! She was going to play ten lire for herself and five lire each for Lisetta and myself. We had given her the money to do so. But when she went out marketing yesterday, it rained so hard she hurried home and forgot to pass by the Banco di Lotto. Che disgrazia!”

“It is a real disgrazia,” said the Marchesa with awed sympathy. “You would all have been rich today.”

Giuseppe assented; then remembering his duties he braced himself, wiped his forehead, and vanished behind the screen, reappearing shortly afterwards with a steaming dish of risotto.

“What on earth does he mean?” asked Miss Duncan.

“ Do you mean to say you have never heard of the Lotto, mia cara? It is the state lottery, and a very great number of people play it every week.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” murmured the British spinster.

“It’s like this: if you choose two numbers and they come out, you get a small sum and that is called an ambo; if you guess three right it is a terno and you win a great deal more; but if you are lucky enough to play four numbers and they all come out, it is the quaterna — which very rarely occurs — and you win an enormous sum. Of course your winnings are in proportion to what you stake.” The Marchesa looked up at Giuseppe, who by now was presenting her with the dish of rice. “Who gave the cook those numbers?” she inquired.

“Her dead mother three nights ago,” answered Giuseppe sorrowfully. “It would have been the quatema secca, too.”

“Secca!” screamed the Marchesa. “Maria santissima!”

“Yes, Signora Marchesa. Maddalena dreamed of her mother on Wednesday. The good soul came to ask her daughter if she was happy and she said yes, but that she would like to have more money, and added: ‘Give me some numbers to play at the Lotto.’ So her mother gave her four numbers.”

The Marchesa was so shocked that she was unable to swallow her rice. “Do you mean to say that after that she did not play them?”

“The poor woman has no head,” said Giuseppe, “and that has been our ruin. When she told us of her dream, we knew it meant a fortune for us all. It is so very rare that someone in a dream gives you four numbers, is it not, Signora Marchesa?”

“Very, and if they do, one seldom can remember them next morning; one should always sleep with a pencil and paper near one’s bed.”

“The Signora Marchesa is right. This was so clear that we felt it was a genuine message, and then that poor fool forgot to stop at the Lotto and play! ”

“It is incredible!” said the Marchesa, and Giuseppe sighed gustily.

2

WHEN their guest left, the butler made a formal apology to Miss Duncan. He was an excellent servant, well trained and friendly, as all Italians are, and he felt remorseful that all this excitement had disturbed the Signora Mees Duncan’s luncheon. He never called her the Signorina Duncan, as he considered it too frivolous a title for a dignified lady who was sister to a bishop.

“It didn’t really matter, Giuseppe,” said Miss Duncan, graciously accepting his apology. “The subject seemed to interest the Marchesa very much. Do you often play the Lotto?”

“One lira every Saturday morning, Signora. I have done so all my life, and once, in 1907, I won a terno. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I think I must go and tell Maddalena how sorry I am for her,” said Miss Duncan, who was very fond of her three servants.

There seemed to be a reception, almost of an official character, going on in the kitchen. Two handsome youths in gray-green breeches and black shirts wheeled about and flung up their right arms in the Fascist salute as she opened the door.

“They are my brother and my cousin,” said the little housemaid.

“Already in the Army?” asked Miss Duncan.

“Not quite, Signora, they are still Avanguardisti.”

A boy of about twelve, also in uniform, stepped forward and saluted smartly. “This Balilla is my son,” said Giuseppe, “and this Giovane Italiana is my daughter.” He pushed forward a little girl dressed in a white shirt and black skirt with a becoming cap. “And this is my brother Antonio. He is in the Milizia.”

A middle-aged man, with a decided paunch, rose from his chair. He was also in uniform. Miss Duncan shook hands all round, and then a very small boy indeed popped out from behind Maddalena’s petticoats. He was a toddler of six, but he also wore uniform and threw up his right arm.

“My niece’s son: he is a Figlio della Lupa,” said the cook sadly, still thinking of her lost fortune. The Son of the Wolf, untroubled by financial cares, grinned chubbily.

“There was a review in the Via dell’ Impero this morning,” explained Giuseppe, “and they all had to take part in it. They came on here afterwards to tell us how well they had marched past the Duce. They think he was very pleased with them.”

“I’m sure he was,” said kind Miss Duncan. “Maddalena, I’m very sorry to hear of your bad luck.”

