“There shall be great want”
Towards the end of the seventies there was in
Palermo a poor boy whose name was Gaetano Alagona.
That was lucky for him! If he had not been
one of the old Alagonas people would have let him
starve to death. He was only a child, and had
neither money nor parents. The Jesuits of Santa
Maria i Jesu had taken him out of charity into the
cloister school.
One day, when studying his lesson, a father came
and called him from the school-room, because a
cousin wished to see him. What, a cousin! He
had always heard that all his relatives were dead.
But Father Josef insisted that it was a real Signora,
who was his relative and wished to take him out of
the monastery. It became worse and worse. Did
she want to take him out of the monastery? That
she could never do! He was going to be a monk.
He did not at all wish to see the Signora. Could
not Father Josef tell her that Gaetano would never
leave the monastery, and that it was of no avail to
ask him? No, Father Josef said that he could not
let her depart without seeing him, and he half
dragged Gaetano into the reception-room. There
she stood by one of the windows. She had gray
hair; her skin was brown; her eyes were black and
as round as beads. She had a lace veil on her
head, and her black dress was smooth with wear,
and a little green, like Father Josef’s very oldest
cassock.
She made the sign of the cross when she saw
Gaetano. “God be praised, he is a true Alagona!”
she said, and kissed his hand.
She said that she was sorry that Gaetano had
reached his twelfth year without any of his family
asking after him; but she had not known that there
were any of the other branch alive. How had she
found it out now? Well, Luca had read the name in
a newspaper. It had stood among those who had
got a prize. It was a half-year ago now, but it was
a long journey to Palermo. She had had to save
and save to get the money for the journey. She
had not been able to come before. But she had to
come and see him. Santissima madre, she had been
so glad! It was she, Donna Elisa, who was an
Alagona. Her husband, who was dead, had been an
Antonelli. There was one other Alagona, that was
her brother. He, too, lived at Diamante. But
Gaetano probably did not know where Diamante
was. The boy drew his head back. No, she thought
as much, and she laughed.
“Diamante is on Monte Chiaro. Do you know
where Monte Chiaro is?”
“No.”
She drew up her eyebrows and looked very roguish.
“Monte Chiaro is on Etna, if you know where
Etna is.”
It sounded so anxious, as if it were too much to
ask that Gaetano should know anything about Etna.
And they laughed, all three, she and Father Josef
and Gaetano.
She seemed a different person after she had made
them laugh. “Will you come and see Diamante
and Etna and Monte Chiaro?” she asked briskly.
“Etna you must see. It is the greatest mountain
in the world. Etna is a king, and the mountains
round about kneel before him, and do not dare to lift
their eyes to his face.”
Then she told many tales about Etna. She
thought perhaps that it would tempt him.
And it was really true that Gaetano had not
thought before what kind of a mountain Etna was.
He had not remembered that it had snow on its
head, oak forests in its beard, vineyards about its
waist, and that it stood in orange groves up to
its knees. And down it ran broad, black rivers.
Those streams were wonderful; they flowed without
a ripple; they heaved without a wind; the poorest
swimmer could cross them without a bridge. He
guessed that she meant lava. And she was glad
that he had guessed it. He was a clever boy. A
real Alagona!
And Etna was so big! Fancy that it took three
days to drive round it and three days to ride up to
the top and down again! And that there were fifty
towns beside Diamante on it, and fourteen great
forests, and two hundred small peaks, which were not
so small either, although Etna was so big that they
seemed as insignificant as a swarm of flies on a
church roof. And that there were caves which
could hold a whole army, and hollow old trees,
where a flock of sheep could find shelter from the
storm!
Everything wonderful was to be found on Etna.
There were rivers of which one must beware. The
water in them was so cold that any one who drank of
it would die. There were rivers which flowed only by
day, and others that flowed only in winter, and some
which ran deep under the earth. There were hot
springs, and sulphur springs, and mud-volcanoes.
It would be a pity for Gaetano not to see the
mountain, for it was so beautiful. It stood against
the sky like a great tent. It was as gayly colored
as a merry-go-round. He ought to see it in the
morning and evening, when it was red; he ought to
see it at night, when it was white. He ought also
to know that it truly could take every color; that it
could be blue, black, brown or violet; sometimes it
wore a veil of beauty, like a signora; sometimes
it was a table covered with velvet; sometimes it had
a tunic of gold brocade and a mantle of peacock’s-feathers.
He would also like to know how it could be that
old King Arthur was sitting there in a cave. Donna
Elisa said that it was quite certain that he still
lived on Etna, for once, when the bishop of Catania
was riding over the mountain, three of his mules ran
away, and the men who followed them found them in
the cave with King Arthur. Then the king asked
the guides to tell the bishop that when his wounds
were healed he would come with his knights of the
Round Table and right everything that was in disorder
in Sicily. And he who had eyes to see knew
well enough that King Arthur had not yet come out
of his cave.
Gaetano did not wish to let her tempt him, but he
thought that he might be a little friendly. She was
still standing, but now he fetched her a chair.
That would not make her think that he wanted to
go with her.
He really liked to hear her tell about her mountain.
It was so funny that it should have so many
tricks. It was not at all like Monte Pellegrino,
near Palermo, that only stood where it stood. Etna
could smoke like a chimney and blow out fire like
a gas jet. It could rumble, shake, vomit forth
lava, throw stones, scatter ashes, foretell the weather,
and collect rain. If Mongibello merely stirred, town
after town fell, as if the houses had been cards set
on end.
Mongibello, that was also a name for Etna. It
was called Mongibello because that meant the mountain
of mountains. It deserved to be called so.
Gaetano saw that she really believed that he would
not be able to resist. She had so many wrinkles
in her face, and when she laughed, they ran together
like a net. He stood and looked at it; it
seemed so strange. But he was not caught yet in
the net.
She wondered if Gaetano really would have the
courage to come to Etna. For inside the mountain
were many bound giants and a black castle, which
was guarded by a dog with many heads. There was
also a big forge and a lame smith with only one eye
in the middle of his forehead. And worst of all, in
the very heart of the mountain, there was a sulphur
sea which cooked like an oil kettle, and in it lay
Lucifer and all the damned. No, he never would
have the courage to come there, she said.
Otherwise there was no danger in living there, for
the mountain feared the saints. Donna Elisa said
that it feared many saints, but most Santa Agata of
Catania. If the Catanians always were as they
should be to her, then neither earthquake nor lava
could do them any harm.
Gaetano stood quite close to her and he laughed
at everything she said. How had he come there and
why could he not stop laughing? It was a wonderful
signora.
Suddenly he said, in order not to deceive her,
“Donna Elisa, I am going to be a monk.”—“Oh,
are you?” she said. Then without anything more
she began again to tell about the mountain.
She said that now he must really listen; now she
was coming to the most important of all. He was
to fellow her to the south side of the mountain so far
down that they were near the castle of Catania, and
there he would see a valley, a quite big and wide
oval valley. But it was quite black; the lava streams
came from all directions flowing down into it.
There were only stones there, not a blade of grass.
But what had Gaetano believed about the lava?
Donna Elisa was sure that he believed that it lay as
even and smooth on Etna as it lies in the streets.
But on Etna there are so many surprises. Could he
understand that all the serpents and dragons and
witches that lay and boiled in the lava ran out with
it when there was an eruption? There they lay and
crawled and crept and twisted about each other, and
tried to creep up to the cold earth, and held each
other fast in misery until the lava hardened about
them. And then they could never come free. No
indeed!
The lava was not unproductive, as he thought.
Although no grass grew, there was always something
to see. But he could never guess what it was.
It groped and fell; it tumbled and crept; it moved
on its knees, on its head, and on its elbows. It came
up the sides of the valley and down the sides of the
valley; it was all thorns and knots; it had a cloak
of spider’s-web and a wig of dust, and as many
joints as a worm. Could it be anything but the
cactus? Did he know that the cactus goes out on
the lava and breaks the ground like a peasant? Did
he know that nothing but the cactus can do anything
with the lava?
Now she looked at Father Josef and made a funny
face. The cactus was the best goblin to be found
on Etna; but goblins were goblins. The cactus
was a Turk, for it kept female slaves. No sooner
had the cactus taken root anywhere than it must
have almond trees near it. Almond trees are fine
and shining signoras. They hardly dare to go out
on the black surface, but that does not help them.
Out they must, and out they are. Oh, Gaetano
should see if he came there. When the almond
trees stand white with their blossoms in the spring
on the black field among the gray cacti, they are so
innocent and beautiful that one could weep over
them as over captive princesses.
Now he must know where Monte Chiaro lay. It
shot up from the bottom of that black valley. She
tried to make her umbrella stand on the floor. It
stood so. It stood right up. It had never thought
of either sitting or lying. And Monte Chiaro was
as green as the valley was black. It was palm next
palm, vine upon vine. It was a gentleman in a
flowery dressing-gown. It was a king with a crown
on his head. It bore the whole of Diamante about
its temples.
Some time before Gaetano had a desire to take
her hand. If he only could do it. Yes, he could.
He drew her hand to him like a captured treasure.
But what should he do with it? Perhaps pat it. If
he tried quite gently with one finger, perhaps she
would not notice it. Perhaps she would not notice
if he took two fingers. Perhaps she would not even
notice if he should kiss her hand. She talked and
talked. She noticed nothing at all.
There was still so much she wished to say. And
nothing so droll as her story about Diamante!
She said that the town had once lain down on the
bottom of the valley. Then the lava came, and fiery
red looked over the edge of the valley. What, what!
was the last day come? The town in great haste
took its houses on its back, on its head, and under
its arms, and ran up Monte Chiaro, that lay close at
hand.
Zigzagging up the mountain the town ran. When
it was far enough up it threw down a town gate and
a piece of town wall. Then it ran round the mountain
in a spiral and dropped down houses. The
poor people’s houses tumbled as they could and
would. There was no time for anything else. No
one could ask anything better than crowding and
disorder and crooked streets. No, that you could
not. The chief street went in a spiral round the
mountain, just as the town had run, and along it had
set down here a church and there a palace. But
there had been that much order that the best came
highest up. When the town came to the top of the
mountain it had laid out a square, and there it had
placed the city hall and the Cathedral and the old
palazzo Geraci.
If he, Gaetano Alagona, would follow her to
Diamante, she would take him with her up to the
square on the top of the mountain, and show him
what stretches of land the old Alagonas had owned
on Etna, and on the plain of Catania, and where they
had raised their strongholds on the inland peaks.
For up there all that could be seen, and even more.
One could see the whole sea.
Gaetano had not thought that she had talked long,
but Father Josef seemed to be impatient. “Now
we have come to your own home, Donna Elisa,” he
said quite gently.
But she assured Father Josef that at her house
there was nothing to see. What she first of all
wished to show Gaetano was the big house on the
corso, that was called the summer palace. It was
not so beautiful as the palazzo Geraci, but it was
big; and when the old Alagonas were prosperous
they came there in summer to be nearer the snows
of Etna. Yes, as she said, towards the street it was
nothing to see, but it had a beautiful court-yard
with open porticos in both the stories. And on the
roof there was a terrace. It was paved with blue
and white tiles, and on every tile the coat of arms
of the Alagonas was burnt in. He would like to
come and see that?
It occurred to Gaetano that Donna Elisa must be
used to having children come and sit on her knees
when she was at home. Perhaps she would not
notice if he should also come. And he tried. And
so it was. She was used to it. She never noticed
it at all.
She only went on talking about the palace. There
was a great state suite, where the old Alagonas had
danced and played. There was a great hall with a
gallery for the music; there was old furniture and
clocks like small white alabaster temples that stood
on black ebony pedestals. In the state apartment
no one lived, but she would go there with him.
Perhaps he had thought that she lived in the summer
palace. Oh, no; her brother, Don Ferrante,
lived there. He was a merchant, and had his shop
on the lower floor; and as he had not yet brought
home a signora, everything stood up there as it had
stood.
Gaetano wondered if he could sit on her knees any
longer. It was wonderful that she did not notice
anything. And it was fortunate, for otherwise she
might have believed that he had changed his mind
about being a monk.
But she was just now more than ever occupied
with her own affairs. A little flush flamed up in
her cheeks under all the brown, and she made a few
of the funniest faces with her eyebrows. Then she
began to tell how she herself lived.
It seemed as if Donna Elisa must have the very
smallest house in the town. It lay opposite the
summer palace, but that was its only good point.
She had a little shop, where she sold medallions
and wax candles and everything that had to do with
divine service. But, with all respect to Father
Josef, there was not much profit in such a trade
now-a-days, however it may have been formerly.
Behind the shop there was a little workshop. There
her husband had stood and carved images of the
saints, and rosary beads; for he had been an artist,
Signor Antonelli. And next to the workshop were
a couple of small rat-holes; it was impossible to
turn in them; one had to squat down, as in the cells
of the old kings. And up one flight were a couple
of small hen-coops. In one of them she had laid a
little straw and put up a few hooks. That would be
for Gaetano, if he would come to her.
Gaetano thought that he would like to pat her
cheek. She would be sorry when he could not go
with her. Perhaps he could permit himself to pat
her. He looked under his hair at Father Josef.
Father Josef sat and looked on the floor and sighed,
as he was in the habit of doing. He did not think
of Gaetano, and she, she noticed nothing at all.
She said that she had a maid, whose name was
Pacifica, and a man, whose name was Luca. She
did not get much help, however, for Pacifica was
old; and, since she had grown deaf, she had become
so irritable that she could not let her help
in the shop. And Luca, who really was to have
been a wood-carver, and carve saints that she could
sell, never gave himself time to stand still in the
workshop; he was always out in the garden, looking
after the flowers. Yes, they had a little garden
among the stones on Monte Chiaro. But he need
not think it was worth anything. She had nothing
like the one in the cloister, that Gaetano would
understand. But she wanted so much to have him,
because he was one of the old Alagonas. And there
at home she and Luca and Pacifica had said to one
another: “Do we ask whether we will have a little
more care, if we can only get him here?” No, the
Madonna knew that they had not done so. But now
the question was, whether he was willing to endure
anything to be with them.
And now she had finished, and Father Josef asked
what Gaetano thought of answering. It was the
prior’s wish, Father Josef said, that Gaetano should
decide for himself. And they had nothing against
his going out into the world, because he was the
last of his race.
Gaetano slid gently down from Donna Elisa’s lap.
But to answer! That was not such an easy thing to
answer. It was very hard to say no to the signora.
Father Josef came to his assistance. “Ask the
signora that you may be allowed to answer in a
couple of hours, Gaetano. The boy has never
thought of anything but being a monk,” he explained
to Donna Elisa.
She stood up, took her umbrella, and tried to look
glad, but there were tears in her eyes.
Of course, of course he must consider it, she said.
But if he had known Diamante he would not have
needed to. Now only peasants lived there, but once
there had been a bishop, and many priests, and a
multitude of monks. They were gone now, but they
were not forgotten. Ever since that time Diamante
was a holy town. More festival days were celebrated
there than anywhere else, and there were quantities
of saints; and even to-day crowds of pilgrims came
there. Whoever lived at Diamante could never
forget God. He was almost half a priest. So for
that reason he ought to come. But he should consider
it, if he so wished. She would come again
to-morrow.
Gaetano behaved himself very badly. He turned
away from her and rushed to the door. He did not
say a word of thanks to her for coming. He knew
that Father Josef had expected it, but he could not.
When he thought of the great Mongibello that he
never would see, and of Donna Elisa, who would
never come again, and of the school, and of the
shut-in cloister garden, and of a whole restricted
life! Father Josef never could expect so much of
him; Gaetano had to run away.
It was high time too. When Gaetano was ten
steps from the door, he began to cry. It was too
bad about Donna Elisa. Oh, that she should be
obliged to travel home alone! That Gaetano could
not go with her!
He heard Father Josef coming, and he hid his
face against the wall. If he could only stop
sobbing!
Father Josef came sighing and murmuring to
himself, as he always did. When he came up to
Gaetano he stopped, and sighed more than ever.
“It is Mongibello, Mongibello,” said Father
Josef; “no one can resist Mongibello.”
Gaetano answered him by weeping more violently.
“It is the mountain calling,” murmured Father
Josef. “Mongibello is like the whole earth; it has
all the earth’s beauty and charm and vegetation and
expanses and wonders. The whole earth comes at
once and calls him.”
Gaetano felt that Father Josef spoke the truth.
He felt as if the earth stretched out strong arms to
catch him. He felt that he needed to bind himself
fast to the wall in order not to be torn away.
“It is better for him to see the earth,” said Father
Josef. “He would only be longing for it if he
stayed in the monastery. If he is allowed to see
the earth perhaps he will begin again to long for
heaven.”
Gaetano did not understand what Father Josef
meant when he felt himself lifted into his arms,
carried back into the reception-room, and put down
on Donna Elisa’s knees.
“You shall take him, Donna Elisa, since you
have won him,” said Father Josef. “You shall
show him Mongibello, and you shall see if you can
keep him.”
But when Gaetano once more sat on Donna Elisa’s
lap he felt such happiness that it was impossible
for him to run away from her again. He was as
much captured as if he had gone into Mongibello
and the mountain walls had closed in on him.
Gaetano had lived with Donna Elisa a month, and
had been as happy as a child can be. Merely to
travel with Donna Elisa had been like driving
behind gazelles and birds of paradise; but to live
with her was to be carried on a golden litter, screened
from the sun.
Then the famous Franciscan, Father Gondo, came
to Diamante, and Donna Elisa and Gaetano went up
to the square to listen to him. For Father Gondo
never preached in a church; he always gathered the
people about him by fountains or at the town gates.
The square was swarming with people; but Gaetano,
who sat on the railing of the court-house steps,
plainly saw Father Gondo where he stood on the
curb-stone. He wondered if it could be true that
the monk wore a horse-hair shirt under his robes,
and that the rope that he had about his waist was full
of knots and iron points to serve him as a scourge.
Gaetano could not understand what Father Gondo
said, but one shiver after another ran through him
at the thought that he was looking at a saint.
When the Father had spoken for about an hour, he
made a sign with his hand that he would like to rest
a moment. He stepped down from the steps of the
fountain, sat down, and rested his face in his hands.
While the monk was sitting so, Gaetano heard a
gentle roaring. He had never before heard any
like it. He looked about him to discover what it
was. And it was all the people talking. “Blessed,
blessed, blessed!” they all said at once. Most of
them only whispered and murmured; none called
aloud, their devotion was too great. And every one
had found the same word. “Blessed, blessed!”
sounded over the whole market-place. “Blessings
on thy lips; blessings on thy tongue; blessings on
thy heart!”
The voices sounded soft, choked by weeping and
emotion, but it was as if a storm had passed by
through the air. It was like the murmuring of a
thousand shells.
That took much greater hold of Gaetano than the
monk’s sermon. He did not know what he wished
to do, for that gentle murmuring filled him with
emotion; it seemed almost to suffocate him. He
climbed up on the iron railing, raised himself above
all the others, and began to cry the same as they,
but much louder, so that his voice cut through all
the others.
Donna Elisa heard it and seemed to be displeased.
She drew Gaetano down and would not stay any
longer, but went home with him.
In the middle of the night Gaetano started up
from his bed. He put on his clothes, tied together
what he possessed in a bundle, set his hat on his
head and took his shoes under his arm. He was
going to run away. He could not bear to live with
Donna Elisa.
Since he had heard Father Gondo, Diamante and
Mongibello were nothing to him. Nothing was
anything compared to being like Father Gondo, and
being blessed by the people. Gaetano could not
live if he could not sit by the fountain in the square
and tell legends.
But if Gaetano went on living in Donna Elisa’s
garden, and eating peaches and mandarins, he would
never hear the great human sea roar about him. He
must go out and be a hermit on Etna; he must
dwell in one of the big caves, and live on roots and
fruits. He would never see a human being; he
would never cut his hair; and he would wear nothing
but a few dirty rags. But in ten or twenty years he
would come back to the world. Then he would look
like a beast and speak like an angel.
That would be another matter than wearing velvet
clothes and a glazed hat, as he did now. That would
be different from sitting in the shop with Donna
Elisa and taking saint after saint down from the
shelf and hearing her tell about what they had done.
Several times he had taken a knife and a piece of
wood and had tried to carve images of the saints.
It was very hard, but it would be worse to make
himself into a saint; much worse. However, he was
not afraid of difficulties and privations.
He crept out of his room, across the attic and
down the stair. It only remained to go through the
shop out to the street, but on the last step he
stopped. A faint light filtered through a crack in
the door to the left of the stairs.
It was the door to Donna Elisa’s room, and Gaetano
did not dare to go any further, since his foster
mother had her candle lighted. If she was not
asleep she would hear him when he drew the heavy
bolts on the shop door. He sat softly down on the
stairs to wait.
Suddenly he happened to think that Donna Elisa
must sit up so long at night and work in order to get
him food and clothes. He was much touched that
she loved him so much as to want to do it. And
he understood what a grief it would be to her if
he should go.
When he thought of that he began to weep.
But at the same time he began to upbraid Donna
Elisa in his thoughts. How could she be so stupid
as to grieve because he went. It would be such a
joy for her when he should become a holy man.
That would be her reward for having gone to Palermo
and fetched him.
He cried more and more violently while he was
consoling Donna Elisa. It was hard that she did
not understand what a reward she would receive.
