Free The Watercolourist by Beatrice Masini

smile, affectionate and warm, spreads across his worn face. A grandfatherly
expression, Bianca thinks. Pia is silent. After depositing her tray on a small table, she takes a step back to make room for Minna, then responds to the priest’s gaze with a kind smile. At
times she seems to go back to being a child, the way she likely was before her work aroused an endless guile within her. Right now she looks like an infant who wants to take her old
guardian’s hand and let herself be guided. But of course she cannot. The moment passes. Pia bows, turns around and disappears. A smile lingers for a few more seconds on the old man’s
face until a glass is forced into his hand and he comes back to his senses.
    Bianca is not the only one to have noticed the exchange. Donna Clara, for whom Innes has given up his seat, turns to the pious man.
    ‘Did you see how grown up your student has become?’
    ‘Yes,’ Don Dionisio says, sipping his drink.
    ‘There’s not a holy dove story there, is there, Father?’ Young Count Bernocchi asks, stifling a yawn. ‘Charity is best when we practise it on ourselves, Donna Clara. At
least that way we don’t risk delusions.’
    Donna Julie shoots him a glance.
    ‘Do you know that Pia reads stories to the girls? She plays with them and cares for them too. She’s so precious to us, our Pia.’
    ‘Do you mean to say that she even knows how to read? How is this possible?’ Bernocchi asks, raising an eyebrow.
    ‘And why not?’ Don Dionisio says, putting his glass down on the tray excitedly and with a dangerous rattle. ‘Pia is a girl just like any other. And she’s quick to
learn.’
    ‘Don’t tell me she knows Greek and Latin, too,’ Bernocchi says with a smile.
    ‘A bit, actually,’ retorts Don Dionisio, before withdrawing into a hostile silence.
    ‘Ah, how generous and enlightened contemporary Milan is! Not only does it take in, raise and feed orphaned children, it also follows them step by step down the road of life, providing them
with a higher education which will certainly come in handy when they are milking cows, raking hay and waxing the floors! Even the great Rousseau entrusted his bastard children to public care. And
who better than he, with his illustrious work to prove it, to know the best way to raise a child?’
    ‘Oh, you . . . you speak nonsense. And anyway, Rousseau was wrong.’ Donna Julie speaks quickly, animatedly, as if a flame of thought has been lit from deep inside. She casts a
feverish look at Bernocchi. She is no longer the poised, invisible creature she usually is. ‘Rousseau was a monster to force poor Thérèse to give up her children. They ought to
remain with their parents. They ought to live with them, enjoy their affection, receive kisses and spankings alike . . . only in this way will they learn to love: by example. Isn’t this true,
my dear husband?’
    Don Titta bows his head in agreement. Bianca watches Donna Julie attentively as she recomposes herself, the colour in her cheeks fading. Never has she spoken with such vehemence.
    ‘I know you have your ideas, Donna Julie,’ Bernocchi retorts. ‘You even nursed your children yourself, isn’t that true? Or at least, that’s what people said. I must
say that I never saw you do it, but I would have liked to . . . you, the most spiritual of women, engaged in such an animalistic act. What a strange spectacle that must have been.’
    ‘It wasn’t for the public,’ says Don Titta, frowning.
    ‘Come, come,’ Donna Clara interrupts, throwing her hands in the air. ‘We don’t want to start a fight on account of that boring man, Rousseau.’
    She laughs her full-bodied laugh, throaty and frivolous.
    ‘Donna Clara, you will never change,’ Bernocchi speaks gallantly. ‘You always were the queen of the salon.’ As soon as he says this, though, he bites his lip, aware of
the involuntary offence that does not go unnoticed.
    ‘Oh, yes, dear Bernocchi. Those were good times. Now vanished