Maddalena’s sobs rose noisily to the surface once more. “The good soul of my mother will be so angry with me!” she wailed. “She will never trouble to come back again and give me other numbers!”

“She might,” said Miss Duncan soothingly. “She may not mind just one mistake.” But all the others looked extremely doubtful.

“If only it had not rained and if I had not worn my new coat that has just been turned, I would not have forgotten.” The tears were rolling down Maddalena’s cheeks.

“Well, it’s no good worrying about it any more,” remarked Miss Duncan. “Why don’t you take all these young people to the cinema? I’ll pay for the tickets.”

So they all eventually departed en masse, smiling, thanking, saluting, and Miss Duncan soon afterwards went out herself to leave her card at the British Embassy.

The story of the missed fortune had made a great impression on Miss Duncan, and for two or three days she repressed a growing desire to try her own luck at the Lotto.

One evening when her butler came into the drawing room to bring her the usual tumbler of hot water with a slice of lemon, which she enjoyed sipping just before bedtime, she plucked up courage to say: —

“Do you know, Giuseppe, I think it would amuse me to play at the Lotto this week.”

It was a relief to find that he received this announcement as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Certainly, Signora. If you write down the numbers for me I will take them to the Banco myself.”

So the worst was over, but Miss Duncan did not understand how the Lotto worked, and Giuseppe had to give her further information on the subject. He fetched last Saturday’s newspaper and found the sheet containing the Lotto results of that day. They both put on their spectacles and the two gray heads bent over the Giornale d’Italia together.

“Look, Signora,” said Giuseppe, pointing at this announcement: —

LOTTO PUBLICO

“You see, the numbers are extracted in eight different towns. You can play on ‘all the extractions,’ which gives you eight times as many chances to win, but of course then you get less. But if you choose only one ‘wheel,’ as we call it, or town, and if your numbers come out and you have guessed right, you win eight times more. That was the terrible thing that happened to us all the other day: Maddalena’s mother had distinctly told her to play the four numbers on the wheel of Rome, and it would have been the quaterna secca. It is almost impossible to get.”

“Then must I choose a town as well as the numbers?” asked Miss Duncan anxiously.

“I don’t think so,” said Giuseppe thoughtfully. “It is so rare that one can guess the right one. I would play ‘all the extractions’ to begin with, if I were the Signora.”

So she followed his advice and wrote down the first three numbers that came into her head, 6, 12, 17, and handed the slip of paper together with a five-lire piece to her butler.

3

THE next few days passed with a sense of pleasurable anticipation. As Giuseppe had very rightly said, it gave one something to look forward to. Miss Duncan basked in the sunshine of the Pincio in the morning, paid her little visits in the afternoon, and knitted cozily in her armchair in the evening, with the constant thought at the back of her mind that something nice might happen on Saturday.

And it did. On Saturday the butler burst into the drawing room with the Giornale d’Italia in his hand.

“Signora!” he announced with intense delight. “You have won your terno. The numbers came out at Bari.”

There it was m black and white: —

The line contained her three numbers; it was wonderful.

“And if the Signora had only thought of one number more, say 39, it would have been the quaterna! And if I had thought of Bari, it would have been the quaterna secca! I should have done so, for I had an uncle who died ten years ago and who kept a restaurant there. Peccato!”

All the same, Miss Duncan won 2666 lire. Giuseppe went off to fetch her winnings and she gave a hundred lire to each of her three servants, so everyone was happy.

After this successful start, gambling at the Lotto became a regular habit with Miss Duncan. She risked only small sums, usually trying two or three different combinations for the terno, and it seemed as though Saturdays never came round fast enough — it was so exciting looking up the numbers in the paper or seeing them posted up over the door of the little Banco di Lotto offices. But after the first day, luck deserted her and poor Miss Duncan never managed to win again.

Giuseppe was anxious and sympathetic. He said it seemed as though they were doing it on purpose.

“The Signora should not choose any number that comes into her head,” he finally advised, forgetting that it was by that method she had won before. “Everything that happens is connected with a number, and it is all recorded in print. With the Signora’s permission I will lend her the book.”

He left the room and presently returned with a much thumbed paper volume that he presented ceremoniously on a salver. Miss Duncan picked it up gingerly. Its title was: Il libro dei Sogni ossia l’Eco della Fortuna, per i giuocatori di Lotto — “The book of Dreams or the Echo of Fortune, for the players of Lotto.”