There was no need for her to be sad. For ten
years only would Gaetano live on the mountain, and
then he would come back as the famous hermit Fra
Gaetano. Then he would come walking through the
streets of Diamante, followed by a great crowd of
people, like Father Gondo. And there would be
flags, and the houses would be decorated with cloths
and wreaths. He would stop in front of Donna
Elisa’s shop, and Donna Elisa would not recognize
him and would be ready to fall on her knees before
him. But so should it not be; he would kneel to
Donna Elisa, and ask her forgiveness, because he
had run away from her ten years ago. “Gaetano,”
Donna Elisa would then answer, “you give me an
ocean of joy against a little brook of sorrow. Should
I not forgive you?”
Gaetano saw all this before him, and it was so
beautiful that he began to weep more violently. He
was only afraid that Donna Elisa would hear how he
was sobbing and come out and find him. And then
she would not let him go.
He must talk sensibly with her. Would he ever
give her greater pleasure than if he went now?
It was not only Donna Elisa, there was also Luca
and Pacifica, who would be so glad when he came
back as a holy man.
They would all follow him up to the market-place.
There, there would be even more flags than in the
streets, and Gaetano would speak from the steps of
the town hall. And from all the streets and courts
people would come streaming.
Then Gaetano would speak, so that they should all
fall on their knees and cry: “Bless us, Fra Gaetano,
bless us!”
After that he would never leave Diamante again.
He would live under the great steps outside Donna
Elisa’s shop.
And they would come to him with their sick,
and those in trouble would make a pilgrimage to
him.
When the syndic of Diamante went by he would
kiss Gaetano’s hand.
Donna Elisa would sell Fra Gaetano’s image in
her shop.
And Donna Elisa’s god-daughter, Giannita, would
bow before Fra Gaetano and never again call him a
stupid monk-boy.
And Donna Elisa would be so happy.
Ah … Gaetano started up, and awoke. It was
bright daylight, and Donna Elisa and Pacifica stood
and looked at him. And Gaetano sat on the stairs
with his shoes under his arm, his hat on his head
and his bundle at his feet. But Donna Elisa and
Pacifica wept. “He has wished to run away from
us,” they said.
“Why are you sitting here, Gaetano?”
“Donna Elisa, I wanted to run away.”
Gaetano was in a good mood, and answered as
boldly as if it had been the most natural thing in
the world.
“Do you want to run away?” repeated Donna
Elisa.
“I wished to go off on Etna and be a hermit.”
“And why are you sitting here now?”
“I do not know, Donna Elisa; I must have fallen
asleep.”
Donna Elisa now showed how distressed she was.
She pressed her hands over her heart, as if she had
terrible pains, and she wept passionately.
“But now I shall stay, Donna Elisa,” said
Gaetano.
“You, stay!” cried Donna Elisa. “You might as
well go. Look at him, Pacifica, look at the ingrate!
He is no Alagona. He is an adventurer.”
The blood rose in Gaetano’s face and he sprang
to his feet and struck out with his hands in a way
which astonished Donna Elisa. So had all the men
of her race done. It was her father and her grandfather;
she recognized all the powerful lords of the
family of Alagona.
“You speak so because you know nothing about
it, Donna Elisa,” said the boy. “No, no, you do
not know anything; you do not know why I had to
serve God. But you shall know it now. Do you
see, it was long ago. My father and mother were so
poor, and we had nothing to eat; and so father went
to look for work, and he never came back, and
mother and we children were almost dead of starvation.
So mother said: ‘We will go and look for
your father.’ And we went. Night came and a
heavy rain, and in one place a river flowed over the
road. Mother asked in one house if we might pass
the night there. No, they showed us out. Mother
and children stood in the road and cried. Then
mother tucked up her dress and went down into the
stream that roared over the road. She had my little
sister on her arm and my big sister by the hand and
a big bundle on her head. I went after as near as I
could. I saw mother lose her footing. The bundle
she carried on her head fell into the stream, and
mother caught at it and dropped little sister. She
snatched at little sister and big sister was whirled
away. Mother threw herself after them, and the
river took her too. I was frightened and ran to the
shore. Father Josef has told me that I escaped
because I was to serve God for the dead, and pray
for them. And that was why it was first decided
that I was to be a monk, and why I now wish to go
away on Etna and become a hermit. There is nothing
else for me but to serve God, Donna Elisa.”
Donna Elisa was quite subdued. “Yes, yes,
Gaetano,” she said, “but it hurts me so. I do not
want you to go away from me.”
“No, I shall not go either,” said Gaetano. He
was in such a good mood that he felt a desire to
laugh. “I shall not go.”
“Shall I speak to the priest, so that you may be
sent to a seminary?” asked Donna Elisa, humbly.
“No; but you do not understand, Donna Elisa;
you do not understand. I tell you that I will not
go away from you. I have thought of something
else.”
“What have you thought of?” she asked sadly.
“What do you suppose I was doing while I sat
there on the stairs? I was dreaming, Donna Elisa.
I dreamed that I was going to run away. Yes,
Donna Elisa, I stood in the shop, and I was going
to open the shop door, but I could not because there
were so many locks. I stood in the dark and unlocked
lock after lock, and always there were new
ones. I made a terrible noise, and I thought:
‘Now surely Donna Elisa will come.’ At last the
door opened, and I was going to rush out; but just
then I felt your hand on my neck, and you drew me
in, and I kicked, and I struck you because I was not
allowed to go. But, Donna Elisa, you had a candle
with you, and then I saw that it was not you, but my
mother. Then I did not dare to struggle any more,
and I was very frightened, for mother is dead. But
mother took the bundle I was carrying and began to
take out what was in it. Mother laughed and looked
so glad, and I grew glad that she was not angry with
me. It was so strange. What she drew out of the
bundle was all the little saints’ images that I had
carved while I sat with you in the shop, and they
were so pretty. ‘Can you carve such pretty images,
Gaetano?’ said mother. ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Then
you can serve God by it,’ said mother. ‘Do I not
need to leave Donna Elisa, then?’ ‘No,’ said
mother. And just as mother said that, you waked
me.”
Gaetano looked at Donna Elisa in triumph.
“What did mother mean by that?”
Donna Elisa only wondered.
Gaetano threw his head back and laughed.
“Mother meant that you should apprentice me,
so that I could serve God by carving beautiful images
of angels and saints, Donna Elisa.”
In the noble island of Sicily, where there are more
old customs left than in any other place in the south,
it is always the habit of every one while yet a child
to choose a god-brother or god-sister, who shall
carry his or her children to be christened, if there
ever are any.
But this is not by any means the only use god-brothers
and sisters have of one another. God-brothers
and sisters must love one another, serve one
another, and revenge one another. In a god-brother’s
ear a man can bury his secrets. He can trust him
with both money and sweetheart, and not be deceived.
God-brothers and sisters are as faithful to each other
as if they were born of the same mother, because
their covenant is made before San Giovanni Battista,
who is the most feared of all the saints.
It is also the custom for the poor to take their
half-grown children to rich people and ask that they
may be god-brothers and sisters to their young sons
and daughters. What a glad sight it is on the holy
Baptist’s day to see all those little children in festival
array wandering through the great towns looking
for a god-brother or sister! If the parents
succeed in giving their son a rich god-brother, they
are as glad as if they were able to leave him a farm
as an inheritance.
When Gaetano first came to Diamante, there was
a little girl who was always coming in and out of
Donna Elisa’s shop. She had a red cloak and
pointed cap and eight heavy, black curls that stood
out under the cap. Her name was Giannita, and
she was daughter of Donna Olivia, who sold vegetables.
But Donna Elisa was her god-mother, and
therefore thought what she could do for her.
Well, when midsummer day came, Donna Elisa
ordered a carriage and drove down to Catania, which
lies full twenty miles from Diamante. She had
Giannita with her, and they were both dressed in
their best. Donna Elisa was dressed in black silk
with jet, and Giannita had a white tulle dress with
garlands of flowers. In her hand Giannita held a
basket of flowers, and among the flowers lay a
pomegranate.
The journey went well for Donna Elisa and
Giannita. When at last they reached the white
Catania, that lies and shines on the black lava background,
they drove up to the finest palace in the town.
It was lofty and wide, so that the poor little
Giannita felt quite terrified at the thought of going
into it. But Donna Elisa walked bravely in, and
she was taken to Cavaliere Palmeri and his wife
who owned the house.
Donna Elisa reminded Signora Palmeri that they
were friends from infancy, and asked that Giannita
might be her young daughter’s god-sister.
That was agreed upon, and the young signorina
was called in. She was a little marvel of rose-colored
silk, Venetian lace, big, black eyes, and
thick, bushy hair. Her little body was so small and
thin that one hardly noticed it.
Giannita offered her the basket of flowers, and
she graciously accepted it. She looked long and
thoughtfully at Giannita, walked round her, and was
fascinated by her smooth, even curls. When she
had seen them, she ran after a knife, cut the pomegranate
and gave Giannita half.
While they ate the fruit, they held each other’s
hand and both said:—
“Sister, sister, sister mine!
Thou art mine, and I am thine,
Thine my house, my bread and wine,
Thine my joys, my sacrifice,
Thine my place in Paradise.”
Then they kissed each other and called each other
god-sister.
“You must never fail me, god-sister,” said the
little signorina, and both the children were very
serious and moved.
They had become such good friends in the short
time that they cried when they parted.
But then twelve years went by and the two god-sisters
lived each in her own world and never met.
During the whole time Giannita was quietly in her
home and never came to Catania.
But then something really strange happened.
Giannita sat one afternoon in the room back of the
shop embroidering. She was very skilful and was
often overwhelmed with work. But it is trying to
the eyes to embroider, and it was dark in Giannita’s
room. She had therefore half-opened the door into
the shop to get a little more light.
Just after the clock had struck four, the old
miller’s widow, Rosa Alfari, came walking by.
Donna Olivia’s shop was very attractive from the
street. The eyes fell through the half-open door on
great baskets with fresh vegetables and bright-colored
fruits, and far back in the background the outline of
Giannita’s pretty head. Rosa Alfari stopped and
began to talk to Donna Olivia, simply because her
shop looked so friendly.
Laments and complaints always followed old Rosa
Alfari. Now she was sad because she had to go to
Catania alone that night. “It is a misfortune that
the post-wagon does not reach Diamante before ten,”
she said. “I shall fall asleep on the way, and perhaps
they will then steal my money. And what shall
I do when I come to Catania at two o’clock at night?”
Then Giannita suddenly called out into the shop.
“Will you take me with you to Catania, Donna
Alfari?” she asked, half in joke, without expecting
an answer.
But Rosa Alfari said eagerly, “Lord, child, will
you go with me? Will you really?”
Giannita came out into the shop, red with pleasure.
“If I will!” she said. “I have not been in Catania
for twelve years.”
Rosa Alfari looked delightedly at her; Giannita
was tall and strong, her eyes gay, and she had a
careless smile on her lips. She was a splendid
travelling companion.
“Get ready,” said the old woman. “You will go
with me at ten o’clock; it is settled.”
The next day Giannita wandered about the streets
of Catania. She was thinking the whole time of
her god-sister. She was strangely moved to be so
near her again. She loved her god-sister, Giannita,
and she did it not only because San Giovanni has
commanded people to love their god-brothers and
sisters. She had adored the little child in the silk
dress; she was the most beautiful thing she had ever
seen. She had almost become her idol.
She knew this much about her sister, that she
was still unmarried and lived in Catania. Her
mother was dead, and she had not been willing to
leave her father, and had stayed as hostess in his
house. “I must manage to see her,” thought
Giannita.
Whenever Giannita met a well-appointed carriage
she thought: “Perhaps it is my god-sister
driving there.” And she stared at everybody to see
if any of them was like the little girl with the thick
hair and the big eyes.
Her heart began to beat wildly. She had always
longed for her god-sister. She herself was still
unmarried, because she liked a young wood-carver,
Gaetano Alagona, and he had never shown the
slightest desire to marry her. Giannita had often
been angry with him for that, and not least had it
irritated her never to be able to invite her god-sister
to her wedding.
She had been so proud of her, too. She had
thought herself finer than the others, because she
had such a god-sister. What if she should now go
to see her, since she was in the town? It would
give a lustre to the whole journey.
As she thought and thought of it, a newspaper-boy
came running. “Giornale da Sicilia,” he called.
“The Palmeri affair! Great embezzlements!”
Giannita seized the boy by the neck as he rushed
by. “What are you saying?” she screamed. “You
lie, you lie!” and she was ready to strike him.
“Buy my paper, signora, before you strike me,”
said the boy. Giannita bought the paper and began
to read. She found in it without difficulty the
Palmeri affair.
“Since this case is to be tried to-day in the
courts,” wrote the paper, “we will give an account
of it.”
Giannita read and read. She read it over and over
before she understood. There was not a muscle in
her body which did not begin to tremble with horror
when she at last comprehended it.
Her god-sister’s father, who had owned great
vineyards, had been ruined, because the blight had
laid them waste. And that was not the worst. He
had also dissipated a charitable fund which had
been intrusted to him. He was arrested, and to-day
he was to be tried.
Giannita crushed the newspaper together, threw
it into the street and trampled on it. It deserved
no better for bringing such news.
Then she stood quite crushed that this should
meet her when she came to Catania for the first
time in twelve years. “Lord God,” she said, “is
there any meaning in it?”
At home, in Diamante, no one would ever have
taken the trouble to tell her what was going on.
Was it not destiny that she should be here on the
very day of the trial?
“Listen, Donna Alfari,” she said; “you may do
as you like, but I must go to the court.”
There was a decision about Giannita. Nothing
could disturb her. “Do you not understand that it is
for this, and not for your sake, that God has induced
you to take me with you to Catania?” she said to
Rosa Alfari.
Giannita did not doubt for a moment that there
was something supernatural in it all.
Rosa Alfari must needs let her go, and she found
her way to the Palace of Justice. She stood among
the street boys and riff-raff, and saw Cavaliere
Palmeri on the bench of the accused. He was a fine
gentleman, with a white, pointed beard and moustache.
Giannita recognized him.
She heard that he was condemned to six months’
imprisonment, and Giannita thought she saw even
more plainly that she had come there as an emissary
from God. “Now my god-sister must need me,”
she thought.
She went out into the street again and asked her
way to the Palazzo Palmeri.
On the way a carriage drove by her. She looked
up, and her eyes met those of the lady who sat in
the carriage. At the same moment something told
her that this was her god-sister. She who was driving
was pale and bent and had beseeching eyes.
Giannita loved her from the first sight. “It is you
who have given me pleasure many times,” she said,
“because I expected pleasure from you. Now perhaps
I can pay you back.”
Giannita felt filled with devotion when she went
up the high, white marble steps to the Palazzo
Palmeri, but suddenly a doubt struck her. “What
can God wish me to do for one who has grown up
in such magnificence?” she thought. “Does our
Lord forget that I am only poor Giannita from
Diamante?”
She told a servant to greet Signorina Palmeri and
say to her that her god-sister wished to speak to
her. She was surprised when the servant came back
and said that she could not be received that day.
Should she be content with that? Oh, no; oh, no!
“Tell the signorina that I am going to wait here
the whole day, for I must speak to her.”
“The signorina is going to move out of the
palace in half an hour,” said the servant.
Giannita was beside herself. “But I am her god-sister,
her god-sister, do you not understand?” she
said to the man. “I must speak to her.” The servant
smiled, but did not move.
But Giannita would not be turned away. Was
she not sent by God? He must understand, understand,
she said, and raised her voice. She was from
Diamante and had not been in Catania for twelve
years. Until yesterday afternoon at four o’clock she
had not thought of coming here. He must understand,
not until yesterday afternoon at four o’clock.
The servant stood motionless. Giannita was ready
to tell him the whole story to move him, when the
door was thrown open. Her god-sister stood on the
threshold.
“Who is speaking of yesterday at four o’clock?”
she said.
“It is a stranger, Signorina Micaela.”
Then Giannita rushed forward. It was not at all
a stranger. It was her god-sister from Diamante,
who came here twelve years ago with Donna Elisa.
Did she not remember her? Did she not remember
that they had divided a pomegranate?
The signorina did not listen to that. “What was
it that happened yesterday at four o’clock?” she
asked, with great anxiety.
“I then got God’s command to go to you, god-sister,”
said Giannita.
The other looked at her in terror. “Come with
me,” she said, as if afraid that the servant should
hear what Giannita wished to say to her.
She went far into the apartment before she stopped.
Then she turned so quickly towards Giannita that
she was frightened. “Tell me instantly!” she said.
“Do not torture me; let me hear it instantly!”
She was as tall as Giannita, but very unlike her.
She was more delicately made, and she, the woman
of the world, had a much more wild and untamed
appearance than the country girl. Everything she
felt showed in her face. She did not try to conceal
it.
Giannita was so astonished at her violence that
she could not answer at first.
Then her god-sister lifted her arms in despair
over her head and the words streamed from her lips.
She said that she knew that Giannita had been
commanded by God to bring her word of new misfortunes.
God hated her, she knew it.
Giannita clasped her hands. God hate her! on
the contrary, on the contrary!
“Yes, yes,” said Signorina Palmeri. “It is so.”
And as she was inwardly afraid of the message
Giannita had for her, she began to talk. She did
not let her speak; she interrupted her constantly.
She seemed to be so terrified by everything that had
happened to her during the last days that she could
not at all control herself.
Giannita must understand that God hated her, she
said. She had done something so terrible. She
had forsaken her father, failed her father. Giannita
must have read the last account. Then she burst
out again in passionate questionings. Why did she
not tell her what she wished to tell her? She did not
expect anything but bad news. She was prepared.
But poor Giannita never got a chance to speak;
as soon as she began, the signorina became frightened
and interrupted her. She told her story as if
to induce Giannita not to be too hard to her.
Giannita must not think that her unhappiness
only came from the fact of her no longer having her
carriage, or a box at the theatre, or beautiful dresses,
or servants, or even a roof over her head. Neither
was it enough that she had now lost all her friends,
so that she did not at all know where she should ask
for shelter. Neither was it misfortune enough that
she felt such shame that she could not raise her eyes
to any one’s face.
But there was something else much worse.
She sat down, and was silent a moment, while
she rocked to and fro in agony. But when Giannita
began to speak, she interrupted her.
Giannita could not think how her father had loved
her. He had always had her live in splendor and
magnificence, like a princess.
She had not done much for him; only let him
think out delightful things to amuse her. It had
been no sacrifice to remain unmarried, for she had
never loved any one like her father, and her own
home had been finer than any one else’s.
But one day her father had come and said to her,
“They wish to arrest me. They are spreading the
report that I have stolen, but it is not true.” Then
she had believed him, and helped him to hide from
the Carabinieri. And they had looked for him in
vain in Catania, on Etna, over the whole of Sicily.
But when the police could not find Cavaliere
Palmeri, the people began to say: “He is a fine
gentleman, and they are fine gentlemen who help
him; otherwise they would have found him long
ago.” And the prefect in Catania had come to her.
She received him smiling, and the prefect came as
if to talk of roses, and the beautiful weather. Then
he said: “Will the signorina look at this little
paper? Will the signorina read this little letter?
Will the signorina observe this little signature?”
She read and read. And what did she see? Her
father was not innocent. Her father had taken the
money of others.
When the prefect had left her, she had gone to
her father. “You are guilty,” she said to him.
“You may do what you will, but I cannot help you
any more.” Oh, she had not known what she said!
She had always been very proud. She had not been
able to bear to have their name stamped with dishonor.
She had wished for a moment that her
father had been dead, rather than that this had
happened to her. Perhaps she had also said it to
him. She did not rightly know what she had said.
But after that God had forsaken her. The most
terrible things had happened. Her father had taken
her at her word. He had gone and given himself
up. And ever since he had been in prison he had
not been willing to see her. He did not answer her
letters, and the food that she sent him he sent back
untouched. That was the most dreadful thing of all.
He seemed to think that she wished to kill him.
She looked at Giannita as anxiously as if she
awaited her sentence of death.
“Why do you not say to me what you have to
say?” she exclaimed. “You are killing me!”
But it was impossible for her to force herself to
be silent.
“You must know,” she continued, “that this
palace is sold, and the purchaser has let it to an
English lady, who is to move in to-day. Some of
her things were brought in already yesterday, and
among them was a little image of Christ.
“I caught sight of it as I passed through the
vestibule, Giannita. They had taken it out of a
trunk, and it lay there on the floor. It had been so
neglected that no one took any trouble about it.
Its crown was dented, and its dress dirty, and all the
small ornaments which adorned it were rusty and
broken. But when I saw it lying on the floor, I
took it up and carried it into the room and placed
it on a table. And while I did so, it occurred to
me that I would ask its help. I knelt down before
it and prayed a long time. ‘Help me in my great
need!’ I said to the Christchild.
“While I prayed, it seemed to me that the image
wished to answer me. I lifted my head, and the
child stood there as dull as before, but a clock began
to strike just then. It struck four, and it was as if
it had said four words. It was as if the Christchild
had answered a fourfold yes to my prayer.
“That gave me courage, Giannita, so that to-day
I drove to the Palace of Justice to see my father.
But he never turned his eyes toward me during the
whole time he stood before his judges.
“I waited until they were about to lead him away,
and threw myself on my knees before him in one of
the narrow passages. Giannita, he let the soldiers
lead me away without giving me a word.
“So, you see, God hates me. When I heard you
speak of yesterday afternoon at four o’clock, I was
so frightened. The Christchild sends me a new
misfortune, I thought. It hates me for having
failed my father.”
When she had said that, she was at last silent and
listened breathlessly for what Giannita should say.
And Giannita told her story to her.
“See, see, is it not wonderful?” she said at the
end. “I have not been in Catania for twelve years,
and then I come here quite unexpectedly. And I
know nothing at all; but as soon as I set my foot
on the street here, I hear your misfortune. God has
sent a message to me, I said to myself. He has
called me here to help my god-sister.”