On the cover was a picture of a gentleman with a black mustache, asleep in bed — a very grand bed surmounted by a lofty canopy and draped with rose-colored curtains — while the Goddess of Fortune, represented as an auburn-haired lady, securely blindfolded but inadequately clothed in a sea-green tunic, showered golden coins out of a cornucopia all over the counterpane.

“If the Signora likes to keep it to study, she is welcome, for it requires a good deal of thought. If she dreamed of anything, say a little white dog or a dish of spaghetti, she will find the corresponding number to it in the book.”

“But I never dream!” cried Miss Duncan despairingly.

“It is the same if some event happens. One should make use of it. When I won my terno in 1907 my aunt had fallen down and broken her leg. As soon as they took her to the hospital I looked up the numbers in my book and played 45 (Aunt), 5 (Leg), and 24 (Accident). They all came out in Firenze, where the accident occurred, and of course I had played on the Firenze wheel.”

It was the one bright memory of Giuseppe’s life and he referred to it as often as Miss Duncan referred to her brother the Bishop.

Miss Duncan spent her solitary evenings reading Giuseppe’s book with the help of a dictionary to understand the more unusual words. It was a most engrossing occupation.

Sometimes Miss Duncan blushed and turned over the page hurriedly: practically every contingency in life had been foreseen. In another part of the volume was a long list of the most unexpected words. All had their corresponding numbers.

Meanwhile the weeks slipped away. Every morning when Lisetta drew back the curtains and wished Miss Duncan “ Buon giorno,” she inquired meaningly if she had slept well, and the spinster, sitting up in her chaste little bed, patted down her gray locks and answered: “Too soundly. I dreamed of nothing at all.”

Lisetta would sigh, and later on as she dusted the drawing room could be heard singing in a sad little voice: “Cara piccina, no, cosi non va. . . .”

4

IN April a letter from her brother the Bishop threw Miss Duncan into a flutter of pleasurable anticipation, for he announced his long-promised visit to Rome. The flat was immediately swept and garnished, the one spare bedroom aired, and Lisetta was given a new black frock with some muslin aprons. In the excitement of these preparations Miss Duncan forgot all about the Lotto that week, but Giuseppe, who kept his head, played 61 (Bishop) and 17 (Journey), trying for a modest ambo. Unfortunately, 61 alone came out, but next to it was 55, which means Brother; so Giuseppe was dreadfully upset and cursed himself for a fool, for he should have known that the fact of the Bishop’s being Miss Duncan’s brother was more important than that of his traveling. His mistaken judgment was severely censured by Maddalena and Lisetta, who made it the chief topic of conversation for a whole evening in the kitchen.

When the Bishop arrived, life became very full indeed for Miss Duncan. He was anxious to do all the sight-seeing he could and, being of a gregarious disposition, was quite willing to accompany his sister to the various tea parties and luncheons to which they were both invited. The Palatine, the Forum, the Castle of Sant’ Angelo, and all the big churches were visited in turn by the Bishop, with his sister as an eager and happy guide.

For the last day of his stay Miss Duncan decided that they should make an excursion to Frascati and picnic on the Tusculum Hill amid the ruins. She declared the view was lovely and the grass full of wildflowers. The Bishop said it sounded, charming and he spent the evening reading about it in Baedeker.

The next morning was brilliantly clear and fresh. Miss Duncan was as pleased as a child at the promise of a fine day for her picnic, and the three servants entered into all the preparation with zest. Maddalena exercised her ingenuity and skill in the confection of several types of sandwiches; there were some made with eggs and others of anchovies, while a third contained succulent slices of cold chicken. Giuseppe added to them a bottle of red wine.

“I don’t think we need that,” said Miss Duncan, who was a teetotaler. “It will be so tiresome to carry.”

But the Bishop said that it would be more prudent to take it, as the drinking water might be bad. So Lisetta produced a little basket into which everything fitted beautifully, and they caught the Frascati tram in the Via Principe Umberto and settled comfortably in it, for it was not overcrowded.

The car rattled swiftly towards the line of paleblue hills: the grass of the campagna was thick with buttercups and daisies, and they passed many wine carts lumbering along, with their drivers asleep under the gayly painted hoods. They had left the Via Appia Nuova and went speeding along the Via Tusculana, ascending towards the little town.

Because of the basket, they decided to take a little carrozza to the top of the hill, or at least as far as anything on wheels could get. It was a delightful drive. The man was devoted to his horse and, to spare him, got down from the box and walked alongside most of the way, smoking a toscano and conversing cheerfully with Miss Duncan.

The view became lovelier and lovelier the higher they climbed. Now there were purple and crimson anemones in the grass and clumps of sweet-smelling cyclamens under the trees. They reached a grass plateau beyond which the little cab could go no further. Miss Duncan said they would get out and have their picnic there; the driver declared he would wait for them while they had their luncheon, and take them down again without extra charge, but the Bishop said no, it would be a charming walk, so the man was paid off with a generous tip and the carrozza rattled down the hill.

They had the whole of the Tusculo to themselves, which was very nice. They enjoyed their sandwiches, and even Miss Duncan partook of a little of the red wine, which she found quite invigorating. It was altogether a perfect day.

5

AFTER luncheon Miss Duncan thriftily repacked the half-empty bottle and all the bits of paper and string in her little basket, and soon afterwards they started on their downhill return.

It was a very pleasant walk. There was a certain amount of scrambling to be done, but nothing too alarming, until they came to a wire fence that completely barred their way.

“How provoking!” said the Bishop. “It is intolerable to have to climb up the hill again.”

“Oh, we won’t do that!” exclaimed Miss Duncan, her sporting spirit aroused. “We must get over it!”

The obstacle was more in the nature of a barbedwire entanglement than an ordinary fence. The Bishop was tall and strong and his sister small and light, so he was able to pick her up and swing her over quite easily, which made her laugh with delight. But as far as he was concerned it was a more difficult undertaking. He took off his coat and began collecting a number of big flat stones which he piled in a heap. The Bishop, pausing at intervals to mop his face, went on increasing the pile until he judged that it was high enough for him to stand on and then spring over the obstacle; in his youth he had been good at athletics. He threw his coat over to his sister. “Catch,” he exclaimed playfully, “and then watch!” as he balanced precariously on the summit of his heap of stones.

But the jump went wrong, the Bishop’s foot caught in the top wire, he gave a half spin and fell flat on his face at Miss Duncan’s feet.

“It is nothing, I am all right!” he answered to her anxious inquiries and sat up in the grass. But he could not get up, for he realized that his trousers were ripped at the back from waist to heel, and the grass he was sitting on felt strangely cool and fresh.

“Is your ankle sprained?” asked Miss Duncan after uttering a little cry of dismay.

If it had been, it would not have seemed more painful or awkward than the present situation, and in either case, if the Bishop had been alone, it is likely that he would have continued to sit on the ground indefinitely until some kind soul discovered him and sent an ambulance to take him away. But when Miss Duncan understood what had happened, all the resourcefulness of her womanly nature came to the rescue. She said, in the quiet way that has made the British Empire what it is: —

“Don’t worry, I will arrange everything, but it may take some time.”

The Bishop had to lie face downwards while Miss Duncan sat on the grass near him. She produced a penknife from her pocket and all the bits of string she had saved from the sandwich parcels and stored in her little basket. With the point of the blade she made holes in the torn trousers and, deftly inserting the string, drew the two sides of the cloth together with a neat little knot. She had to repeat the operation a great many times — in fact, until she had used up all the string. Now and then the Bishop wriggled, for Miss Duncan’s fingers were cold with anxiety, but by the time she had finished her work the trousers were fastened securely all the way down with a series of red, white, and green knots, and the Bishop was able to rise to his feet and walk. His appearance was now comparatively decent, but when he moved, patches of exceptionally white skin revealed themselves between the gayly colored fastenings.

“I cannot possibly enter Frascati like this!” said the Bishop plaintively, screwing round his head in a vain attempt to view his appearance from behind.

Miss Duncan, though she had done her best, was forced to agree with him. When they reached the outskirts of the town, he sat on a wall while his sister went down to the piazza to secure a taxi. When she returned with it he got in very hurriedly, and if the driver noticed anything peculiar in the episcopal garb, he was far too polite to mention it.

It was an expensive way of getting back to Rome, but the Bishop paid without demur. By then night had fallen, and he managed to reach his room before the servants caught sight of his trousers.

The Bishop was leaving by the midnight train that evening, and before his departure the Marchesa del Carmine gave a little dinner party in his honor. It was a most agreeable party; farewell toasts were exchanged, courteously and cordially, in Asti spumante, and when the time came, everyone went to see the Bishop off at the station.