Signorina Palmeri’s eyes were turned anxiously
questioning towards her. Now the new blow was
coming. She gathered all her courage to meet it.
“What do you wish me to do for you, god-sister?”
said Giannita. “Do you know what I thought as I
was walking through the streets? I will ask her if
she will go with me to Diamante, I thought. I
know an old house there, where we could live
cheaply. And I would embroider and sew, so that
we could support ourselves. When I was out in
the street I thought that it might be, but now I
understand that it is impossible, impossible. You
require something more of life; but tell me if I can
do anything for you. You shall not thrust me away,
for God has sent me.”
The signorina bent towards Giannita. “Well?”
she said anxiously.
“You shall let me do what I can for you, for I
love you,” said Giannita, and fell on her knees and
put her arms about her.
“Have you nothing else to say?” asked the
signorina.
“I wish I had,” said Giannita, “but I am only a
poor girl.”
It was wonderful to see how the features of the
young signorina’s face softened; how her color came
back and how her eyes began to shine. Now it was
plain that she had great beauty.
“Giannita,” she said, low and scarcely audibly,
“do you think that it is a miracle? Do you think
that God can let a miracle come to pass for my
sake?”
“Yes, yes,” whispered Giannita back.
“I prayed the Christchild that he should help me,
and he sends you to me. Do you think that it was
the Christchild who sent you, Giannita?”
“Yes, it was; it was!”
“Then God has not forsaken me, Giannita?”
“No, God has not forsaken you.”
The god-sisters sat and wept for a while. It was
quite quiet in the room. “When you came, Giannita,
I thought that nothing was left me but to kill myself,”
she said at last. “I did not know where to
turn, and God hated me.”
“But tell me now what I can do for you, god-sister,”
said Giannita.
As an answer the other drew her to her and
kissed her.
“But it is enough that you are sent by the little
Christchild,” she said. “It is enough that I know
that God has not forsaken me.”
Micaela Palmeri was on her way to Diamante with
Giannita.
They had taken their places in the post-carriage
at three o’clock in the morning, and had driven up
the beautiful road over the lower slopes of Etna,
circling round the mountain. But it had been quite
dark. They had not seen anything of the surrounding
country.
The young signorina by no means lamented over
that. She sat with closed eyes and buried herself
in her sorrow. Even when it began to grow light,
she would not lift her eyes to look out. It was not
until they were quite near Diamante that Giannita
could persuade her to look at the landscape.
“Look! Here is Diamante; this is to be your
home,” she said.
Then Micaela Palmeri, to the right of the road,
saw mighty Etna, that cut off a great piece of
the sky. Behind the mountain the sun was rising,
and when the upper edge of the sun’s disc appeared
above the line of the mountain, it looked as if the
white summit began to burn and send out sparks
and rays.
Giannita entreated her to look at the other side.
And on the other side she saw the whole jagged
mountain chain, which surrounds Etna like a towered
wall, glowing red in the sunrise.
But Giannita pointed in another direction. It
was not that she was to look at, not that.
Then she lowered her eyes and looked down into
the black valley. There the ground shone like
velvet, and the white Simeto foamed along in the
depths of the valley.
But still she did not turn her eyes in the right
direction.
At last she saw the steep Monte Chiaro rising
out of the black, velvet-lined valley, red in the
morning light and encircled by a crown of shady
palms. On its summit she saw a town flanked with
towers, and encompassed by a wall, and with all its
windows and weather-vanes glittering in the light.
At that sight she seized Giannita’s arm and asked
her if it was a real town, and if people lived there.
She believed that it was one of heaven’s cities,
and that it would disappear like a vision. She was
certain that no mortal had ever passed up the path
that from the edge of the valley went in great curves
over to Monte Chiaro and then zigzagged up the
mountain, disappearing through the dark gates of
the town.
But when she came nearer to Diamante, and saw
that it was of the earth, and real, tears rose to her
eyes. It moved her that the earth still held all this
beauty for her. She had believed that, since it had
been the scene of all her misfortunes, she would
always find it gray and withered and covered with
thistles and poisonous growths.
She entered poor Diamante with clasped hands, as
if it were a sanctuary. And it seemed to her as if this
town could offer her as much happiness as beauty.
A few days later Gaetano was standing in his workshop,
cutting grape-leaves on rosary beads. It was
Sunday, but Gaetano did not feel it on his conscience
that he was working, for it was a work in
God’s honor.
A great restlessness and anxiety had come over
him. It had come into his mind that the time he
had been living at peace with Donna Elisa was now
drawing to a close, and he thought that he must
soon start out into the world.
For great poverty had come to Sicily, and he saw
want wandering from town to town and from house
to house like the plague, and it had come to Diamante
also.
No one ever came now to Donna Elisa’s shop to
buy anything. The little images of the saints that
Gaetano made stood in close rows on the shelves,
and the rosaries hung in great bunches under the
counter. And Donna Elisa was in great want and
sorrow, because she could not earn anything.
That was a sign to Gaetano that he must leave
Diamante, go out into the world, emigrate if there
was no other way. For it could not be working to
the honor of God to carve images that never were
worshipped, and to turn rosary beads that never
glided through a petitioner’s fingers.
It seemed to him that, somewhere in the world,
there must be a beautiful, newly built cathedral,
with finished walls, but whose interior yet stood
shivering in nakedness. It awaited Gaetano’s coming
to carve the choir chairs, the altar-rail, the
pulpit, the lectern, and the shrine. His heart ached
with longing for that work which was waiting.
But there was no such cathedral in Sicily, for
there no one ever thought of building a new church;
it must be far away in such lands as Florida or
Argentina, where the earth is not yet overcrowded
with holy buildings.
He felt at the same time trembling and happy,
and had begun to work with redoubled zeal in order
that Donna Elisa should have something to sell
while he was away earning great fortunes for her.
Now he was waiting for but one more sign from
God before he decided on the journey. And this
was that he should have the strength to speak to
Donna Elisa of his longing to go. For he knew that
it would cause her such sorrow that he did not know
how he could bring himself to speak of it.
While he stood and thought Donna Elisa came
into the workshop. Then he said to himself that
this day he could not think of saying it to her, for
to-day Donna Elisa was happy. Her tongue wagged
and her face beamed.
Gaetano asked himself when he had seen her so.
Ever since the famine had come, it had been as if
they had lived without light in one of the caves of
Etna.
Why had Gaetano not been with her in the square
and heard the music? asked Donna Elisa. Why did
he never come to hear and see her brother, Don
Ferrante? Gaetano, who only saw him when he
stood in the shop with his tufts of hair and his short
jacket, did not know what kind of a man he was.
He considered him an ugly old tradesman, who had
a wrinkled face and a rough beard. No one knew
Don Ferrante who had not seen him on Sunday,
when he conducted the music.
That day he had donned a new uniform. He
wore a three-cornered hat with green, red, and white
feathers, silver on his collar, silver-fringed epaulets,
silver braid on his breast, and a sword at his
side. And when he stepped up to the conductor’s
platform the wrinkles had been smoothed out of his
face and his figure had grown erect. He could
almost have been called handsome.
When he had led Cavalleria, people had hardly
been able to breathe. What had Gaetano to say to
that, that the big houses round the market-place had
sung too? From the black Palazzo Geraci, Donna
Elisa had distinctly heard a love song, and from the
convent, empty as it was, a beautiful hymn had
streamed out over the market-place.
And when there was a pause in the music the
handsome advocate Favara, who had been dressed in
a black velvet coat and a big broad-brimmed hat
and a bright red necktie, had gone up to Don
Ferrante, and had pointed out over the open side
of the square, where Etna and the sea lay. “Don
Ferrante,” he had said, “you lift us toward the skies,
just as Etna does, and you carry us away into the
eternal, like the infinite sea.”
If Gaetano had seen Don Ferrante to-day he
would have loved him. At least he would have
been obliged to acknowledge his stateliness. When
he laid down his baton for a while and took the
advocate’s arm, and walked forward and back with
him on the flat stones by the Roman gate and the
Palazzo Geraci, every one could see that he could
well measure himself against the handsome Favara.
Donna Elisa sat on the stone bench by the cathedral,
in company with the wife of the syndic. And
Signora Voltaro had said quite suddenly, after sitting
for a while, watching Don Ferrante: “Donna
Elisa, your brother is still a young man. He may
still be married, in spite of his fifty years.”
And she, Donna Elisa, had answered that she
prayed heaven for it every day.
But she had hardly said it, when a lady dressed
in mourning came into the square. Never had anything
so black been seen before. It was not enough
that dress and hat and gloves were black; her veil
was so thick that it was impossible to believe that
there was a face behind it. Santissimo Dio! it
looked as if she had hung a pall over herself. And
she had walked slowly, and with a stoop. People
had almost feared, believing that it was a ghost.
Alas, alas! the whole market-place had been so
full of gayety! The peasants, who were at home
over Sunday, had stood there in great crowds in
holiday dress, with red shawls wound round their
necks. The peasant women on their way to the
cathedral had glided by, dressed in green skirts and
yellow neckerchiefs. A couple of travellers had
stood by the balustrade and looked at Etna; they
had been dressed in white. And all the musicians
in uniform, who had been almost as fine as Don
Ferrante, and the shining instruments, and the
carved cathedral façade! And the sunlight, and
Mongibello’s snow top—so near to-day that one
could almost touch it—had all been so gay.
Now, when the poor black lady came into the
midst of it all, they had stared at her, and some had
made the sign of the cross. And the children had
rushed down from the steps of the town-hall, where
they were riding on the railing, and had followed
her at a few feet’s distance. And even the lazy
Piero, who had been asleep in the corner of the
balustrade, had raised himself on his elbow. It had
been a resurrection, as if the black Madonna from
the cathedral had come strolling by.
But had no one thought that it was unkind that
all stared at the black lady? Had no one been
moved when she came so slowly and painfully?
Yes, yes; one had been touched, and that had
been Don Ferrante. He had the music in his heart;
he was a good man and he thought: “Curses on all
those funds that are gathered together for the poor,
and that only bring people misfortune! Is not that
poor Signorina Palmeri, whose father has stolen
from a charitable fund, and who is now so ashamed
that she dares not show her face?” And, as he
thought of it, Don Ferrante went towards the black
lady and met her just by the church door.
There he made her a bow, and mentioned his
name. “If I am not mistaken,” Don Ferrante had
said, “you are Signorina Palmeri. I have a favor
to ask of you.”
Then she had started and taken a step backwards,
as if to flee, but she had waited.
“It concerns my sister, Donna Elisa,” he had
said. “She knew your mother, signorina, and she
is consumed with a desire to make your acquaintance.
She is sitting here by the Cathedral. Let me take
you to her!”
And then Don Ferrante put her hand on his arm
and led her over to Donna Elisa. And she made
no resistance. Donna Elisa would like to see who
could have resisted Don Ferrante to-day.
Donna Elisa rose and went to meet the black
lady, and throwing back her veil, kissed her on both
cheeks.
But what a face, what a face! Perhaps it was
not pretty, but it had eyes that spoke, eyes that
mourned and lamented, even when the whole face
smiled. Yes, Gaetano perhaps would not wish to
carve or paint a Madonna from that face, for it was
too thin and too pale; but it is to be supposed
that our Lord knew what he was doing when he
did not put those eyes in a face that was rosy and
round.
When Donna Elisa kissed her, she laid her head
down on her shoulder, and a few short sobs shook
her. Then she looked up with a smile, and the
smile seemed to say: “Ah, does the world look so?
Is it so beautiful? Let me see it and smile at it!
Can a poor unfortunate really dare to look at it?
And to be seen? Can I bear to be seen?”
All that she had said without a word, only with
a smile. What a face, what a face!
But here Gaetano interrupted Donna Elisa.
“Where is she now?” he said. “I too must see
her.”
Then Donna Elisa looked Gaetano in the eyes.
They were glowing and clear, as if they were filled
with fire, and a dark flush rose to his temples.
“You will see her all in good time,” she said,
harshly. And she repented of every word she had
said.
Gaetano saw that she was afraid, and he understood
what she feared. It came into his mind to
tell her now that he meant to go away, to go all the
way to America.
Then he understood that the strange signorina
must be very dangerous. Donna Elisa was so sure
that Gaetano would fall in love with her that she
was almost glad to hear that he meant to go away.
For anything seemed better to her than a penniless
daughter-in-law, whose father was a thief.
One afternoon the old priest, Don Matteo, inserted
his feet into newly polished shoes, put on a newly
brushed soutane, and laid his cloak in the most
effective folds. His face shone as he went up the
street, and when he distributed blessings to the old
women spinning by the doorposts, it was with gestures
as graceful as if he had scattered roses.
The street along which Don Matteo was walking
was spanned by at least seven arches, as if every
house wished to bind itself to a neighbor. It ran
small and narrow down the mountain; it was half
street and half staircase; the gutters were always
overflowing, and there were always plenty of orange-skins
and cabbage-leaves to slip on. Clothes hung
on the line, from the ground up to the sky. Wet
shirt-sleeves and apron-strings were carried by the
wind right into Don Matteo’s face. And it felt
horrid and wet, as if Don Matteo had been touched
by a corpse.
At the end of the street lay a little dark square,
and there Don Matteo saw an old house, before
which he stopped. It was big, and square, and
almost without windows. It had two enormous
flights of steps, and two big doors with heavy locks.
And it had walls of black lava, and a “loggia,”
where green slime grew over the tiled floor, and
where the spider-webs were so thick that the nimble
lizards were almost held fast in them.
Don Matteo lifted the knocker, and knocked till
it thundered. All the women in the street began
to talk, and to question. All the washerwomen by
the fountain in the square dropped soap and wooden
clapper, and began to whisper, and ask, “What is
Don Matteo’s errand? Why does Don Matteo knock
on the door of an old, haunted house, where nobody
dares to live except the strange signorina, whose
father is in prison?”
But now Giannita opened the door for Don Matteo,
and conducted him through long passages, smelling
of mould and damp. In several places in the floor
the stones were loose, and Don Matteo could see
way down into the cellar, where great armies of rats
raced over the black earth floor.
As Don Matteo walked through the old house, he
lost his good-humor. He did not pass by a stairway
without suspiciously spying up it, and he could not
hear a rustle without starting. He was depressed
as before some misfortune. Don Matteo thought
of the little turbaned Moor who was said to show
himself in that house, and even if he did not see
him, he might be said to have felt him.
At last Giannita opened a door and showed the
priest into a room. The walls there were bare, as
in a stable; the bed was as narrow as a nun’s, and
over it hung a Madonna that was not worth three
soldi. The priest stood and stared at the little
Madonna till the tears rose to his eyes.
While he stood so Signorina Palmeri came into
the room. She kept her head bent and moved slowly,
as if wounded. When the priest saw her he wished
to say to her: “You and I, Signorina Palmeri, have
met in a strange old house. Are you here to study
the old Moorish inscriptions or to look for mosaics
in the cellar?” For the old priest was confounded
when he saw Signorina Palmeri. He could not
understand that the noble lady was poor. He could
not comprehend that she was living in the house of
the little Moor.
He said to himself that he must save her from
this haunted house, and from poverty. He prayed
to the tender Madonna for power to save her.
Thereupon he said to the signorina that he had
come with a commission from Don Ferrante Alagona.
Don Ferrante had confided to him that she had
refused his proposal of marriage. Why was that?
Did she not know that, although Don Ferrante
seemed to be poor as he stood in his shop, he was
really the richest man in Diamante? And Don
Ferrante was of an old Spanish family of great consideration,
both in their native country and in Sicily.
And he still owned the big house on the Corso that
had belonged to his ancestors. She should not have
said no to him.
While Don Matteo was speaking, he saw how the
signorina’s face grew stiff and white. He was
almost afraid to go on. He feared that she was
going to faint.
It was only with the greatest effort that she was
able to answer him. The words would not pass her
lips. It seemed as if they were too loathsome to
utter. She quite understood, she said, that Don
Ferrante would like to know why she had refused
his proposal. She was infinitely touched and grateful
on account of it, but she could not be his wife.
She could not marry, for she brought dishonor and
disgrace with her as a marriage portion.
“If you marry an Alagona, dear signorina,” said
Don Matteo, “you need not fear that any one will
ask of what family you are. It is an honorable old
name. Don Ferrante and his sister, Donna Elisa,
are considered the first people in Diamante, although
they have lost all the family riches, and have to
keep a shop. Don Ferrante knows well enough that
the glory of the old name would not be tarnished by
a marriage with you. Have no scruples for that,
signorina, if otherwise you may be willing to marry
Don Ferrante.”
But Signorina Palmeri repeated what she had said.
Don Ferrante should not marry the daughter of a
convict. She sat pale and despairing, as if wishing
to practise saying those terrible words. She said
that she did not wish to enter a family which would
despise her. She succeeded in saying it in a hard,
cold voice, without emotion.
But the more she said, the greater became Don
Matteo’s desire to help her. He felt as if he had
met a queen who had been torn from her throne. A
burning desire came over him to set the crown again
upon her head, and fasten the mantle about her
shoulders.
Therefore Don Matteo asked her if her father
were not soon coming out of prison, and he wondered
what he would live on.
The signorina answered that he would live on her
work.
Don Matteo asked her very seriously whether she
had thought how her father, who had always been
rich, could bear poverty.
Then she was silent. She tried to move her lips
to answer, but could not utter a sound.
Don Matteo talked and talked. She looked more
and more frightened, but she did not yield.
At last he knew not what to do. How could he
save her from that haunted house, from poverty, and
from the burden of dishonor that weighed her down?
But then his eyes chanced to fall on the little image
of the Madonna over the bed. So the young signorina
was a believer.
The spirit of inspiration came to Don Matteo.
He felt that God had sent him to save this poor
woman. When he spoke again, there was a new
ring in his voice. He understood that it was not he
alone who spoke.
“My daughter,” he said, and rose, “you will
marry Don Ferrante for your father’s sake! It is
the Madonna’s will, my daughter.”
There was something impressive in Don Matteo’s
manner. No one had ever seen him so before.
The signorina trembled, as if a spirit voice had
spoken to her, and she clasped her hands.
“Be a good and faithful wife to Don Ferrante,”
said Don Matteo, “and the Madonna promises you
through me that your father will have an old age
free of care.”
Then the signorina saw that it was an inspiration
which guided Don Matteo. It was God speaking
through him. And she sank down on her knees,
and bent her head. “I shall do what you command,”
she said.
But when the priest, Don Matteo, came out of the
house of the little Moor and went up the street, he
suddenly took out his breviary and began to read.
And although the wet clothes struck him on the
cheek, and the little children and the orange-peels
lay in wait for him, he only looked in his book. He
needed to hear the great words of God.
For within that black house everything had
seemed certain and sure, but when he came out into
the sunshine he began to worry about the promise
he had given in the name of the Madonna.
Don Matteo prayed and read, and read and prayed.
Might the great God in heaven protect the woman,
who had believed him and obeyed him as if he had
been a prophet!
Don Matteo turned the corner into the Corso.
He struck against donkeys on their way home, with
travelling signorinas on their backs; he walked
right into peasants coming home from their work,
and he pushed against the old women spinning, and
entangled their thread. At last he came to a little,
dark shop.
It was a shop without a window which was at the
corner of an old palace. The threshold was a foot
high; the floor was of trampled earth; the door
almost always stood open to let in the light. The
counter was besieged by peasants and mule-drivers.
And behind the counter stood Don Ferrante.
His beard grew in tufts; his face was in one wrinkle;
his voice was hoarse with rage. The peasants
demanded an immoderately high payment for the
loads that they had driven up from Catania.
The people of Diamante soon perceived that Don
Ferrante’s wife, Donna Micaela, was nothing but a
great child. She could never succeed in looking
like a woman of the world, and she really was nothing
but a child. And nothing else was to be expected,
after the life she had led.
Of the world she had seen nothing but its
theatres, museums, ball-rooms, promenades, and race
courses; and all such are only play places. She
had never been allowed to go alone on the street.
She had never worked. No one had ever spoken
seriously to her. She had not even been in love
with any one.
After she had moved into the summer palace she
forgot her cares as gayly and easily as a child would
have done. And it appeared that she had the playful
disposition of a child, and that she could transform
and change everything about her.
The old dirty Saracen town Diamante seemed
like a paradise to Donna Micaela. She said that
she had not been at all surprised when Don Ferrante
had spoken to her in the square, nor when he had
proposed to her. It seemed quite natural to her
that such things should happen in Diamante. She
had seen instantly that Diamante was a town where
rich men went and sought out poor, unfortunate
signorinas to make them mistresses of their black
lava palaces.
She also liked the summer-palace. The faded
chintz, a hundred years old, that covered the furniture
told her stories. And she found a deep meaning
in all the love scenes between the shepherds
and shepherdesses on the walls.
She had soon found out the secret of Don Ferrante.
He was no ordinary shop-keeper in a side street.
He was a man of ambition, who was collecting
money in order to buy back the family estate on
Etna and the palace in Catania and the castle on the
mainland. And if he went in short jacket and
pointed cap, like a peasant, it was in order the
sooner to be able to appear as a grandee of Spain
and prince of Sicily.
After they were married Don Ferrante always
used every evening to put on a velvet coat, take
his guitar under his arm, and place himself on the
stairway to the gallery in the music-room in the
summer-palace and sing canzoni. While he sang,
Donna Micaela dreamed that she had been married
to the noblest man in beautiful Sicily.
When Donna Micaela had been married a few
months her father was released from prison and
came to live at the summer palace with his daughter.
He liked the life in Diamante and became friends
with every one. He liked to talk to the bee-raisers
and vineyard workers whom he met at the Café
Europa, and he amused himself every day by riding
about on the slopes of Etna to look for antiquities.
But he had by no means forgiven his daughter.
He lived under her roof, but he treated her like a
stranger, and never showed her affection. Donna
Micaela let him go on and pretended not to notice
it. She could not take his anger seriously any
longer. That old man, whom she loved, believed
that he would be able to go on hating her year after
year! He would live near her, hear her speak, see
her eyes, be encompassed by her love, and he could
continue to hate her! Ah, he knew neither her nor
himself. She used to sit and imagine how it would
be when he must acknowledge that he was conquered;
when he must come and show her that he
loved her.
One day Donna Micaela was standing on her
balcony waving her hand to her father, who rode
away on a small, dark-brown pony, when Don Ferrante
came up from the shop to speak to her. And
what Don Ferrante wished to say was that he had
succeeded in getting her father admitted to “The
Brotherhood of the Holy Heart” in Catania.
But although Don Ferrante spoke very distinctly,
Donna Micaela seemed not to understand him at all.
He had to repeat to her that he had been in Catania
the day before, and that he had succeeded in getting
Cavaliere Palmeri into a brotherhood. He was to
enter it in a month.
She only asked: “What does that mean? What
does that mean?”
“Oh,” said Don Ferrante, “can I not have wearied
of buying your father expensive wines from the
mainland, and may I not sometimes wish to ride
Domenico?”
When he had said that, he wished to go. There
was nothing more to say.
“But tell me first what kind of a brotherhood it
is,” she said.—“What it is! A lot of old men
live there.”—“Poor old men?”—“Oh, well, not so
rich.”—“They do not have a room to themselves, I
suppose?”—“No, but very big dormitories.”—“And
they eat from tin basins on a table without
a cloth?”—“No, they must be china.”—“But
without a table-cloth?”—“Lord, if the table is
clean!”
He added, to silence her: “Very good people live
there. If you like to know it, it was not without
hesitation they would receive Cavaliere Palmeri.”
Thereupon Don Ferrante went. His wife was in
despair, but also very angry. She thought that he
had divested himself of rank and class and become
only a plain shop-keeper.
She said aloud, although no one heard her, that
the summer palace was only a big, ugly old house,
and Diamante a poor and miserable town.
Naturally, she would not allow her father to leave
her. Don Ferrante would see.
When they had eaten their dinner Don Ferrante
wished to go to the Café Europa and play dominoes,
and he looked about for his hat. Donna Micaela
took his hat and followed him out to the gallery
that ran round the court-yard. When they were far
enough from the dining-room for her father not to
be able to hear them, she said passionately:—
“Have you anything against my father?”—“He
is too expensive.”—“But you are rich.”—“Who
has given you such an idea? Do you not see how
I am struggling?”—“Save in some other way.”—“I
shall save in other ways. Giannita has had presents
enough.”—“No, economize on something for
me.”—“You! you are my wife; you shall have it
as you have it.”
She stood silent a moment. She was thinking
what she could say to frighten him.
“If I am now your wife, do you know why it is?”—“Oh
yes.”—“Do you also know what the priest
promised me?”—“That is his affair, but I do what
I can.”—“You have heard, perhaps, that I broke
with all my friends in Catania when I heard that
my father had sought help from them and had not
got it.”—“I know it.”—“And that I came here to
Diamante that he might escape from seeing them
and being ashamed?”—“They will not be coming
to the brotherhood.”—“When you know all this,
are you not afraid to do anything against my father?”—“Afraid?
I am not afraid of my wife.”
“Have I not made you happy?” she asked.—“Yes,
of course,” he answered indifferently.—“Have
you not enjoyed singing to me? Have you
not liked me to have considered you the most
generous man in Sicily? Have you not been glad
that I was happy in the old palace? Why should it
all come to an end?”
He laid his hand on her shoulder and warned her.
“Remember that you are not married to a fine gentleman
from the Via Etnea!”—“Oh, no!”—“Up here
on the mountain the ways are different. Here wives
obey their husbands. And we do not care for fair
words. But if we want them we know how to get
them.”
She was frightened when he spoke so. In a
moment she was on her knees before him. It was
dark, but enough light came from the other rooms
for him to see her eyes. In burning prayer, glorious
as stars, they were fixed on him.
“Be merciful! You do not know how much I love
him!” Don Ferrante laughed. “You ought to
have begun with that. Now you have made me
angry.” She still knelt and looked up at him.
“It is well,” he said, “for you hereafter to know
how you shall behave.” Still she knelt. Then he
asked: “Shall I tell him, or will you?”
Donna Micaela was ashamed that she had humbled
herself. She rose and answered imperiously: “I
shall tell him, but not till the last day. And you
shall not let him notice anything.”
“No, I shall not,” he said, and mimicked her.
“The less talk about it, the better for me.”
But when he was gone Donna Micaela laughed
at Don Ferrante for believing that he could do
what he liked with her father. She knew some one
who would help her.
In the Cathedral at Diamante there is a miracle-working
image of the Madonna, and this is its
story.
Long, long ago a holy hermit lived in a cave on
Monte Chiaro. And this hermit dreamed one night
that in the harbor of Catania lay a ship loaded with
images of the saints, and among these there was one
so holy that Englishmen, who are richer than anybody
else, would have paid its weight in gold for it.
As soon as the hermit awoke from this dream he
started for Catania. In the harbor lay a ship loaded
with images of the saints, and among the images
was one of the holy Madonna that was more holy
than all the others. The hermit begged the captain
not to carry that image away from Sicily, but to
give it to him. But the captain refused. “I shall
take it to England,” he said, “and the Englishmen
will pay its weight in gold.” The hermit renewed
his petitions. At last the captain had his men
drive him on shore, and hoisted his sail to depart.
It looked as if the holy image was to be lost to
Sicily; but the hermit knelt down on one of the
lava blocks on the shore and prayed to God that
it might not be. And what happened? The ship
could not go. The anchor was up, the sail hoisted,
and the wind fresh; but for three long days the
ship lay as motionless as if it had been a rock. On
the third day the captain took the Madonna image
and threw it to the hermit, who still lay on the
shore. And immediately the ship glided out of the
harbor. The hermit carried the image to Monte
Chiaro, and it is still in Diamante, where it has a
chapel and an altar in the Cathedral.
Donna Micaela was now going to this Madonna
to pray for her father.
She sought out the Madonna’s chapel, which was
built in a dark corner of the Cathedral. The walls
were covered with votive offerings, with silver hearts
and pictures that had been given by all those who
had been helped by the Madonna of Diamante.
The image was hewn in black marble, and when
Donna Micaela saw it standing in its niche, high
and dark, and almost hidden by a golden railing, it
seemed to her that its face was beautiful, and that
it shone with mildness. And her heart was filled
with hope.
Here was the powerful queen of heaven; here was
the good Mother Mary; here was the afflicted
mother who understood every sorrow; here was one
who would not allow her father to be taken from her.
Here she would find help. She would need only
to fall on her knees and tell her trouble, to have the
black Madonna come to her assistance.
While she prayed she felt certain that Don
Ferrante was even at that moment changing his
mind. When she came home he would come to
meet her and say to her that she might keep her
father.
It was a morning three weeks later.
Donna Micaela came out of the summer palace to
go to early mass; but before she set out to the
church, she went into Donna Elisa’s shop to buy a
wax candle. It was so early that she had been
afraid that the shop would not be open; but it was,
and she was glad to be able to take a gift with her
to the black Madonna.
The shop was empty when Donna Micaela came
in, and she pushed the door forward and back to
make the bell ring and call Donna Elisa in. At
last some one came, but it was not Donna Elisa; it
was a young man.
That young man was Gaetano, whom Donna
Micaela scarcely knew. For Gaetano had heard so
much about her that he was afraid to meet her, and
every time she had come over to Donna Elisa he had
shut himself into his workshop. Donna Micaela
knew no more about him than that he was to leave
Diamante, and that he was always carving holy
images for Donna Elisa to have something to sell
while he was earning great fortunes away in
Argentina.
When she now saw Gaetano, she found him so
handsome that it made her glad to look at him. She
was full of anxiety as a hunted animal, but no sorrow
in the world could prevent her from feeling joy at
the sight of anything so beautiful.
She asked herself where she had seen him before,
and she remembered that she had seen his face in
her father’s wonderful collection of pictures in the
palace at Catania. There he had not been in working
blouse; he had had a black felt hat with long,
flowing, white feathers, and a broad lace collar over
a velvet coat. And he had been painted by the
great master Van Dyck.
Donna Micaela asked Gaetano for a wax candle,
and he began to look for one. And now, strangely
enough, Gaetano, who saw the little shop every day,
seemed to be quite strange there. He looked for
the wax candle in the drawers of rosaries and in the
little medallion boxes. He could not find anything,
and he grew so impatient that he turned out the
drawers and broke the boxes open. The destruction
and disorder were terrible. And it would be a real
grief to Donna Elisa when she came home.
But Donna Micaela liked to see how he shook the
thick hair back from his face, and how his gold-colored
eyes glowed like yellow wine when the sun
shines through it. It was a consolation to see any
one so beautiful.
Then Donna Micaela asked pardon of the noble
gentlemen whom the great Van Dyck had painted.
For she had often said to them: “Ah, signor, you
have been beautiful, but you never could have been
so dark and so pale and so melancholy. And you
did not possess such eyes of fire. All that the
master who painted you has put into your face.”
But when Donna Micaela saw Gaetano she found
that it all could be in a face, and that the master
had not needed to add anything. Therefore she
asked the noble old gentlemen’s pardon.
At last Gaetano had found the long candle-boxes
that stood under the counter, where they had always
stood. And he gave her the candle, but he did not
know what it cost, and said that she could come in
and pay it later. When she asked him for something
to wrap it in he was in such trouble that she
had to help him to look.
It grieved her that such a man should think of
travelling to Argentina.
He let Donna Micaela wrap up the candle and
watched her while she did it. She wished she could
have asked him not to look at her now, when her
face reflected only hopelessness and misery.
Gaetano had not scrutinized her features more
than a moment before he sprang up on a little step-ladder,
took down an image from the topmost shelf,
and came back with it to her. It was a little gilded
and painted wooden angel, a little San Michele
fighting with the arch-fiend, which he had created
from paper and wadding.
He handed it to Donna Micaela and begged her to
accept it. He wished to give it to her, he said,
because it was the best he had ever carved. He
was so certain that it had greater power than his
other images that he had put it away on the top
shelf, so that no one might see and buy it. He
had forbidden Donna Elisa to sell it except to one
who had a great sorrow. And now Donna Micaela
was to take it.
She hesitated. She found him almost too daring.
But Gaetano begged her to look how well the
image was carved. She saw that the archangel’s
wings were ruffled with anger, and that Lucifer was
pressing his claws into the steel plate on his leg?
Did she see how San Michele was driving in his
spear, and how he was frowning and pressing his
lips together?
He wished to lay the little image in her hand, but
she gently pushed it away. She saw that it was
beautiful and spirited, she said, but she knew that
it could not help her. She thanked him for his
gift, but she would not accept it.
Then Gaetano seized the image and rolled it in
paper and put it back in its place.
And not until it was wrapped up and put away
did he speak to her.
But then he asked her why she came to buy wax
candles if she was not a believer. Did she mean to
say that she did not believe in San Michele? Did
she not know that he was the most powerful of the
angels, and that it was he who had vanquished
Lucifer and thrown him into Etna? Did she not
believe that it was true? Did she not know that
San Michele lost a wing-feather in the fight, and
that it was found in Caltanisetta? Did she know it
or not? Or what did she mean by San Michele not
being able to help her? Did she think that none of
the saints could help? And he, who was standing
in his workshop all day long, carving saints!—would
he do such a thing if there was no good in it?
Did she believe that he was an impostor?
But as Donna Micaela was just as strong a believer
as Gaetano, she thought that his speech was
unjust, and it irritated her to contradiction.
“It sometimes happens that the saints do not
help,” she said to him. And when Gaetano looked
unbelieving, she was seized by an uncontrollable
desire to convince him, and she said to him that
some one had promised her in the name of the
Madonna that, if she was a faithful wife to Don
Ferrante, her father should enjoy an old age free
of care. But now her husband wished to put her
father in a brotherhood, which was as wretched as a
poor-house and strict as a prison. And the Madonna
had not averted it; in eight days it would happen.
Gaetano listened to her with the greatest earnestness.
That was what induced her to confide the
whole story to him.
“Donna Micaela,” he said, “you must turn to the
black Madonna in the Cathedral.”
“So you think that I have not prayed to her?”
Gaetano flushed and said almost with anger: “You
will not say that you have turned in vain to the
black Madonna?”
“I have prayed to her in vain these last three
weeks—prayed to her, prayed to her.”
When Donna Micaela spoke of it she could scarcely
breathe. She wanted to weep over herself because
she had awaited help each day, and each day been
disappointed; and yet had known nothing better to
do than begin again with her prayers. And it was
visible on her face that her soul lived over and over
again what she had suffered, when each day she had
awaited an answer to her prayer, while the days
slipped by.
But Gaetano was unmoved; he stood smiling, and
drummed on one of the glass cases that stood on the
counter.
“Have you only prayed to the Madonna?” he
said.
Only prayed, only prayed! But she had also
promised her to lay aside all sins. She had gone to
the street where she had lived first, and nursed the
sick woman with the ulcerated leg. She never
passed a beggar without giving alms.
Only prayed! And she told him that if the
Madonna had had the power to help her, she ought
to have been satisfied with her prayers. She had
spent her days in the Cathedral. And the anguish,
the anguish that tortured her, should not that be
counted?
He only shrugged his shoulders. Had she not
tried anything else?
Anything else! But there was nothing in the
world that she had not tried. She had given silver
hearts and wax candles. Her rosary was never out
of her hand.
Gaetano irritated her. He would not count anything
that she had done; he only asked: “Nothing
else? Nothing else?”
“But you ought to understand,” she said. “Don
Ferrante does not give me so much money. I cannot
do more. At last I have succeeded in getting
some silk and cloth for an altar cloth. You ought
to understand!”
But Gaetano, who had daily intercourse with the
saints, and who knew the power and wildness of
enthusiasm that had filled them when they had
compelled God to obey their prayers, smiled scornfully
at Donna Micaela, who thought she could subjugate
the Madonna with wax candles and altar-cloths.
He understood very well, he answered. The
whole was clear to him. It was always so with
those miserable saints. Everybody called to them
for help, but few understood what they ought to do
to get their prayers granted. And then people said
that the saints had no power. All were helped who
knew how they ought to pray.
Donna Micaela looked up in eager expectation.
There was such strength and conviction in Gaetano’s
words that she began to believe that he would teach
her the right words of salvation.
Gaetano took the candle lying in front of her on
the counter and threw it down into the box again,
and told her what she had to do. He forbade her
to give the Madonna any gifts, or to pray to her, or
to do anything for the poor. He told her that he
would tear her altar-cloth to pieces if she sewed
another stitch on it.
“Show her, Donna Micaela, that it means something
to you,” he said, and fixed his eyes on her
with compelling force. “Good Lord, you must be
able to find something to do, to show her that it is
serious, and not play. You must be able to show
her that you will not live if you are not helped.
Do you mean to continue to be faithful to Don
Ferrante, if he sends your father away? I know
you do. If the Madonna has no need to fear what
you are going to do, why should she help you?”
Donna Micaela drew back. He came swiftly out
from behind the counter and seized her coat sleeve.
“Do you understand? You shall show her that
you can throw yourself away if you do not get help.
You shall throw yourself into sin and death if you
do not get what you want. That is the way to force
the saints.”
She tore herself from him and went without a
word. She hurried up the spiral street, came to
the Cathedral, and threw herself down in terror
before the altar of the black Madonna.
That happened one Saturday morning, and on
Sunday evening Donna Micaela saw Gaetano again.
For it was beautiful moonlight, and in Diamante it
is the custom on moonlight nights for all to leave
their homes and go out into the streets. As soon
as the inhabitants of the summer palace had come
outside their door they had met acquaintances.
Donna Elisa had taken Cavaliere Palmeri’s arm,
and the syndic Voltaro had joined Don Ferrante to
discuss the elections; but Gaetano came up to
Donna Micaela because he wished to hear if she had
followed his advice.
“Have you stopped sewing on that altar-cloth?”
he said.
But Donna Micaela answered that all day yesterday
she had sewn on it.
“Then it is you who understand what you are
doing, Donna Micaela.”
“Yes, now there is no help for it, Don Gaetano.”
She managed to keep them away from the others,
for there was something she wished to speak to him
about. And when they came to Porta Etnea, she
turned out through the gate, and they went along
the paths that wind under Monte Chiaro’s palm
groves.
They could not have walked on the streets filled
with people. Donna Micaela spoke so the people
in Diamante would have stoned her if they had
heard her.
She asked Gaetano if he had ever seen the black
Madonna in the Cathedral. She had not seen her
till yesterday. The Madonna perhaps had placed
herself in such a dark corner of the Cathedral so that
no one should be able to see her. She was so black,
and had a railing in front of her. No one could see
her.
But to-day Donna Micaela had seen her. To-day
the Madonna had had a festival, and she had been
moved from her niche. The floor and walls of her
chapel had been covered with white almond-blossoms,
and she herself had stood down on the altar, dark
and high, surrounded by the white glory.
But when Donna Micaela had seen the image she
had been filled with despair; for the image was no
Madonna. No, she had prayed to no Madonna.
Oh, a shame, a shame! It was plainly an old heathen
goddess. She had a helmet, not a crown; she had
no child on her arm; she had a shield. It was a
Pallas Athene. It was no Madonna. Oh, no; oh, no!
It was like the people of Diamante to worship
such an image. It was like them to set up such a
blasphemy and worship it! Did he know what was
the worst misfortune? Their Madonna was so ugly.
She was disfigured, and she had never been a work
of art. She was so ugly that one could not bear to
look at her.
And to have been deceived by all the thousand
votive offerings that hung in the chapel; to have
been fooled by all the legends about her! To have
wasted three weeks in praying to her! Why had
she not been helped? She was no Madonna, she
was no Madonna.
They walked along the path on the town wall
running around Monte Chiaro. The whole world
was white about them. A white mist wreathed the
base of the mountain, and the almond-trees on Etna
were quite white. Sometimes they passed under an
almond-tree, which arched them over with its glistening
branches, as thickly covered with flowers as if
they had been dipped in a bath of silver. The
moonlight shone so bright on the earth that everything
was divested of its color, and became white.
It seemed almost strange that it could not be felt,
that it did not warm, that it did not dazzle the eyes.
Donna Micaela wondered if it was the moonlight
that subdued Gaetano, so that he did not seize her,
and throw her down into Simeto, when she cursed
the black Madonna.
He walked silent and quiet at her side, but she
was afraid of what he might do. In spite of her
fear, she could not be silent.
What she had still to say was the most dreadful
of all. She said that she had tried all day long to
think of the real Madonna, and that she had recalled
to her mind all the images of her she had ever seen.
But it had all been in vain, because as soon as she
thought of the shining queen of heaven, the old
black goddess came and placed herself between
them. She saw her come like a dried-up and
officious old maid, and stand in front of the great
queen of heaven, so that now no Madonna existed
for her any longer. She believed that the latter was
angry with her because she had done so much for
the other, and that she hid her face and her grace
from her. And, on account of the false Madonna,
her father was now to suffer misfortune. Now she
would never be allowed to keep him in her home.
Now she would never win his forgiveness. Oh,
God! oh, God!
And all this she said to Gaetano, who honored the
black Madonna of Diamante more than anything else
in the world.
He now came close up to Donna Micaela, and she
feared that it was her last hour. She said in a faint
voice, as if to excuse herself: “I am mad. Grief is
driving me mad. I never sleep.”
But Gaetano’s only thought had been what a child
she was, and that she did not at all understand how
to meet life.
He hardly knew himself what he was doing when
he gently drew her to him and kissed her, because
she had gone so astray and was such a helpless
child.
She was so overcome with astonishment that she
did not even think of avoiding it. And she neither
screamed nor ran away. She understood instantly
that he had kissed her as he would a child. She
only walked quickly on and began to cry. That kiss
had made her feel how helpless and forsaken she
was, and how much she longed for some one strong
and good to take care of her.
It was terrible that, although she had both father
and husband, she should be so forsaken that this
stranger should need to feel sympathy for her.
When Gaetano saw her trembling with silent sobs,
he felt that he too began to shake. A strong and
violent emotion took possession of him.
He came close to her once more and laid his hand
on her arm. And his voice, when he spoke, was
not clear and loud; it was thick and choked with
emotion.
“Will you go with me to Argentina if the
Madonna does not help you?”
Then Donna Micaela shook him off. She felt
suddenly that he no longer talked to her as to a
child. She turned and went back into the town.
Gaetano did not follow her; he remained standing
in the path where he had kissed her, and it seemed
as if never again could he leave that place.
For two days Gaetano dreamed of Donna Micaela,
but on the third he came to the summer palace to
speak to her.
He found her on the roof-garden, and instantly told
her that she must flee with him.
He had thought it out since they parted. He had
stood in his workshop and considered everything
that had happened, and now it was all clear to
him.
She was a rose which the strong sirocco had torn
from its stem and roughly whirled through the air,
that she might find so much the better rest and
protection in a heart which loved her. She must
understand that God and all the saints wished and
desired that they should love one another, otherwise
these great misfortunes would not have brought her
near to him. If the Madonna refused to help her,
it was because she wished to set her free from
her promise of faithfulness to Don Ferrante. For
all the saints knew that she was his, Gaetano’s.