Miss Duncan, who was used to dining off a cup of tea and two thin slices of bread and butter, had certainly eaten more than she was accustomed to in the evening. Owing to the richness of the Marchesa’s food and the varied emotions she had been through during the day, she had a restless and agitated night.

6

NEXT morning, when Lisetta entered her mistress’s room and opened her curtains, she found her with a bad headache and somewhat feverish.

“Come mai, signora?” she inquired anxiously, leaning over the bed.

“I must have got overtired yesterday,” explained Miss Duncan, “or perhaps it was the cheese soufflé, I really had a very bud night, with a dreadful nightmare.”

Lisetta pricked up her ears and departed to the kitchen. The news flew round the little flat very quickly. Maddalena decided she would bring Miss Duncan her morning cup of tea personally, as she considered her own tact more subtle than that of the younger woman.

“La Signora ha fatto un brutto sogno?” she asked, presenting her little tray and adjusting Miss Duncan’s pillows.

Yes, the lady had had a very bad dream, such a dreadful one she couldn’t even bear to think of it.

“And the Signora never dreams!” said Maddalena meaningly. “It is very curious.”

Miss Duncan sighed and closed her eyes. The cook lingered a little by the bedside but then decided to let her have a little rest before pursuing the subject. The three servants whispered eagerly to one another in the kitchen, like a knot of conspirators.

Giuseppe was the next to approach Miss Duncan. They decided it was best, for he was a man and had more experience of the world. Grasping a silver salver on which he had placed the morning paper, he tapped at her bedroom door. “It is the Messaggero, Signora,” he announced.

“Come in!” said Miss Duncan feebly.

“I hope the Signora is better,” said Giuseppe anxiously. “How is it that she has had such a bad night?”

“I may have eaten something that disagreed with me at the Marchesa’s dinner,” answered the spinster plaintively. “I never remember having such a nightmare.”

“The Signora had a bad dream?”

“A horrible one!”

There was a little pause, then the butler said meaningly: “It is Friday today. In case the Signora wants to play at the Lotto, I will bring the book.”

He placed the volume on Miss Duncan’s bed and departed, closing the door gently behind him.

Miss Duncan clasped her forehead with both hands. Never, never, as long as she lived, would she tell anyone what her dream had been. How strange, how vivid, how truly terrible. She did not know that one could suffer so much shame and anxiety just in a dream.

It had begun in such a lifelike manner: they seemed to be still on the slope of the Tusculum Hill and she had finished repairing, as far as was possible with the limited means at her disposal, the damage done to the Bishop’s trousers. She had tied the last knot and he had risen to his feet. But instead of saying, “I cannot possibly enter Frascati like this,” this time he remarked laughingly, “That is very pretty: I will start a new fashion!” And they walked on down the hill and boarded the tramcar that was waiting on the piazza.

The car was so full that there was only standing room for them, and Miss Duncan saw every head turn in their direction and all eyes glued on the Bishop’s trousers. This cumulative stare seemed to have an occult power, for one by one the knots of red, white, and green string began to move and untwist, swelling as they did so, until they fused and transformed themselves into an Italian flag, and the Bishop’s trousers fell to the ground.

Then she saw that the car had become longer than an express train and that everyone in it wore black shirts. There were men of the Milizia, middleaged and stern-looking, smart young Avanguardisti, sturdy Balilla, Giovani Italiane with their glossy ringlets and little black caps, and rows of diminutive Figli della Lupa. She recognized among them the relations of the servants whom she had seen in the kitchen, and they were all laughing at the Bishop’s naked limbs as he stood in the middle of the crowd. She could see countless white teeth flashing; and yet, far from sharing her dismay, he was quite unashamed and cheerful. Then the biggest man of the Milizia and the tiniest Figlio della Lupa picked up the Italian flag by its two ends and wrapped it round the Bishop. It plastered itself immediately all over his body and then disintegrated like the patterns in a kaleidoscope, transforming itself into the tightfitting costume of a harlequin.

“Whoopee!” cried the Bishop and leaped out of the tram, followed by a horde of black shirts. They were now in Rome and the Bishop was racing round the Colosseum with the agility of an antelope and all the Fascisti were after him. By some strange power, Miss Duncan was given strength to keep up in the front row of the pursuers. After circling the Colosseum three times, the Bishop sped down the Via dell’ Impero at a gay polka step and all the crowd linked arms and pranced behind him. The worst of it was that he seemed to be enjoying himself so much. Miss Duncan struggled agonizingly to call out, but she was unable to utter a sound.