She was created for him; for him she had grown up;
for him she was alive. When he kissed her in the
path in the moonlight he had been like a lost child
who had wandered long in the desert and now at last
had come to the gate of his home. He possessed
nothing; but she was his home and his hearth; she
was the inheritance God had apportioned to him,
the only thing in the world that was his.
Therefore he could not leave her behind. She
must go with him; she must, she must!
He did not kneel before her. He stood and talked
to her with clenched hands and blazing eyes. He
did not ask her, he commanded her to go with him,
because she was his.
It was no sin to take her away; it was his duty.
What would become of her if he deserted her?
Donna Micaela listened to him without moving.
She sat silent a long time, even after he had ceased
speaking.
“When are you going?” she asked at length.
“I leave Diamante on Saturday.”
“And when does the steamer go?”
“It goes on Sunday evening from Messina.”
Donna Micaela rose and walked away towards the
terrace stairs.
“My father is to go to Catania on Saturday,” she
said. “I shall ask Don Ferrante to be allowed to
go with him.” She went down a few steps, as if
she did not mean to say anything more. Then she
stopped. “If you meet me in Catania, I will go
with you whither you will.”
She hurried down the steps. Gaetano did not try
to detain her. A time would come when she would
not run away from him. He knew that she could
not help loving him.
Donna Micaela passed the whole of Friday afternoon
in the Cathedral. She had come to the
Madonna and thrown herself down before her in
despair. “Oh, Madonna mia, Madonna mia! Shall
I be to-morrow a fugitive wife? Will the world
have the right to say all possible evil of me?”
Everything seemed equally terrible to her. She was
appalled at the thought of fleeing with Gaetano, and
she did not know how she could stay with Don Ferrante.
She hated the one as much as the other.
Neither of them seemed able to offer her anything
but unhappiness.
She saw that the Madonna would not help. And
now she asked herself if it really would not be a
greater misery to go with Gaetano than to remain
with Don Ferrante. Was it worth while to ruin
herself to be revenged on her husband?
She suffered great anguish. She had been driven
on by a devouring restlessness the whole week.
Worst of all, she could not sleep. She no longer
thought clearly or soundly.
Time and time again she returned to her prayers.
But then she thought: “The Madonna cannot help
me.” And so she stopped.
Then she came to think of the days of her former
sorrows, and remembered the little image that once
had helped her, when she had been in despair as
great as this.
She turned with passionate eagerness to the poor
little child. “Help me, help me! Help my old
father, and help me myself that I may not be
tempted to anger and revenge!”
When she went to bed that night, she was still
tormented and distressed. “If I could sleep only one
hour,” she said, “I should know what I wanted.”
Gaetano was to start on his travels early the next
morning. She came at last to the decision to speak
to him before he left, and tell him that she could
not go with him. She could not bear to be considered
a fallen woman.
She had hardly decided that before she fell asleep.
She did not wake till the clock struck nine the next
morning. And then Gaetano was already gone.
She could not tell him that she had changed her
mind.
But she did not think of it either. During her
sleep something new and strange had come over her.
It seemed to her that in the night she had lived in
heaven and was filled with bliss.
What saint is there who does more for man than
San Pasquale? Does it not sometimes happen to
you to stand and talk in some lonely place in the
woods or plains, and either to speak ill of some one
or to make plans for something foolish? Now please
notice that just as you are talking and talking you
hear a rustling near by, and look round in wonder to
see if some one has thrown a stone. It is useless to
look about long for the thrower of the stone. It
comes from San Pasquale. As surely as there is
justice in heaven, it was San Pasquale who heard
you talking evil, and threw one of his stones in
warning.
And any one who does not like to be disturbed in
his evil schemes may not console himself with the
thought that San Pasquale’s stones will soon come
to an end. They will not come to an end at all.
There are so many of them that they will hold out
till the last day of the world. For when San Pasquale
lived here on the earth, do you know by chance
what he did, do you know what he thought about
more than anything else? San Pasquale gave heed
to all the little flint-stones that lay in his path, and
gathered them up into his bag. You, signor, you
will scarcely stoop to pick up a soldo, but San
Pasquale picked up every little flint-stone, and when
he died, he took them all with him up to heaven,
and there he sits now, and throws them at everybody
who thinks of doing anything foolish.
But that is not by any means the only use that San
Pasquale is to man. It is he, also, who gives warning
if any one is to be married, or if any one is to
die; and he even gives the sign with something
besides stones. Old Mother Saraedda at Randazzo
sat by her daughter’s sick bed one night and fell
asleep. The daughter lay unconscious and was about
to die, and no one could summon the priest. How
was the mother waked in time? How was she
waked, so that she could send her husband to the
priest’s house? By nothing else than a chair, which
began to rock forward and back, and to crack and
creak, until she awoke. And it was San Pasquale
who did it. Who else but San Pasquale is there to
think of such a thing?
There is one thing more to tell about San Pasquale.
It was of big Cristoforo from Tre Castagni. He
was not a bad man, but he had a bad habit. He
could not open his mouth without swearing. He could
not say two words without one of them being an
oath. And do you think that it did any good for
his wife and neighbors to admonish him? But over
his bed he had a little picture representing San
Pasquale, and the little picture succeeded in helping
him. Every night it swung forward and back in its
frame, swung fast or slow, as he had sworn that day.
And he discovered that he could not sleep a single
night until he stopped swearing.
In Diamante San Pasquale has a church, which
lies outside the Porta Etnea, a little way down the
mountain. It is quite small and poor, but the white
walls and the red roof stand beautifully embedded
in a grove of almond-trees.
Therefore, as soon as the almond-trees bloom in
the spring, San Pasquale’s church becomes the most
beautiful in Diamante. For the blossoming branches
arch over it, thickly covered with white, glistening
flowers, like the most gorgeous garment.
San Pasquale’s church is very miserable and deserted,
because no service can be held there. For
when the Garibaldists, who freed Sicily, came to
Diamante, they camped in San Pasquale’s church
and in the Franciscan monastery beside it. And in
the church itself they stabled brute beasts, and led
such a wild life with women and with gambling
that ever since it has been considered unhallowed
and unclean, and has never been opened for divine
service from that time.
Therefore it is only when the almond-trees are in
bloom that strangers and fine people pay attention
to San Pasquale. For although the whole of the
slopes of Etna are white then with almond-blossoms,
still the biggest and the most luxuriant trees stand
about the old, condemned church.
But the poor people of Diamante come to San
Pasquale the whole year round. For although the
church is always closed, people go there to get
advice from the saint. There is an image of him
under a big stone canopy just by the entrance, and
people come to ask him about the future. No one
can foretell the future better than San Pasquale.
Now it happened that the very morning when
Gaetano left Diamante the clouds had come rolling
down from Etna, as thick as if they had been dust
from innumerable hosts, and they filled the air like
dark-winged dragons, and vomited forth rain, and
breathed mists and darkness. It grew so thick
over Diamante that one could scarcely see across
the street. The dampness dripped from everything;
the floor was as wet as the roof, the doorposts
and balustrades were covered with drops, the
fog stood and quivered in the passage-ways and
rooms, until one would have thought them full of
smoke.
That very morning, at an early hour, before the
rain had begun, a rich English lady started in her
big travelling-carriage to make the trip round Etna.
But when she had driven a few hours a terrible
rain began, and everything was wrapped in mist.
As she did not wish to miss seeing any of the beautiful
district through which she was travelling, she
determined to drive to the nearest town and to stay
there until the storm was over. That town was
Diamante.
The Englishwoman was a Miss Tottenham, and
it was she who had moved into the Palazzo Palmeri
at Catania. Among all the other things she brought
with her in her trunks was the Christ image, upon
which Donna Micaela had called the evening before.
For that image, which was now both old and mishandled,
she always carried with her, in memory of
an old friend who had left her her wealth.
It seemed as if San Pasquale had known what a
great miracle-worker the image was, for it was as if
he wished to greet him. Just as Miss Tottenham’s
travelling-carriage drove in through Porta Etnea,
the bells began to ring on San Pasquale’s church.
They rang afterwards all day quite by themselves.
San Pasquale’s bells are not much bigger than
those that are used on farms to call the work people
home; and like them, they are hung under the roof
in a little frame, and set in motion by pulling a rope
that hangs down by the church wall.
It is not heavy work to make the bells ring,
but nevertheless they are not so light that they
can swing quite by themselves. Whoever has
seen old Fra Felice from the Franciscan monastery
put his foot in the loop of the rope and tread
up and down to start them going, knows well
enough that the bells cannot begin to ring without
assistance.
But that was just what they were doing that morning.
The rope was fastened to a cleat in the wall,
and there was no one touching it. Nor did any one
sit crouching on the roof to set them going. People
plainly saw how the bells swung backwards and
forwards, and how the tongues hit against the brazen
throats. It could not be explained.
When Donna Micaela awoke, the bells were
already ringing, and she lay quiet for a long time,
and listened, and listened. She had never heard
anything more beautiful. She did not know that it
was a miracle, but she lay and thought how beautiful
it was. She lay and wondered if real bronze bells
could sound like that.
No one will ever know what the metal was that
rang in San Pasquale’s bells that day.
She thought that the bells said to her that now
she was to be glad; now she was to live and love;
now she was to go to meet something great and
beautiful; now she was never again to have regrets
and never be sad.
Then her heart began to dance in a kind of
stately measure, and she marched solemnly to the
sound of bells into a great castle. And to whom
could the castle belong, who could be lord of such
a beautiful place, if not love?
It can be hidden no longer: when Donna Micaela
awoke she felt that she loved Gaetano, and that she
desired nothing better than to go with him.
When Donna Micaela drew back the curtain from
the window and saw the gray morning, she kissed
her hand to it and whispered: “You, who are morning
to the day when I am going away, you are the
most beautiful morning I have ever seen; and gray
as you are, I will caress and kiss you.”
But she still liked the bells best.
By that you may know that her love was strong,
for to all the others it was torture to hear those
bells, that would not stop ringing. No one asked
about them during the first half-hour. During the
first half-hour people hardly heard any ringing, but
during the second and the third!!!
No one need believe that San Pasquale’s little
bells could not make themselves heard. They are
always loud and their clang seemed now to grow
and grow. It soon sounded as if the fog were filled
with bells; as if the sky hung full of them, although
no one could see them for the clouds.
When Donna Elisa first heard the ringing she
thought that it was San Giuseppe’s little bell, and
then that it was the bell of the Cathedral itself.
Then she thought she heard the bell of the Dominican
monastery chime in, and at last she was certain that
all the bells in the town rang and rang all they
could, all the bells in the five monasteries and the
seven churches. She thought that she recognized
them all, until finally she asked, and heard that it
was only San Pasquale’s little bells that were
ringing.
During the first hours, and before people generally
knew that the bells were ringing all by themselves,
they noticed that the raindrops fell in time to the
sound of the bells, and that every one spoke with a
metallic voice. People also noticed that it was
impossible to play on mandolin and guitar, because
the bells blended with the music and made it ear-splitting;
neither could any one read, because the
letters swung to and fro like bell-clappers, and the
words acquired a voice, and read themselves out
quite audibly.
Soon the people could not bear to see flowers on
long stalks, because they thought that they swung
to and fro. And they complained that sound came
from them, instead of fragrance.
Others insisted that the mist floating through the
air moved in time with the sound of the bells, and
they said that all the pendulums conformed to it,
and that every one who went by in the rain tried to
do likewise.
And that was when the bells had only rung a
couple of hours, and when the people still laughed
at them.
But at the third hour the ringing seemed to
increase even more, and then some stuffed cotton
into their ears, while others buried themselves under
pillows. But they felt just as distinctly how the
air quivered with the strokes, and they thought that
they perceived how everything moved in time.
Those who fled up to the dark attic found the sound
of the bells clear and ringing there, as if they came
from the sky; and those who fled down into the
cellar heard them as loud and deafening there as if
San Pasquale’s church stood under ground.
Every one in Diamante began to be terrified except
Donna Micaela, whom love protected from
fear.
And now people began to think that it must mean
something, because it was San Pasquale’s bells that
rang. Every one began to ask himself what the saint
foretold. Each had his own dread, and believed that
San Pasquale gave warning to him of what he least
wished. Each had a deed on his conscience to remember,
and now thought that San Pasquale was
ringing down a punishment for him.
Toward noon, when the bells still rang, everybody
was sure that San Pasquale was ringing such
a misfortune upon Diamante that they might all
expect to die within the year.
Pretty Giannita came terrified and weeping to
Donna Micaela, and lamented that it was San
Pasquale who was ringing. “God, God, if it had
been any other than San Pasquale!”
“He sees that something terrible is coming to
us,” said Giannita. “The mist does not prevent
him from seeing as far as he will. He sees that an
enemy’s fleet is approaching in the bay! He sees
that a cloud of ashes is rising out of Etna which
will fall over us and bury us!”
Donna Micaela smiled, and thought that she
knew of what San Pasquale was thinking. “He is
tolling a passing-bell for the beautiful almond-blossoms,
that are destroyed by the rain,” she said
to Giannita.
She let no one frighten her, for she believed that
the bells were ringing for her alone. They rocked
her to dream. She sat quite still in the music-room
and let joy reign in her. But in the whole world
about her was fear and anxiety and restlessness.
No one could sit at his work. No one could think
of anything but the great horror that San Pasquale
foretold.
People began to give the beggars more gifts than
they had ever had; but the beggars did not rejoice,
because they did not believe they would survive the
morrow. And the priests could not rejoice, although
they had so many penitents that they had to sit in
the confessional all day long, and although gift upon
gift was piled up on the altar of the saint.
Not even Vicenzo da Lozzo, the letter-writer, was
glad of the day, although people besieged his desk
under the court-house loggia, and were more than
willing to pay him a soldo a word, if they only
might write a line of farewell on this their last day
to their dear ones far away.
It was not possible to keep school that day, for the
children cried the whole time. At noon the mothers
came, their faces stiff with terror, and took their
little ones home with them, so that they might at
least be together in misfortune.
The apprentices at the tailors and shoe-makers
had a holiday. But the poor boys did not dare to
enjoy it; they preferred to sit in their places in the
workshops, and wait.
In the afternoon the ringing still continued.
Then the old gate-keeper of the palazzo Geraci,
where now no one lives but beggars, and who is
himself a beggar, and goes dressed in the most
miserable rags, went and put on the light-green
velvet livery that he wears only on saints’ days and
on the king’s birthday. And no one could see him
sitting in the gateway dressed in that array without
being chilled with fear, for people understood that
the old man expected that no other than destruction
would march in through the gate he was guarding.
It was dreadful how people frightened one another.
Poor Torino, who had once been a man of means,
went from house to house and cried that now the
time had come when every one who had cheated and
beggared him would get his punishment. He went
into all the little shops along the Corso and struck
the counter with his hand, saying that now every
one in the town would get his sentence, because all
had connived to cheat him.
It was also terrifying to hear of the game of cards
at the Café Europa. There the same four had
played year after year at the same table, and no one
had ever thought that they could do anything else.
But now they suddenly let their cards fall, and
promised each other that if they survived the
horror of this day they would never touch them
again.
Donna Elisa’s shop was packed with people; to
propitiate the saints and to avert the menace, they
bought all the sacred things that she had to sell.
But Donna Elisa thought only of Gaetano, who was
away, and believed that San Pasquale was warning
her that he would be lost during the voyage. And
she took no pleasure in all the money that she was
earning.
When San Pasquale’s bells went on ringing the
whole afternoon people could hardly hold out.
For now they knew that it was an earthquake
which they foretold, and that all Diamante would
be wrecked.
In the alleys, where the very houses seemed afraid
of earthquakes, and huddled together to support one
another, people moved their miserable old furniture
out on the street into the rain, and spread tents of
bed-quilts over them. And they even carried out
their little children in their cradles, and piled up
boxes over them.
In spite of the rain, there was such a crowd on the
Corso that it was almost impossible to pass through.
For every one was trying to go out through Porta
Etnea to see the bells swinging and swinging, and to
convince themselves that no one was touching the
rope,—that it was firmly tied. And all who came
out there fell on their knees in the road, where the
water ran in streams, and the mud was bottomless.
The doors to San Pasquale’s church were shut,
as always, but outside the old gray-brother, Fra
Felice, went about with a brass plate, among those
who prayed, and received their gifts.
In their turn the frightened people went forward
to the image of San Pasquale beneath the stone
canopy, and kissed his hand. An old woman came
carefully carrying something under a green umbrella.
It was a glass with water and oil, in which floated
a little wick burning with a faint flame. She placed
it in front of the image and knelt before it.
Though many thought that they ought to try to
tie up the bells, no one dared to propose it. For no
one dared to silence God’s voice.
Nor did any one dare to say that it might be a
device of old Fra Felice to collect money. Fra
Felice was beloved. It would fare badly with whoever
said such things as that.
Donna Micaela also came out to San Pasquale
and took her father with her. She walked with her
head high and quite without fear. She came to
thank him for having rung a great passion into
her soul. “My life begins this day,” she said to
herself.
Don Ferrante did not seem to be afraid either, but
he was grim and angry. For every one had to go in
to him in his shop, and tell him what they thought,
and hear his opinion, because he was one of the
Alagonas, who had governed the town for so many
years.
All day terrified, trembling people came into his
shop. And they all came up to him and said:
“This is a terrible ringing, Don Ferrante. What
is to become of us, Don Ferrante?”
Even Ugo Favara, the splenetic advocate, came
into the shop, and took a chair, and sat down behind
the counter. And Don Ferrante had him sitting
there all day, quite livid, quite motionless, suffering
the most inconceivable anguish without uttering a
word.
Every five minutes Torino-il-Martello came in
and struck the counter, saying that the hour had come
in which Don Ferrante was to get his punishment.
Don Ferrante was a hard man, but he could no
more escape the bells than any other. And the
longer he heard them, the more he began to wonder
why everybody streamed into his shop. It seemed
as if they meant something special. It seemed as
if they wished to make him responsible for the ringing,
and the evil it portended.
He had not spoken of it to any one, but his wife
must have spread it about. He began to believe that
everybody was thinking the same, although they
did not dare to say it. He thought that the advocate
was sitting and waiting for him to yield. He
believed that the whole town came in to see if he
would really dare to send his father-in-law away.
Donna Elisa, who had so much to do in her own
shop that she could not come herself, sent old Pacifica
continually to him to ask what he thought of the
bell-ringing. And the priest too came to the shop
for a moment and said, like all the others: “Did you
ever hear such a terrible ringing, Don Ferrante?”
Don Ferrante would have liked to know if the
advocate and Don Matteo and all the others came
only to reproach him because he wished to send
Cavaliere Palmeri away.
The blood began to throb in his temples. The
room swam now and then before his eyes. People
came in continually and asked: “Have you ever
heard such a terrible ringing?” But one never
came and asked, and that was Donna Micaela. She
could not come when she felt no fear. She was
merely delighted and proud that the passion which
was to fill her whole life had come. “My life is
to be great and glorious,” she said. And she was
appalled that till now she had been only a child.
She would travel with the post-carriage that went
by Diamante at ten o’clock at night. Towards four,
she thought, she must tell her father everything,
and begin his packing.
But that did not seem hard to her. Her father
would soon come to her in Argentina. She would
beg him to be patient for a few months, until they
could have a home to offer him. And she was
sure that he would be glad to have her leave Don
Ferrante.
She moved in a delicious trance. Everything
that had seemed dreadful appeared so no longer.
There was no shame, no danger; no, none at all.
She only longed to hear the rattling of the post-carriage.
Then she heard many voices on the stairs leading
from the court-yard to the second floor. She heard
a multitude of heavy feet tramping. She saw
people passing through the open portico that ran
round the court-yard, and through which one had to
go to come into the rooms. She saw that they were
carrying something heavy between them, but she
could not see what it was, because there was such a
crowd.
The pale-faced advocate walked before the others.
He came and said to her that Don Ferrante had
wished to drive Torino out of his shop; Torino had
cut him with his knife. It was nothing dangerous.
He was already bandaged and would be well in a
fortnight.
Don Ferrante was carried in, and his eyes wandered
about the room, not in search of Donna
Micaela, but of Cavaliere Palmeri. When he saw
him, he let his wife know without a word, only by a
few gestures, that her father never would need to
leave his house; never, never.
Then she pressed her hands against her eyes.
What, what! her father need not go? She was saved.
A miracle had come to pass to help her!
Ah, now she must be glad, be content! But she
was not. She felt the most terrible pain.
She could not go. Her father was allowed to
remain, and so she must be faithful to Don Ferrante.
She struggled to understand. It was so. She could
not go.
She tried to change it in some way. Perhaps it
was a false conclusion. She had been so confused.
No, no, it was so, she could not.
Then she became tired unto death. She had
travelled and travelled the whole day. She had
been so long on the way. And she would never get
there. She sank down. A torpor and faintness
came over her. There was nothing to do but to rest
after the endless journey she had made. But that
she could never do. She began to weep because she
would never reach her journey’s end. Her whole
life long she would travel, travel, travel, and never
reach the end of her journey.
It was the morning after the day when San Pasquale’s
bells had rung; and Donna Elisa sat in her shop and
counted her money. The day before, when everyone
had been afraid, there had been an incredible
sale in the shop, and the next morning, when she
had come down, she had at first been almost frightened.
For the whole shop was desolate and empty;
the medallions were gone, the wax candles were
gone, and so were all the great bunches of rosaries.
All Gaetano’s beautiful images had been taken down
from the shelves and sold, and it was a real grief to
Donna Elisa not to see the host of holy men and
women about her.
She opened the money-drawer, and it was so full
that she could hardly pull it out. And while she
counted her money she wept over it as if it had all
been false. For what good did it do her to possess
all those dirty lire and those big copper coins when
she had lost Gaetano!
Alas! she thought that if he had stopped at home
one day more he would not have needed to go, for
now she was laden down with money.
While she was counting she heard the post-carriage
stop outside her door. But she did not even look
up; she did not care what happened, since Gaetano
was gone. Then the door opened, and the bell rang
violently. She only wept and counted. Then some
one said: “Donna Elisa, Donna Elisa!” And it
was Gaetano!
“But heavens! how can you be at home?” she
cried.—“You have sold all your images. I had to
come home to carve new ones for you.”—“But how
did you find out about it?”—“I met the post-carriage
at two o’clock in the night. Rosa Alfari
was in it, and she told me everything.”—“What
luck that you went down to the post-carriage!
What luck that you happened to think of going
down to the post-carriage!”—“Yes; was it not
good fortune?” said Gaetano.
In less than an hour Gaetano was again standing
in his workshop; and Donna Elisa, who had
nothing at all to do in her empty shop, came incessantly
to the door to look at him. No, was he
really standing there and carving? She could not
let five minutes pass without coming to look at
him.
But when Donna Micaela heard that he was back
she felt no joy, rather anger and despair. For she
was afraid that Gaetano would come to tempt her.
She had heard that a rich Englishwoman had
come to Diamante the day the bells rang. She was
deeply affected when she heard that it was the lady
with the Christ image. He had therefore come as
soon as she had called on him. The rain and the
bell-ringing were his work!
She tried to rejoice her soul with the thought that
there had been a miracle for her sake. It would be
more to her than all earthly happiness and love to
feel that she was surrounded by God’s grace. She
did not wish anything earthly to come and drag her
down from that blessed rapture.
But when she met Gaetano on the street he
hardly looked at her; and when she met him at
Donna Elisa’s he did not take her hand and did not
speak to her at all.
For the truth was that, although Gaetano had
come home because it had been too hard to go without
Donna Micaela, he did not wish to tempt or to
persuade her. He saw that she was under the protection
of the saints, and she had become so sacred
to him that he scarcely dared to dream of her.
He wished to be near her, not in order to love
her, but because he believed that her life would
blossom with holy deeds. Gaetano longed for miracles,
as a gardener longs for the first rose in the
spring.
But when weeks went by and Gaetano never tried
to approach Donna Micaela, she began to doubt,
and to think that he had never loved her. She said
to herself that he had won the promise from her to
flee with him only in order to show her that the
Madonna could work a miracle.
If that were true, she did not know why he had
not continued his journey without turning back.
That caused her anxiety. She thought that she
could conquer her love better if she knew whether
Gaetano loved her. She weighed the pros and cons,
and she was more and more sure that he had never
loved her.
While Donna Micaela was thinking of this, she
had to sit and keep Don Ferrante company. He
had lain sick a long time. He had had two strokes
of paralysis, and had risen from his sick-bed a
broken man. All at once he had become old and
dull and afraid, so that he never dared to be alone.
He never worked in the shop; he was in every way
a changed man.
He had been seized with a great desire to be aristocratic
and fashionable. It looked as if poor Don
Ferrante’s head was turned with pride.
Donna Micaela was very good to him, and sat
hour after hour and chatted with him.
“Who could it be,” she used to ask, “who once
stood in the market-place with plumes on his hat,
and braid on his coat, and sword at his side, and
who played so that people said that his music was
as uplifting as Etna, and as strong as the sea? And
who caught sight of a poor signorina dressed in
black, who did not dare to show her face to the
world, and went forward to her and offered his arm?
Who could it be? Could it be Don Ferrante, who
stands the whole week in his shop and wears a
pointed cap and a short jacket? No; that cannot
be possible. No old merchant could have done such
a thing.”
Don Ferrante laughed. That was just the way
he liked to have her talk to him. She would also
tell him how it would be when he came to court.
The king would say this, and the queen would say
that. “The old Alagonas have come up again,”
they would say at court. And who has brought up
the race? People will wonder and wonder. The
Don Ferrante, who is a Sicilian prince and Spanish
grandee, is that the same man who stood in a shop
in Diamante and shouted at the teamsters? No,
people will say, it cannot be the same. It is impossible
for it to be the same.
Don Ferrante liked that, and wished to hear her
talk so day in and day out. He was never tired
of listening, and Donna Micaela was very patient
with him.
But one day while she was chatting, Donna Elisa
came in. “Sister-in-law, if you happen to own the
‘Legend of the Holy Virgin of Pompeii,’ will you
lend it to me?” she asked.—“What, are you going
to begin to read?” asked Donna Micaela.—“The
saints preserve us! you know very well that I cannot
read. Gaetano is asking for it.”
Donna Micaela did not own the “Legend of the
Holy Virgin at Pompeii.” But she did not say so
to Donna Elisa; she went to her book-shelf and
took a little book, a collection of Sicilian love-songs,
and gave it to Donna Elisa, who carried the
little book over to Gaetano.
But Donna Micaela had no sooner done so before
a lively regret seized her. And she asked herself
what she had meant by behaving so,—she who had
been helped by the little Christchild?
She blushed with shame as she thought that she
had marked one of the little songs, one that ran
thus:—
“For one single question’s answer longing,
Night I asked, and asked the daytime’s burning;
Watched the flight of birds, and swift clouds thronging,
In water strove to read the hot lead’s turning;
Leaves I counted plucked from many flowers,
Lured dark prophets forth, and sought their powers,
Till at last I called on Heaven above me:
‘Doth he love me still, as once he loved me?’”
She had hoped to get an answer to it. But it would
serve her right if no answer came. It would serve
her right if Gaetano despised her and thought her
forward.
Yet she had meant no harm. The only thing she
had desired had been to find out if Gaetano loved
her.
Several weeks again passed and Donna Micaela
still sat with Don Ferrante.
But one day Donna Elisa had tempted her out.
“Come with me into my garden, sister-in-law, and
see my big magnolia-tree. You have never seen
anything so beautiful.”
She had gone with Donna Elisa across the street
and had come into her court-yard. And Donna
Elisa’s magnolia was like the shining sun, so that
people were aware of it even before they saw it.
At a great distance the fragrance lay and rocked in
the air, and there was a murmuring of bees, and a
twittering of birds.
When Donna Micaela saw the tree she could
hardly breathe. It was very high and broad, with
a beautifully even growth, and its large, firm leaves
were of a fresh, dark green. But now it was entirely
covered with great, bright flowers, that lighted and
adorned it so that it looked as if dressed for a feast,
and one felt an intoxicating joy streaming forth
from the tree. Donna Micaela almost lost consciousness,
and a new and irresistible power took
possession of her. She drew down one of the stiff
branches, and without breaking it spread out the
flower that it bore, took a needle and began to prick
letters on the flower leaf. “What are you doing,
sister-in-law?” asked Donna Elisa.—“Nothing,
nothing.”—“In my time young girls used to prick
love-letters on the magnolia-blossoms.”—“Perhaps
they do it still.”—“Take care; I shall look at what
you have written when you are gone.”—“But you
cannot read.”—“I have Gaetano.”—“And Luca;
you had better ask Luca.”
When Donna Micaela came home, she repented of
what she had done. Would Donna Elisa really
show the flower to Gaetano? No, no; Donna Elisa
was too sensible. But if he had seen her from the
window of his workshop? Well, he would not
answer. She had made herself ridiculous.
No, never, never again would she do such a thing.
It was best for her not to know. It was best for her
that Gaetano did not ask after her.
Nevertheless she wondered what answer she would
get. But none came.
So another week passed. Then it came into Don
Ferrante’s mind that he would like to go out for a
drive in the afternoon.
In the carriage-house of the summer palace there
was an ancient state carriage, which was certainly
more than a hundred years old. It was very high;
it had a small, narrow body, which swung on leather
straps between the back wheels, which were as big
as the water-wheels of a mill. It was painted white,
with gilding; it was lined with red velvet, and had
a coat of arms on its doors.
Once it had been a great honor to ride in that
carriage; and when the old Alagonas had passed in
it along the Corso, people had stood on their thresholds,
and crowded to their doors, and hung over
balconies to see them. But then it had been drawn
by spirited barbs; then the coachman had worn a
wig, and the footman gold braid, and it had been
driven with embroidered silk reins.
Now Don Ferrante wished to harness his old
horses before the gala carriage and have his old
shopman take the place of coachman.
When Donna Micaela told him that it could not
be, Don Ferrante began to weep. What would
people think of him if he did not show himself on
the Corso in the afternoon? That was the last thing
a man of position denied himself. How could anyone
know that he was a nobleman, if he did not
drive up and down the street in the carriage of the
old Alagonas?
The happiest hour Don Ferrante had enjoyed
since his illness was when he drove out for the first
time. He sat erect and nodded and waved very
graciously to every one he met. And the people of
Diamante bowed, and took off their hats, so that
they swept the street. Why should they not give
Don Ferrante this pleasure?
Donna Micaela was with him, for Don Ferrante
did not dare to drive alone. She had not wished
to go, but Don Ferrante had wept, and reminded
her that he had married her when she was despised
and penniless. She ought not to be ungrateful; she
ought not to forget what he had done for her, and
ought to come with him. Why did she not wish to
drive with him in his carriage? It was the finest
old carriage in Sicily.
“Why will you not come with me?” said Don
Ferrante. “Remember that I am the only one who
loves you. Do you not see that not even your father
loves you? You must not be ungrateful.”
In this way he had forced Donna Micaela to take
her place in the gala carriage.
But it was not at all as she had expected. No
one laughed. The women courtesied, and the men
bowed as solemnly as if the carriage had been a
hundred years younger. And Donna Micaela could
not detect a smile on any face.
No one in all Diamante would have wished to
laugh; for every one knew how Don Ferrante treated
Donna Micaela. They knew how he loved her, and
how he wept if she left him for a single minute.
They knew, too, that he tormented her with jealousy,
and that he trampled her hats to pieces, if they
became her, and never gave her money for new
dresses, because no other was to find her beautiful,
and love her. But all the time he told her that she
was so ugly that no one but he could bear to look at
her face. And because every one in Diamante knew
it all, no one laughed. Laugh at her, sitting and
chatting with a sick man! They are pious Christians
in Diamante, and not barbarians.
So the gala-carriage in its faded glory drove up
and down the Corso in Diamante during the hour
between five and six. And in Diamante it drove
quite alone, for there were no other fine carriages
there; but people knew that at that same time all
the carriages in Rome drove to Monte Pincio, all
those in Naples to the Via Nazionale, and all in
Florence to the Cascine, and all in Palermo to La
Favorita.
But when the carriage approached the Porta Etnea
for the third time, a merry sound of horns was heard
from the road outside.
And through the gate swung a big, high coach in
the English style.
It was meant to look old-fashioned also. The
postilion riding on the off leader had leather trousers,
and a wig tied in a pig-tail. The coach was like an
old diligence, with the body behind the coach box
and seats on the roof.
But everything was new; the horses were magnificent,
powerful animals, carriage and harness
shone, and the passengers were some young gentlemen
and ladies from Catania, who were making an
excursion up Etna. And they could not help laughing
as they drove by the old gala-carriage. They
leaned over from where they sat on the high roof to
look at it, and their laughter sounded very loud and
echoed between the high, silent houses of Diamante.
Donna Micaela was very unhappy. They were
some of her old circle of friends. What would they
not say when they came home? “We have seen
Micaela Palmeri in Diamante.” And they would
laugh and talk, laugh and talk.
Her life seemed so squalid. She was nothing but
the slave of a fool. Her whole life long she would
never do anything but chat with Don Ferrante.
When she came home she was quite exhausted.
She was so tired and weak that she could scarcely
drag herself up the steps.
And all the time Don Ferrante was rejoicing in
his good fortune at having met all those fine people,
and having been seen in his state. He told her
that now no one would ask whether she was ugly, or
whether her father had stolen. Now people knew
that she was the wife of a man of rank.
After dinner Donna Micaela sat quite silent, and
let her father talk to Don Ferrante. Then a mandolin
began to sound quite softly in the street under
the window of the summer palace. It was a single
mandolin with no accompaniment of guitar or violin.
Nothing could be more light and airy; nothing more
captivating and affecting. No one could think that
human hands were touching the strings. It was as
if bees and crickets and grasshoppers were giving a
concert.
“There is some one again who has fallen in love
with Giannita,” said Don Ferrante. “That is a
woman, Giannita. Any one can see that she is
pretty. If I were young I should fall in love with
Giannita. She knows how to love.”
Donna Micaela started. He was right, she thought.
The mandolin-player meant Giannita. That evening
Giannita was at home with her mother, but otherwise
she always lived at the summer palace. Donna
Micaela had arranged it so since Don Ferrante had
been ill.
But Donna Micaela liked the mandolin playing,
for whomever it might be meant. It came sweet,
and soft, and comforting. She went gently into her
room to listen better in the dark and loneliness.
A sweet, strong fragrance met her there. What
was it? Her hands began to tremble before she
found a candle and a match. On her work-table lay
a big, widely opened magnolia-blossom.
On one of the flower petals was pricked: “Who
loves me?” And now stood under it: “Gaetano.”
Beside the flower lay a little white book full of
love-songs. And there was a mark against one of
the little verses:—
“None have known the love that I have brought thee,
Silent, secret, born in midnight’s measure.
All my dreams have stolen forth and sought thee;
Miser-like, the while, I watched my treasure:
Tho’ the priest shall seek to shrive me, dying,
Silent I, nor needing him to speed me,
Bar the door, fling forth the key, and lying
Thus unshriven, go where death shall lead me.”
The mandolin continued to play. There is something
of open air and sunlight in a mandolin; something
soothing and calming; something of the
cheering carelessness of beautiful nature.
At that time the little image from Aracoeli was still
in Diamante.
The Englishwoman who owned it had been fascinated
by Diamante. She had not been able to
bring herself to leave it.
She had hired the whole first floor of the hotel,
and had established herself there as in a home. She
bought for large sums everything she could find in
the way of old pots and old coins. She bought
mosaics, and altar-pictures, and holy images. She
thought that she would like to make a collection of
all the saints of the church.
She heard of Gaetano, and sent him a message to
come to her at the hotel.
Gaetano collected what he had carved during the
last few days and took them with him to Miss
Tottenham. She was much pleased with his little
images, and wished to buy them all.
But the rich Englishwoman’s rooms were like the
lumber-rooms of a museum. They were filled with
every conceivable thing, and there was confusion
and disorder everywhere. Here stood half-empty
trunks; there hung cloaks and hats; here lay
paintings and engravings; there were guide-books,
railway time-tables, tea-sets, and alcohol lamps;
elsewhere halberds, prayer-books, mandolins, and
escutcheons.
And that opened Gaetano’s eyes. He flushed
suddenly, bit his lips, and began to repack his
images.
He had caught sight of an image of the Christchild.
It was the outcast, who was standing there
in the midst of all the disorder, with his wretched
crown on his head and brass shoes on his feet. The
color was worn off his face; the rings and ornaments
hanging on him were tarnished, and his dress was
yellowed with age.
When Gaetano saw that, he would not sell his
images to Miss Tottenham; he meant simply to go
his way.
When she asked him what was the matter with
him he stormed at her, and scolded her.
Did she know that many of the things she had
about her were sacred?
Did she know, or did she not know, that that was
the holy Christchild himself? And she had let him
lose three fingers on one hand, and let the jewels
fall out of his crown, and let him lie dirty, and
tarnished, and dishonored! And if she had so
treated the image of God’s own son, how would she
let everything else fare? He would not sell anything
to her.
When Gaetano burst out at her in that way Miss
Tottenham was enraptured, enchanted.
Here was the true faith and the righteous, holy
wrath. This young man must become an artist.
To England, he should go to England! She wished
to send him to the great master, her friend, who was
trying to reform art; to him who wished to teach
people to make beautiful house-furnishings, beautiful
church-fittings, who wished to create a whole
beautiful world.
She decided and arranged, and Gaetano let her go
on, because he would rather now go away from
Diamante.
He saw that he could no longer endure to live
there. He believed that it was God leading him
out of temptation.
He went away quite unobserved. Donna Micaela
scarcely knew anything of it until he was gone. He
had not dared to come and bid her good-bye.
After that two years passed quietly. The only
thing that happened at Diamante and in all Sicily
was that the people grew ever poorer and poorer.
Then there came an autumn, and it was about the
time when the wine was to be harvested.
At that time songs generally rise full-fledged to
the lips; at that time new and beautiful melodies
stream from the mandolins.
Then crowds of young people go out to the vineyards,
and there is work and laughter all day, dance
and laughter all night, and no one knows what
sleep is.
Then the bright ocean of air over the mountain
is more beautiful than at any other time. Then the
air is full of wit; sparkling glances flash through
it; it gets warmth not only from the sun, but also
from the glowing faces of the young women of
Etna.
But that autumn all the vineyards were devastated
by the phylloxera. No grape-pickers pushed their
way between the vines; no long lines of women
carrying heaped-up baskets on their heads wound up
to the presses, and at night there was no dancing on
the flat roofs.
That autumn no clear, light October air lay over
the Etna region. As if it had been in league with
the famine, the heavy, weakening wind from the
Sahara came over from Africa, and brought with it
dust and exhalations that darkened the sky.
Never, as long as that autumn lasted, was there a
fresh mountain breeze. The baleful Sirocco blew
incessantly.
Sometimes it came dry and heavy with sand, and
so hot that they had to shut doors and windows, and
keep in their rooms, not to faint away.
But oftener it came warm and damp and enervating.
And the people felt no rest; trouble left them
neither by day nor by night, and cares piled upon
them like snow-drifts on the high mountains.
And the restlessness reached Donna Micaela as
she sat and watched with her old husband, Don
Ferrante.
During that autumn she never heard any one laugh,
nor heard a song. People crept by one another, so
full of anger and despair that they were almost
choked. And she said to herself that they were
certainly dreaming of an insurrection. She saw
that they had to revolt. It would help no one, but
they had no other resource.
In the beginning of the autumn, sitting on her
balcony, she heard the people talk in the street.
They always talked of the famine: We have blight
in wheat and wine; there is a crisis in sulphur and
oranges; all Sicily’s yellow gold has failed. How
shall we live?
And Donna Micaela understood that it was terrible.
Wheat, wine, oranges, and sulphur, all their yellow
gold!
She began to understand, too, that the misery
was greater than men could bear long, and she
grieved that life should be made so hard. She asked
why the people should be forced to bear such enormous
taxes. Why should the salt tax exist, so that
a poor woman could not go down to the shore and
get a pail of salt water, but must buy costly salt in
the government shops? Why should there be a tax
on palm-trees? The peasants, with anger in their
hearts, were felling the old trees that had waved so
long over the noble isle. And why should a tax be
put on windows? What did they want? Was it
that the poor should take away their windows, move
out of their rooms, and live in cellars?
In the sulphur-mines there were strikes and turbulence,
and the government was sending troops to
force the people back to work. Donna Micaela
wondered if the government did not know that there
was no machinery in those mines. Perhaps it had
never heard that children dragged the ore up from
the deep shafts. It did not know that these children
were slaves; it could not imagine that parents had
sold them to overseers. Or if the government did
know it, why did it wish to help the mine-owners?
At one time she heard of a terrible number of
crimes. And she began again with her questions.
Why did they let the people become so criminal?
And why did they let them be so poor and so ragged?
Why must they all be so ragged? She knew that
any one living in Palermo or Catania did not need to
ask. But he who lived in Diamante could not help
fearing and asking. Why did they let the people
be so poor that they died of hunger?
As yet the summer was hardly over; it was no
later in the autumn than the end of October, and
already Donna Micaela began to see the day when
the insurrection would break out. She saw the
starved people come rushing along the street. They
would plunder the shops and they would plunder
the few rich men there were in the town. Outside
the summer palace the wild horde would stop, and
they would climb up to the balcony and the glass
doors. “Bring out the jewels of the old Alagonas;
bring out Don Ferrante’s millions!” That was
their dream,—the summer palace! They believed
that it was as full of gold as a fairy palace.
But when they found nothing, they would put a
dagger to her throat, to make her give up the
treasures that she had never possessed, and she
would be killed by the bloodthirsty crowds.
Why could not the great land-owners stop at home?
Why must they irritate the poor by living in grand
style in Rome and Paris? The people would not
be so bitter against them if they stayed at home;
they would not swear such a solemn and sacred oath
to kill all the rich when the time should come.
Donna Micaela wished that she could have escaped
to one of the big towns. But both her father and
Don Ferrante fell ill that autumn, and for their sakes
she was forced to remain where she was. And she
knew that she would be killed as an atonement for
the sins of the rich against the poor.
For many years misfortunes had been gathering
over Sicily, and now they could no longer be held
back. Etna itself began to menace an eruption.
At night sulphurous smoke floated red as fire, and
rumblings were heard as far away as Diamante.
The end of everything was coming. Everything
was to be destroyed at once.
Did not the government know of the discontent?
Ah, the government had at last heard of it, and it
had appointed a committee. It was a great comfort
to see the members of the committee come driving
one fine day along the Corso in Diamante. If only
the people had understood that they wished them
well! If the women had not stood in their doorways
and spat at the fine gentlemen from the mainland;
if the children had not run beside the carriages
and cried: “Thief, thief!”