By then they had reached Piazza di Venezia and could see the great Palazzo in the background. There was a solitary figure standing on its monumental balcony looking down at the scene, a figure that was awe-inspiring in its stern immobility. The leaping harlequin and his pursuers came to a halt, and now the crowd were singing “Giovinezza” and throwing up their right arms in the Roman salute. Somehow Miss Duncan was aware that her brother had been ordered to sing a hymn: it was an imperative command that could not be disregarded. He stood by himself in an open space. Though he was dressed as a harlequin, he still wore his clerical hat and collar, and was quite composed, with his hands folded in front of him. He coughed a little, appeared to think, and then began singing: —

As soon as the last word of the verse had fallen on the air there was a terrible roar from the crowd and it swayed and surged forward. Then the people all melted away and nothing was left on the ground but the Italian flag and a clerical hat.

It had been horrid while it lasted, but after all, it was only a dream. As her hands dropped from her forehead they fell on the volume Giuseppe had deposited on her bed. She picked it up and soon was absorbed in the study of numbers.

7

TOWARDS eleven Miss Duncan rang her bell and told Lisetta she felt better and would like to have her bath prepared. The little housemaid saw that the Book of Dreams was lying open on the bed, and her heart was full of hope.

At lunchtime Miss Duncan handed Giuseppe a slip of paper containing three numbers.

“I would like to play this terno at the Lotto today,” she said in her most dignified manner.

“Not a quaterna, Signora?” asked Giuseppe, respectfully receiving the document.

“No, I don’t believe in the quaterna, it is too difficult to get. I prefer just playing a terno. Will you please go to the Banco di Lotto for me, and I will play ten lire this week.”

The servants were too well-mannered to question Miss Duncan about her dream, if she did not think fit to tell them spontaneously. But the book was spirited away from her room to the kitchen and the three pored over it eagerly to find out what had inspired their mistress’s choice of numbers.

“The 61 means Bishop,” said Giuseppe, who remembered the number, having played it himself.

“But what can 68 stand for?” said the cook. She went through page after page, following the lines with a fat finger.

“ Arlecchino!” she suddenly exclaimed with wonder in her voice.

“Nonsense!” retorted the others. “What on earth has a harlequin to do with a bishop? You must have made a mistake.” But there it was, in plain print: it could not be discussed.

“What is the third number?” asked Lisetta.

Giuseppe consulted his scrap of paper.

“It’s —23!”

The servants gaped at each other with shocked dismay. Every Roman knows what 23 means. But to connect it with the Bishop was unbelievable. Harlequin had been extraordinary enough, but this —

“The Signora must have made a mistake,” said Giuseppe at last, after a painful silence.

“Maybe she meant to put down 33, which stands for Lunatic,” suggested Lisetta hopefully.

“But she wrote 23 quite clearly. Look at it there on the paper!”

“If we could only ask her why she chose it!” murmured Maddalena.

“Well, we can’t!” snapped Giuseppe indignantly, “so it’s no good talking like that. Can you hear me saying: ‘Signora, would you be good enough to tell me why you chose 23 to play at the Lotto?’ I have too much respect for her and besides I would die of shame. No, the Signora has chosen, and that is enough.”

“Look!” exclaimed Lisetta, who meanwhile had been studying the book attentively. “23 stands also for String.”

They all looked: sure enough, there it was: “Spago — 23.”

“She may have meant string after all.”

They clutched at the idea. It seemed far more probable that Miss Duncan would select String sooner than the other unmentionable word. They were all much relieved.

“I am now going to the Banco di Lotto,” said Giuseppe briskly. “Do any of you want to play too?”

There was a good deal of discussion, but in the end they all decided to trust the Signora’s inspiration and play a lira each on the same terno, though for the life of them they couldn’t see the connection between the Bishop and a harlequin and some string. And as their mistress had said she would play the terno secco on the Roman wheel, they followed her blindly also in this.

Their faithful trust was rewarded by all three numbers being extracted in Rome next day, accompanied by two others that, if Miss Duncan had only thought of them as well, would have brought them all untold riches. For the other two numbers were 20 and 1, which stand respectively for Flag and Colosseum. She discovered this afterwards, on studying the book once more.

“One must not be too greedy, though,” thought Miss Duncan, and since she did not wish to embitter the servants’ delight by telling them how they could have won a far greater sum, she kept this knowledge to herself.