Everything they did only stirred up the revolt,
and there was no one who could control the people
and quiet them. They trusted no officials. They
despised those least who only took bribes. But
people said that many belonged to the society of
Mafia; they said that their one thought was to extort
money and acquire power.
As time went on, several signs showed that something
terrible was impending. In the papers they
wrote that crowds of working-men were gathering in
the larger towns and wandering about the streets.
People read also in the papers how the socialist
leaders were going through the country, and making
seditious speeches. All at once it became clear to
Donna Micaela whence all the trouble came. The
socialists were inciting the revolt. It was their firebrand
speeches that set the blood of the people boiling.
How could they let them do it? Who was
king in Sicily? Was his name Don Felice, or
Umberto?
Donna Micaela felt a horror which she could not
shake off. It was as if they had conspired especially
against her. And the more she heard of the socialists,
the more she feared them.
Giannita tried to calm her. “We have not a
single socialist in Diamante,” she said. “In
Diamante no one is thinking of revolt.” Donna
Micaela asked her if she did not know what it meant
when the old distaff spinners sat in their dark
corners, and told of the great brigands and of the
famous Palermo fisherman, Giuseppe Alesi, whom
they called the Masaniello of Sicily.
If the socialists could once get the revolt started,
Diamante would also join in. All Diamante knew
already that something dreadful was impending.
They had seen the ghost of the big, black monk on
the balcony of the Palazzo Geraci; they heard the
owls scream through the night, and some declared
that the cocks crowed at sunset, and were silent at
daybreak.
One day in November Diamante was suddenly
filled with terrible people. They were men with
the faces of wild beasts, with bushy beards, and with
big hands set on enormously long arms. Several of
them wore wide, fluttering linen garments, and the
people thought that they recognized in them famous
bandits and newly freed galley-slaves.
Giannita related that all these wild people lived
in the mountain wastes inland and had crossed
Simeto and come to Diamante, because a rumor had
gone about that revolt had already broken out. But
when they had found everything quiet, and the
barracks full of soldiers, they had gone away.
Donna Micaela thought incessantly of those people,
and expected them to be her murderers. She saw
before her their fluttering linen garments and their
brute faces. She knew that they were lurking
in their mountain holes, and waiting for the day
when they should hear shots and the noise of an
outbreak in Diamante. Then they would fall upon
the town with fire and murder, and march at the
head of all the starving people as the generals and
leaders in the plundering.
All that autumn Donna Micaela had to nurse both
her father and Don Ferrante; for they lay sick
month after month. People had told her, however,
that their lives were in no danger.
She was very glad to be able to keep Don Ferrante
alive, for it was her only hope that at the last the
people would spare him, who was of such an old and
venerated race.
As she sat by their sick-beds, her thoughts went
often in longing to Gaetano, and many were the
times when she wished that he were at home. She
would not feel such terror and fear of death if he
stood once more in his workshop. Then she would
have felt nothing but security and peace.
Even now, when he was so far away, it was to him
her thoughts turned when fear was driving her mad.
Not a single letter had come from him since he had
gone away, so that sometimes she believed that he
had forgotten her entirely. At other times she was
quite sure that he loved her, for she felt herself
compelled to think of him, and knew that he was near
her in thought, and was calling to her.
That autumn she at last received a letter from
Gaetano. Alas, such a letter! Donna Micaela’s
first thought was to burn it.
She had gone up to the roof-garden in order to be
alone when she read the letter. She had once
heard Gaetano’s declaration of love there. That
had not moved her. It had neither warmed her nor
frightened her.
But this letter was different. He prayed that she
would come to him, be his, give him her life.
When she read it she was frightened at herself.
She felt how she longed to cry out into the air, “I
am coming, I am coming,” and set out. It drew
her, carried her away.
“Let us be happy!” he wrote. “We are losing
time; the years are passing. Let us be happy!”
He described to her how they would live. He told
her of other women who had obeyed love and been
happy. He wrote as temptingly as convincingly.
But it was not the contents; it was the love that
glowed and burned in the letter which overcame
her. It rose from the paper like an intoxicating
incense, and she felt it penetrate her. It was burning,
longing, speaking, in every word.
Now she was no longer a saint to him, as she had
been before. It came so unexpectedly, after two
years’ silence, that she was stunned. And she was
troubled because it delighted her.
She had never thought that love was like this.
Should she really like it? She found with dismay
that she did like it.
And so she punished both herself and him by
writing a severe reply. It was moral, moral; it was
nothing but moral! She was proud when she had
written it. She did not deny that she loved him,
but perhaps Gaetano would not be able to find the
words of love, they were so buried in admonitions.
He could not have found them, for he wrote no
more letters.
But now Donna Micaela could no longer think of
Gaetano as a shelter and a support. Now he was
more dangerous than the men from the mountains.
Every day graver news came to Diamante. Everybody
began to get out their weapons. And although
it was forbidden, they were carried secretly by
every one.
All travellers left the island, and in their place one
regiment after another was sent over from Italy.
The socialists talked and talked. They were
possessed by evil spirits; they could not rest until
they had brought on the disaster!
At last the ringleaders had decided on the day
on which the storm was to break loose. All Sicily,
all Italy, was to rise. It was no longer menace; it
was reality.
More and more troops came from the mainland.
Most of them were Neapolitans, who live in constant
feud with the Sicilians. And now the news came
that the island had been declared in a state of siege.
There were to be no more courts of justice; only
court-martials. And the people said that the soldiers
would be free to plunder and murder as they
pleased.
No one knew what was to happen. Terror seemed
to make every one mad. The peasants raised ramparts
in the hills. In Diamante men stood in great
groups on the market-place, stood there day after
day, without going to their work. There was
something terrible in those groups of men dressed
in dark cloaks and slouch hats. They were all
probably dreaming of the hour when they should
plunder the summer palace.
The nearer the day approached when the insurrection
was to break out, the sicker Don Ferrante
became; and Donna Micaela began to fear that he
would die.
It seemed to her a sign that she was predestined
to destruction, that she was also losing Don Ferrante.
Who would have any regard for her when
he was no longer alive?
She watched over him. She and all the women
of the quarter sat in silent prayer about his bed.
One morning, towards six o’clock, Don Ferrante
died. And Donna Micaela mourned him, because
he had been her only protector, and the only one
who could have saved her from destruction; and she
wished to honor the dead, as is still the custom in
Diamante.
She had them drape the room where the body was
lying with black, and close all the shutters, so that
the glad sunlight should not enter. She had all the
fires put out on the hearths, and sent for a blind
singer to come to the palace every day and sing
dirges.
She let Giannita care for Cavaliere Palmeri, so
that she herself might sit quiet in the death-room,
among the other women.
It was evening on the day of death before all
preparations were completed, and they were waiting
only for the White Brotherhood to come and take
away the corpse. In the death-chamber there was
the silence of the grave. All the women of the
quarter sat there motionless with dismal faces.
Donna Micaela sat pale with her great fear, and
stared involuntarily at the pall that was spread over
the body. It was a pall which belonged to the
family; their coat of arms was heavily and gorgeously
embroidered on the centre, and it had silver fringes
and thick tassels. The pall had never been spread
over any one but an Alagona. It seemed to lie there
so that Donna Micaela should not for a moment
forget that her last support had fallen, and that she
was now alone, and without protection from the
infuriated people.
Some one came in and announced that old
Assunta had come. Old Assunta; what did old
Assunta want? Yes, it was she who came to sing
the praises of the dead.
Donna Micaela let Assunta come into the room.
She appeared just as she looked every day, when she
sat and begged on the Cathedral steps; the same
patched dress, the same faded headcloth, and the
same crutch.
Little and bent, she limped forward to the coffin.
She had a shrivelled face, a sunken mouth, and dull
eyes. Donna Micaela said to herself that it was
incarnate helplessness and feebleness who had come
into the room.
The old woman raised her voice and began to
speak in the wife’s name.
“My lord is dead, and I am alone! He who
raised me to his side is dead! Is it not terrible that
my home has lost its master?—Why are the shutters
of your windows closed? say the passers-by.—I
answer, I cannot bear to see the light, because my
sorrow is so great; my grief is three-fold.—What,
are so many of your race carried away by the White
Brethren?—No, none of my race is dead, but I have
lost my husband, my husband, my husband!”
Old Assunta needed to say no more. Donna
Micaela burst into lamentations. The whole room
was filled with the sound of weeping from the sympathetic
women; for there is no grief like losing a
husband. Those who were widows thought of what
they had lost, and those who were not as yet widows
thought of the time when they would not be able to
go on the street, because no husband would be with
them; when they would be left to loneliness, poverty,
oblivion; when they would be nothing, mean nothing;
when they would be the world’s outcast children
because they no longer had a husband; because
nothing any longer gave them the right to live.
It was late in December, the days between Christmas
and the New Year.
There was still the same danger of insurrection,
and people still heard terrifying rumors. It was
said that Falco Falcone had gathered together a
band of brigands in the quarries, and that he was
only waiting for the appointed day to break into
Diamante and plunder it.
It was also whispered that the people in several of
the small mountain towns had risen, torn down the
custom’s offices at the town-gates, and driven away
the officials.
People said too that troops were passing from
town to town, arresting all suspicious people, and
shooting them down by hundreds.
Every one said that they must fight. They could
not let themselves be murdered by those Italians
without trying to make some resistance.
During all this, Donna Micaela sat tied to her
father’s sick-bed, just as she had sat before by Don
Ferrante’s. She could not escape from Diamante,
and terror so grew within her that she was nothing
but one trembling fear.
The last and worst of all the messages of terror
that reached her had been about Gaetano.
For when Don Ferrante had been dead a week
Gaetano had come home. And that had not caused
her dismay; it had only made her glad. She had
rejoiced in at last having some one near her who
could protect her.
At the same time she decided that she could not
receive Gaetano if he came to see her. She felt
that she still belonged to the dead. She would
rather not see Gaetano until after a year.
But when Gaetano had been at home a week without
coming to the summer palace, she asked Giannita
about him. “Where is Gaetano? Has he perhaps
gone away again, since no one speaks of him?”
“Alas, Micaela,” answered Giannita, “the less
people speak of Gaetano, the better for him.”
She told Donna Micaela, as if she was telling of
a great shame, that Gaetano had become a socialist.
“He has been quite transformed over there, in
England,” she said. “He no longer worships either
God or the saints. He does not kiss the priest’s
hand when he meets him. He says to every one that
they shall pay no more duties at the town-gates.
He encourages the peasants not to pay their rent.
He carries weapons. He has come home to start a
rebellion, to help the bandits.”
She needed to say no more to chill Donna Micaela
with a greater terror than she had ever felt before.
It was this that the sultry days of the autumn had
portended. It would be he who would shake the
bolt from the clouds. Why had she not understood
it long ago?
It was a punishment and a revenge. It would be
he who would bring the misfortune!
During those last days she had been calmer. She
had heard that all the socialists on the island had
been put in prison, and all the little insurrection
fires lighted in the mountain towns had been quickly
choked. It looked almost as if the rebellion would
come to nothing!
But now the last Alagona was come, and him the
people would follow. Life would enter into those
black groups on the market-place. The men in the
linen garments would climb up out of the quarries.
The next evening Gaetano spoke in the market-place.
He had sat by the fountain, and had seen
how the people came to get water. For two years
he had foregone the pleasure of seeing the slender
girls lift the heavy water-jars to their heads and
walk away with firm, slow step.
But it was not only the young girls who came to
the fountain; there were people of all ages. And
when he saw how poor and unhappy most of them
were, he began to talk to them of the future.
He promised them better times soon. He said
to old Assunta that she hereafter should get her
daily bread without needing to ask alms of any one.
And when she said that she did not understand how
that could be, he asked her almost with anger if she
did not know that now the time had come when no
old people and no children should be without care
and shelter.
He pointed to the old chair-maker, who was as
poor as Assunta, and moreover very sick, and he
asked if she believed that the people would endure
much longer having no support for the poor, and no
hospitals. Could she not understand that it was
impossible for such things to continue? Could they
not all understand that hereafter the old and the
sick should be cared for?
He also saw some children who, as he knew, lived
on cresses and sorrel, which they gathered on the
river-banks and by the roadside, and he promised
that henceforward no one should need to starve.
He laid his hand on the children’s heads, and swore
as solemnly as if he were prince of Diamante, that
they should never again want for bread.
They knew nothing in Diamante, he said; they
were ignorant; they did not understand that a new
and blessed time had come; they believed that this
old misery would continue forever.
While he was thus consoling the poor, more and
more had gathered about him, and he suddenly
sprang up, placed himself on the steps of the fountain,
and began to speak.
How could they, he said, be so foolish as to
believe that nothing better would come? Should
the people, who possessed the whole earth, be content
to let their parents starve, and their children
grow up to be good-for-nothings and criminals?
Did they not know that there were treasures in
the mountains, and in the sea, and in the ground?
Had they never heard that the earth was rich? Did
they think that it could not feed its children?
They should not murmur among themselves, and
say that it was impossible to arrange matters differently.
They should not think that there must be
rich and poor. Alas, they understood nothing!
They did not know their Mother Earth. Did they
think that she hated any of them? They had lain
down on the ground and heard the earth speak?
Perhaps they had seen her make laws? They had
heard her pass sentence? She had commanded some
to starve, and some to die of luxury?
Why did they not open their ears and listen to
the new teachings pouring through the world?
Would they not like to have a better life? Did they
like their rags? Were they satisfied with sorrel
and cresses? Did they not wish to possess a roof
over their heads?
And he told them that it made no difference, no
difference, if they refused to believe in the new
times that were coming. They would come in spite
of it. They did not need to lift the sun up from the
sea in the morning. The new times would come to
them as the sun came, but why would they not be
ready to meet them? Why did they shut themselves
in, and fear the new light?
He spoke long in the same strain, and more and
more of the poor people of Diamante gathered about
him.
The longer he continued, the more beautiful became
his speech and the clearer grew his voice.
His eyes were full of fire, and to the people looking
up at him, he seemed as beautiful as a young
prince.
He was one of the race of once powerful lords,
who had possessed means to shower happiness and
gold on everybody within their wide lands. They
believed him when he said that he had happiness to
give them. They felt comforted, and rejoiced that
their young lord loved them.
When he had finished speaking they began to
shout, and call to him that they wished to follow
him and do what he commanded.
He had gained ascendency over them in a moment.
He was so beautiful and so glorious that they
could not resist him. And his faith seized and
subdued.
That night there was not one poor person in
Diamante who did not believe that Gaetano would
give him happy days, free from care. That night
they called down blessings on him, all those who
lived in sheds and out-houses. That night the
hungry lay down with the sure belief that the next
day tables groaning under many dishes would stand
spread for them when they awoke.
For when Gaetano spoke, his power was so great
that he could convince an old man that he was
young, and a freezing man that he was warm. And
people felt that what he promised must come.
He was the prince of the coming times. His
hands were generous, and miracles and blessings
would stream down over Diamante, now that he had
come again.
The next day, towards sunset, Giannita came into
the sick-room and whispered to Donna Micaela:
“There is an insurrection in Paternó. They have
been shooting for several hours, and you can hear
them as far away as here. Orders for troops have
already gone to Catania. And Gaetano says that it
will break out here, too. He says that it will break
out in all the towns of Etna at one time.”
Donna Micaela made a sign to Giannita to stay
with her father, and she herself went across the
street and into Donna Elisa’s shop.
Donna Elisa sat behind the counter with her
frame, but she was not working. The tears fell so
heavy and fast that she had ceased to embroider.
“Where is Gaetano?” said Donna Micaela, without
any preamble. “I must speak to him.”
“God give you strength to talk to him,” answered
Donna Elisa. “He is in the garden.”
She went out across the court-yard and into the
walled garden.
In the garden there were many narrow paths
winding from terrace to terrace. There was also a
number of arbors and grottos and benches. And
it was so thick with stiff agaves, and close-growing
dwarf palms, and thick-leaved rubber-plants, and
rhododendrons, that it was impossible to see two
feet in front of one. Donna Micaela walked for a
long time on those innumerable paths before she
could find Gaetano. The longer she walked, the
more impatient she became.
At last she found him at the farther end of the
garden. She caught sight of him on the lowest
terrace, built out on one of the bastions of the wall
of the town. There sat Gaetano at ease, and worked
with chisel and hammer on a statuette. When he
saw Donna Micaela, he came towards her with outstretched
hands.
She hardly gave herself time to greet him. “Is
it true,” she said, “that you have come home to be
our ruin?” He began to laugh. “The syndic has
been here,” he said. “The priest has been here.
Are you coming too?”
It wounded her that he laughed, and that he spoke
of the priest and the syndic. It was something
different, and more, that she came.
“Tell me,” she said, stiffly, “if it is true that
we are to have an uprising this evening.”—“Oh,
no,” he answered; “we shall have no uprising.”
And he said it in such a voice that it almost made
her sorry for him.
“You cause Donna Elisa great grief,” she burst
out.—“And you too, do I not?” he said, with a
slight sneer. “I cause you all sorrow. I am the
lost son; I am Judas. I am the angel of justice
who is driving you from that paradise where people
eat grass.”
She answered: “Perhaps we think that what we
have is better than being shot by the soldiers.”—“Yes,
of course; it is better to starve to death. We
are used to that.”—“Nor is it pleasant to be murdered
by bandits.”—“But why for Heaven’s sake
have any bandits, if you do not want to be murdered
by them?”—“Yes, I know,” she said, more passionately,
“that you want all the rich to perish.”
He did not answer immediately; he stood and bit
his lips, so as not to lose his temper. “Let me
talk with you, Donna Micaela!” he said at last.
“Let me explain it to you!”
At the same time he put on a patient expression.
He talked socialism with her, so clear and simple
that a child could have understood.
But she was far from being able to follow it.
Perhaps she could have, but she did not wish to.
She did not wish just then to hear of socialism.
It had been so wonderful to her to see him. The
ground had rocked under her; and something glorious
and blessed had passed through and quite overcome
her. “God, it is he whom I love!” she said to
herself. “It is really he.”
Before she had seen him she had known very well
what she would say to him. She would have led
him back to the faith of his childhood. She would
have shown him that those new teachings were
detestable and dangerous. But then love came. It
made her confused and stupid. She could not
answer him. She only sat and wondered that he
could talk.
She wondered if he was much handsomer now
than formerly. Formerly she had not been confused
at all when she saw him. She had never been
attracted to that extent. Or was it that he had
become a free, strong man? She was frightened
when she felt how he subdued her.
She dared not contradict him. She dared not
even speak, for fear of bursting into tears. Had she
dared to speak, she would not have talked of public
affairs. She would have told him what she had felt
the day the bells rang. Or she would have prayed
to be allowed to kiss his hand. She would have
told him how she had dreamed of him. She would
have said that if she had not had him to dream of
she could not have borne her life. She would have
begged to be allowed to kiss his hand in gratitude,
because he had given her life all these years.
If there was to be no uprising, why did he talk
socialism? What had socialism to do with them,
sitting alone in Donna Elisa’s garden? She sat
and looked along one of the paths. Luca had put
up wooden arches on both sides of it, and up these
climbed garlands of light rose-shoots, full of little
buds and flowers. One always wondered whither
one was coming when one went along that path.
And one came to a little weather-beaten cupid. Old
Luca understood things better than Gaetano.
While they sat there the sun set, and Etna grew
rosy-red. It was as if Etna flushed with anger at
what was going on in Donna Elisa’s garden. It was
at sunset, when Etna glowed red, that she had
always thought of Gaetano. It seemed as if they
both had been waiting for it. And they had both
arranged how it would be when Gaetano came. She
had only feared that he would be too fiery, and too
passionately wild. And he talked only of those
dreadful Socialists, whom she detested and feared.
He talked a long time. She saw Etna grow pale
and become bronze-brown, and then the darkness
came. She knew that there would be moonlight.
There she sat quite still, and hoped for help from
the moonlight. She herself could do nothing. She
was entirely in his power. But when the moonlight
came, it did not help either. He continued to
talk of capitalists and working-men.
Then it seemed to her as if there could be but one
explanation for all this. He must have ceased to
love her.
Suddenly she remembered something. It was a
week ago. It was the same day that Gaetano had
come home. She had come into Giannita’s room,
but she had walked so softly that Giannita had not
heard her. She had seen Giannita stand as if in
ecstasy, with up-stretched arms and up-turned face.
And in her hands she held a picture. First she
carried it to her lips and kissed it, then she lifted
it up over her head and looked up to it in rapture.
And the picture had been of Gaetano.
When Donna Micaela had seen that, she had
gone away as silently as she had come. She had
only thought then that Giannita was to be pitied if
she loved Gaetano. But now, when Gaetano only
talked socialism, now she remembered it.
Now she began to think that Gaetano also loved
Giannita. She remembered that they were friends
from childhood. He had perhaps loved her a long
time. Perhaps he had come home to marry her.
Donna Micaela could say nothing; she had nothing
to complain of. It was scarcely a month since she
wrote to Gaetano that it was not right of him to
love her.
He now leaned towards her, enchained her glance,
and actually compelled her to listen to what he was
saying.
“You shall understand; you shall see and understand,
Donna Micaela! What we need here in the
South is a regeneration, a pulling up by the roots,
such as Christianity was in its time. Up with the
slaves; down with the masters! A plow which
turns up new social furrows! We must sow in new
earth; the old earth is impoverished. The old
surface furrows bear only weak, miserable growth.
Let the deep earth come up to the light, and we
shall see something different!
“See, Donna Micaela, why does socialism live;
why has it not gone under? Because it comes with
a new word. ‘Think of the earth,’ it says, just as
Christianity came with the word, ‘Think of heaven.’
Look about you! Look at the earth; is it not all
that we possess? Let us therefore establish ourselves
here so that we shall be happy. Why, why,
has no one thought of it before? Because we have
been so busy with that Hereafter. Let us leave the
Hereafter! The earth, the earth, Donna Micaela!
Ah, we socialists, we love her! We worship the
sacred earth,—the poor, despised mother, who wears
mourning because her children yearn for heaven.
“Believe me, Donna Micaela,” he said, “it will
be accomplished in less than seven years. In the
year nineteen hundred it will be ready. Then
martyrs will have bled; then apostles will have
spoken; then shall crowds upon crowds have been
won over! We, the rightful sons of the earth,
shall have the victory! And she shall lie before
us in all her loveliness; she shall bring us beauty,
bring us pleasure, bring us knowledge, bring us
health!”
Gaetano’s voice began to tremble, and tears quivered
in his eyes. He went forward to the edge of
the terrace, and he stretched out his arms as if to
embrace the moonlit earth. “You are so dazzlingly
beautiful,” he said, “so dazzlingly beautiful!”
And Donna Micaela for a moment thought she
felt his grief over all the sorrow that lay under the
surface of beauty. She saw life full of vice and
suffering, like a dirty river filled with the stench of
uncleanliness, wind through the glistening world
of beauty.
“And no one can enjoy you,” said Gaetano; “no
one can dare to enjoy you. You are untamed, and
full of whims and anger. You are uncertainty and
peril; you are sorrow and pain; you are want and
shame; you are the force that grinds; you are everything
terrible that can be named, because the people
have not wished to make you better.
“But your day will come,” he said, triumphantly.
“Some day they will turn to you with all their love;
they will not turn to a dream, which gives nothing
and is good for nothing.”
She interrupted him roughly. She began to fear
him more and more.
“So it is true that you have had no success in
England?”
“What do you mean?”
“People say that the great master, to whom Miss
Tottenham sent you, has said that you—”
“What has he said?”
“That you and your images suited Diamante, but
nowhere else.”
“Who says such things?”
“People think so, because you are so changed.”
“Since I am a socialist.”
“Why should you be one if you had been successful?”
“Ah, why—? You do not know,” he continued,
with a laugh, “that my master in England himself
was a socialist. You do not know that it was he
who taught me these opinions—”
He paused, and did not go on with the controversy.
He went over to the bench where he had been sitting
when she came, and brought back a statuette.
He handed it to Donna Micaela. He seemed to
wish to say: “See for yourself if you are right.”
She took it, and held it up in the moonlight. It
was a Mater Dolorosa in black marble. She could
see it quite plainly.
She could also recognize it. The image had her
own features. It intoxicated her for a moment. In
the next she was filled with horror. He, a socialist;
he, an unbeliever; he dared to create a Madonna!
And he had given the image her features! He
entangled her in his sin!
“I have done it for you, Donna Micaela,” he said.
Ah, since it was hers! She threw it out over the
balustrade. It struck against the steep mountain
side; fell deeper and deeper; broke loose stones,
and certainly shattered itself to pieces. At last a
splash was heard down in Simeto.
“What right have you to carve Madonnas?” she
asked Gaetano.
He stood silent. He had never seen Donna
Micaela thus.
In the moment when she rose up before him she
had become tall and stately. The beauty that always
came and went in her, like an uneasy guest, was
enthroned in her face. She looked cold and inflexible;
a woman to win and conquer.
“Then you still believe in God, since you carve
Madonnas?” she said.
He breathed hurriedly. Now it was he who was
paralyzed. He had been a believer himself. He
knew how he had wounded her. He saw that he
had forfeited her love. He had made a terrible,
infinite chasm between them.
He must speak, must win her over to his side.
He began again, but feebly and falteringly.
She listened quietly for a while. Then she interrupted
him almost compassionately.
“How did you become so?”
“I thought of Sicily,” he said submissively.
“You thought of Sicily,” she repeated thoughtfully.
“And why did you come home?”
“I came home to cause an insurrection.”
It was as if they had spoken of an illness, a chill,
that he had contracted, and that could quite easily
be cured.
“You came home to be our ruin,” she said,
sternly.
“As you will; as you will,” he said, complying.
“You can call it so. As everything is going now,
you are certainly right to call it so. Ah, if they
had not given me false information; if I had not
come a week too late! Is it not like us Sicilians to
let the government anticipate us? When I came
the leaders were already arrested, the island garrisoned
with forty thousand men. Everything lost!”
It sounded strangely blank when he said that
“everything lost.” And for that which never could
be anything, he had lost happiness. His opinions
and principles seemed to him now to be dry cobwebs,
which had captured him. He wished to tear
himself away to come to her. She was the only
reality, the only thing that was his. So he had felt
before. It came back now. She was the only
thing in the world.
“They are, however, fighting to-day in Paternó.”
“There has been a disagreement by the town-gate,”
he said. “It is nothing. If I had been able
to inflame all Etna, the whole circle of towns round
about Etna! Then they would have understood us!
they would have listened to us! Now they are shooting
down a few hungry peasants to make a few hungry
mouths the less. They do not yield an inch to us.”
He strove to break through his cobwebs. Could
he venture to go up to her, to tell her that all that
was of no importance? He did not need to think of
politics. He was an artist; he was free! And he
wanted to possess her!
Suddenly it seemed as if the air trembled. A
shot echoed through the night, then another and
another.
She came forward to him and grasped his wrist.
“Is that the uprising?” she asked.
Shot upon shot came thundering. Then were
heard the cries and din of a crowd rushing down the
street.
“It is the uprising; it must be the uprising!
Ah, long live socialism!”
He was filled with joy. Entire faith in his belief
came back to him. He would win her too. Women
have never refused to belong to the victor.
They both hurried without another word through
the garden to the door. There Gaetano began to
swear and call. He could not get out. There was
no key in the lock. He was shut into the garden.
He looked about. There were high walls on three
sides, and on the fourth an abyss. There was no
way out for him. But from the town came a terrible
noise. The people were rushing up and down;
there were shots and cries. And they heard them
yell: “Long live freedom! Long live socialism!”
He threw himself against the door, and almost
shrieked. He was imprisoned; he could not take
part.
Donna Micaela came up to him as quickly as she
could. Now, since she had heard him, she no
longer thought of keeping him back.
“Wait, wait!” she said. “I took the key.”
“You, you!” he said.
“I took it when I came. It occurred to me that
I could keep you shut in here if you should want to
cause an uprising. I wished to save you.”
“What folly!” he said, and snatched the key
from her.
While he stood and fumbled to find the key-hole,
he still had time to say something.
“Why do you not want to save me now?”
She did not answer.
“Perhaps so that your God may have a chance to
destroy me.”
She was still silent.
“Do you not dare to save me from His wrath?”
“No, I do not dare,” she said quietly.
“You believers are terrible!” he said.
He felt that she threw him aside. It froze him,
and took away his courage, that she did not make a
single attempt to persuade him to stay. He turned
the key forward and back without being able to open
the door, paralyzed by her standing there pale and
cold behind him.
Then he suddenly felt her arms about his neck
and her lips seeking his.
At the same moment the door flew open and he
rushed away. He would not have her kisses, which
only consecrated him to death. She was as terrible
as a spectre to him with her ancient faith. He
rushed away like a fugitive.
When Gaetano rushed away, Donna Micaela stood
for a long time in Donna Elisa’s garden. She stood
there as if turned to stone, and could neither feel
nor think.
Then suddenly the thought came that Gaetano
and she were not alone in the world. She remembered
her father lying sick, whom she had forgotten
for so many hours.
She went through the gate of the court-yard out
to the Corso, which lay deserted and empty. Tumult
and shots were still audible far away, and she said
to herself that they must be fighting down by Porta
Etnea.
The moon shed its clear light on the façade of the
summer-palace, and it amazed her that at such an
hour, and on such a night, the balcony doors stood
open, and the window shutters were not closed.
She was still more surprised that the gate was
standing ajar, and that the shop-door was wide
open.
As she went in through the gate, she did not see
the old gate-keeper, Piero, there. The lanterns in
the court-yard were not lighted, and there was not a
soul to be seen anywhere.
She went up the steps to the gallery, and her
foot struck against something hard. It was a little
bronze vase, which belonged in the music-room.
A few steps higher up she found a knife. It
was a sheath-knife, with a long, dagger-like blade.
When she lifted it up a couple of dark drops rolled
down from its edge. She knew that it must be
blood.
And she understood too that what she had feared
all the autumn had now happened. Bandits had
been in the summer-palace for plunder. And everyone
who could run away had run away; but her
father, who could not leave his bed, must be
murdered.
She could not tell whether the brigands were not
still in the house. But now, in the midst of danger,
her fears vanished; and she hurried on, unheeding
that she was alone and defenceless.
She went along the gallery into the music-room.
Broad rays of moonlight fell upon the floor, and
in one of those rays lay a human form stretched
motionless.
Donna Micaela bent down over that motionless
body. It was Giannita. She was murdered; she
had a deep, gaping wound in her neck.
Donna Micaela laid the body straight, crossed the
hands over the breast, and closed the eyes. In so
doing, her hands were wet with the blood; and when
she felt that warm, sticky blood, she began to weep.
“Alas, my dear, beloved sister,” she said aloud, “it
is your young life that has ebbed away with this
blood. All your life you have loved me, and now
you have shed your blood defending my house. Is
it to punish my hardness that God has taken you
from me? Is it because I did not allow you to love
him whom I loved that you have gone from me?
Alas, sister, sister, could you not have punished me
less severely?”
She bent down and kissed the dead girl’s forehead.
“You do not believe it,” she said. “You know
that I have always been faithful to you. You know
that I have loved you.”
She remembered that the dead was severed from
everything earthly, that it was not grief and assurances
of friendship she needed. She said a prayer
over the body, since the only thing she could do for
her sister was to support with pious thoughts the
flight of the soul soaring up to God.
Then she went on, no longer afraid of anything
that could happen to herself, but in inexpressible
terror of what might have happened to her father.
When she had at last passed through the long
halls in the state apartment and stood by the door
to the sick-room, her hands groped a long time for
the latch; and when she had found it, she had not
the strength to turn the key.
Then her father called from his room and asked
who was there. When she heard his voice and knew
that he was alive, everything in her trembled, and
burst, and lost its power to serve her. Brain and
heart failed her at once, and her muscles could no
longer hold her upright. She had still time to
think that she had been living in terrible suspense.
And with a feeling of relief, she sank down in a
long swoon.
Donna Micaela regained consciousness towards
morning. In the meantime much had happened.
The servants had come out of their hiding-places,
and had gone for Donna Elisa. She had taken
charge of the deserted palace, had summoned the
police, and sent a message to the White Brotherhood.
And the latter had carried Giannita’s body
to her mother’s house.
When Donna Micaela awoke, she found herself
lying on the sofa in a room next her father’s. No
one was with her, but in her father’s room she heard
Donna Elisa talking.
“My son and my daughter,” said Donna Elisa,
sobbing; “I have lost both my son and my daughter.”
Donna Micaela tried to raise herself, but she
could not. Her body still lay in a stupor, although
her soul was awake.
“Cavaliere, Cavaliere,” said Donna Elisa, “can
you understand? The bandits come here from Etna,
creeping down to Diamante. The bandits attack
the custom-house and shout: ‘Long live Socialism!’
They do it only to frighten people away from the
streets and to draw the Carabiniere down to Porta
Etnea. There is not a single man from Diamante
who has anything to do with it. It is the
bandits who arrange it all, to be able to plunder
Miss Tottenham and Donna Micaela, two women,
Cavaliere! What did those officers think at the
court-martial? Did they believe that Gaetano was
in league with the bandits? Did they not see that
he was a nobleman, a true Alagona, an artist? How
could they have sentenced him?”
Donna Micaela listened with horror, but she tried
to imagine that she was still dreaming. She thought
she heard Gaetano ask if she was sacrificing him to
God. She thought she answered that she did. Now
she was dreaming of how it would be in case he
really had been captured. It could be nothing else.
“What a night of misfortune!” said Donna Elisa.
“What is flying about in the air, and making people
mad and confused? You have seen Gaetano, Cavaliere.
He has always been passionate and fiery, but
it has not been without intelligence; he has not
been without sense and judgment. But to-night he
throws himself right into the arms of the troops.
You know that he wanted to cause an uprising; you
know that he came home for that. And when he
hears the shooting, and some one shouting, ‘Long
live Socialism!’ he becomes wild, and beside himself.
He says to himself, ‘That is the insurrection!’
and he rushes down the street to join it. And he
shouts the whole time, ‘Long live Socialism!’ as
loud as he can. And so he meets a great crowd of
soldiers, a whole host. For they were on their way
to Paternó, and heard the shooting as they passed
by, and marched in to see what was going on. And
Gaetano can no longer recognize a soldier’s cap.
He thinks that they are the rebels; he thinks that
they are angels from heaven, and he rushes in among
them and lets them capture him. And they, who
have already caught all the bandits sneaking away
with their booty, now lay hands on Gaetano too.
They go through the town and find everything
quiet; but before they leave, they pass sentence on
their prisoners. And they condemn Gaetano like
the others, condemn him like those who have broken
in and murdered women. Have they not lost their
senses, Cavaliere?”
Donna Micaela could not hear what her father
answered. She wished to ask a thousand questions,
but she was still paralyzed and could not move.
She wondered if Gaetano had been shot.
“What do they mean by sentencing him to twenty-nine
years’ imprisonment?” said Donna Elisa. “Do
you think that he can live so long, or that any one
who loves him can live so long? He is dead,
Cavaliere; as dead for me as Giannita.”
Donna Micaela felt as if strong fetters bound her
beyond escape. It was worse, she thought, than to
be tied to a pillory and whipped.
“All the joy of my old age is taken from me,” said
Donna Elisa. “Both Giannita and Gaetano! I have
always expected them to marry each other. It
would have been so suitable, because they were both
my children, and loved me. For what shall I live
now, when I have no young people about me? I
was often poor when Gaetano first came to me, and
people said to me that I should have been better off
alone. But I answered: ‘It makes no difference,
none, if only I have young people about me.’ And
I thought that when he grew up he would find a
young wife, and then they would have little children,
and I would never need to sit a lonely and
useless old woman.”
Donna Micaela lay thinking that she could have
saved Gaetano, but had not wished to do so. But
why had she not wished? It seemed to her quite
incomprehensible. She began to count up to herself
all her reasons for permitting him to rush to
destruction. He was an atheist; a socialist; he
wished to cause a revolt. That had outweighed
everything else when she opened the garden gate for
him. It had crushed her love also. She could not
now understand it. It was as if a scale full of
feathers had weighed down a scale full of gold.
“My beautiful boy!” said Donna Elisa, “my beautiful
boy! He was already a great man over there
in England, and he came home to help us poor
Sicilians. And now they have sentenced him like
a bandit. People say that they were ready to shoot
him, as they shot the others. Perhaps it would
have been better if they had done so, Cavaliere. It
had been better to have laid him in the church-yard
than to know that he was in prison. How will he
be able to endure all his suffering? He will not
be able to bear it; he will fall ill; he will soon be
dead.”
At these words, Donna Micaela roused herself
from her stupor, and got up from the sofa. She
staggered across the room and came in to her
father and Donna Elisa, as pale as poor murdered
Giannita. She was so weak that she did not dare to
cross the floor; she stood at the door and leaned
against the door-post.
“It is I,” she said; “Donna Elisa, it is I—”
The words would not come to her lips. She
wrung her hands in despair that she could not
speak.
Donna Elisa was instantly at her side. She put
her arm about her to support her, without paying
any attention to Donna Micaela’s attempt to push
her away.
“You must forgive me, Donna Elisa,” she said,
with an almost inaudible voice. “I did it.”
Donna Elisa did not heed much what she was
saying. She saw that she had fever, and thought
that she was delirious.
Donna Micaela’s lips worked; she plainly wished
to say something, but only a few words were audible.
It was impossible to understand what she meant.
“Against him, as against my father,” she said, over
and over. And then she said something about
bringing misfortune on all who loved her.
Donna Elisa had got her down on a chair, and
Donna Micaela sat there and kissed her old, wrinkled
hands, and asked her to forgive her what she had
done.
Yes, of course, of course, Donna Elisa forgave her.
Donna Micaela looked her sharply in the face
with great, feverish eyes, and asked if it were true.
It was really true.
Then she laid her head on Donna Elisa’s shoulder
and sobbed, thanked her, and said that she could not
live if she did not obtain her forgiveness. She had
sinned against no one so much as against her.
Could she forgive her?
“Yes, yes,” said Donna Elisa again and again,
and thought that the other was out of her head from
fever and fright.
“There is something I ought to tell you,” said
Donna Micaela. “I know it, but you do not know
it. You will not forgive me if you hear it.”
“Yes, of course I forgive you,” said Donna Elisa.
They talked in that way for a long time without
understanding each other; but it was good for old
Donna Elisa to have some one that night to put to
bed, comforted and dosed with strengthening herbs
and drops. It was good for her to still have some
one to come and lay her head on her shoulder and
cry away her grief.
Donna Micaela, who had loved Gaetano for nearly
three years without a thought that they could ever
belong to each other, had accustomed herself to a
strange kind of love. It was enough for her to know
that Gaetano loved her. When she thought of it, a
tender feeling of security and happiness stole through
her. “What does it matter; what does it matter?”
she said, when she suffered adversity. “Gaetano
loves me.” He was always with her, cheering and
comforting her. He took part in all her thoughts
and undertakings. He was the soul of her life.
As soon as Donna Micaela could get his address,
she wrote to him. She acknowledged to him that
she had firmly believed that he had gone to misfortune.
But she had been so much afraid of what he
proposed to accomplish in the world that she had
not dared to save him.
She also wrote how she detested his teachings.
She did not dissemble at all to him. She said that
even if he were free she could not be his.
She feared him. He had such power over her
that, if they were united, he would make her a
socialist and an atheist. Therefore she must always
live apart from him, for the salvation of her soul.
But she begged and prayed that in spite of everything
he would not cease to love her. He must not;
he must not! He might punish her in any way he
pleased, if only he did not cease to love her.
He must not do as her father had. He had perhaps
reason to close his heart to her now, but he must
not. He must be merciful.
If he knew how she loved him! If he knew how
she dreamed of him!
She told him that he was nothing less than life
itself to her.
“Must I die, Gaetano?” she asked.
“Is it not enough that those opinions and teachings
part us? Is it not enough that they have
carried you to prison? Will you also cease to love
me, because we do not think alike?
“Ah, Gaetano, love me! It leads to nothing;
there is no hope in your love, but love me; I die if
you do not love me.”
Donna Micaela had hardly sent off the letter
before she began to wait for the answer. She
expected a stormy and angry reply, but she hoped
that there would be one single word to show her
that he still loved her.
But she waited several weeks without receiving
any letter from Gaetano.
It did not help her to stand and wait every morning
for the letter-carrier out on the gallery, and
almost break his heart because he was always obliged
to say that he did not have anything for her.
One day she went herself to the post-office, and
asked them, with the most beseeching eyes, to give
her the letter she was expecting. It must be there,
she said. But perhaps they had not been able to
read the address; perhaps it had been put into the
wrong box? And her soft, imploring eyes so touched
the postmaster that she was allowed to look through
piles of old, unclaimed letters, and to turn all the
drawers in the post-office upside down. But it was
all in vain.
She wrote new letters to Gaetano; but no answer
came.
Then she tried to believe what seemed impossible.
She tried to make her soul realize that Gaetano had
ceased to love her.
As her conviction increased, she began to shut
herself into her room. She was afraid of people,
and preferred to sit alone.
Day by day she became more feeble. She walked
deeply bent, and even her beautiful eyes seemed to
lose their life and light.
After a few weeks she was so weak that she could
no longer keep up, but lay all day on her sofa.
She was prey to a suffering that gradually deprived
her of all vital power. She knew that she was failing,
and she was afraid to die. But she could do
nothing. There was only one remedy for her, but
that never came. While Donna Micaela seemed to
be thus quietly gliding out of life, the people of
Diamante were preparing to celebrate the feast of
San Sebastiano, that comes at the end of January.
It was the greatest festival of Diamante, but in
the last few years it had not been kept with customary
splendor, because want and gloom had weighed
too heavily on their souls.
But this year, just after the revolt had failed, and
while Sicily was still filled with troops, and while
the beloved heroes of the people languished in
prison, they determined to celebrate the festival
with all the old-time pomp; for now, they said, was
not the time to neglect the saint.
And the pious people of Diamante determined
that the festival should be held for a week, and that
San Sebastiano should be honored with flags and
decorations, and with races and biblical processions,
illuminations, and singing contests.
The people bestirred themselves with great haste
and eagerness. There was polishing and scrubbing
in every house. They brought out the old costumes,
and they prepared to receive strangers from all
Etna.
The summer-palace was the only house in Diamante
where no preparations were made. Donna
Elisa was deeply grieved at it, but she could not
induce Donna Micaela to have her house decorated.
“How can you ask me to trim a house of mourning
with flowers and leaves?” she said. “The roses
would shed their petals if I tried to use them to
mask the misery that reigns here.”
But Donna Elisa was very eager for the festival,
and expected much good to result from honoring the
saint as in the old days. She could talk of nothing
but of how the priests had decorated the façade of
the Cathedral in the old Sicilian way, with silver
flowers and mirrors. And she described the procession:
how many riders there were to be, and what
high plumes they were to have in their hats, and
what long, garlanded staves, with wax candles at
the end, they were to carry in their hands.
When the first festival day came, Donna Elisa’s
house was the most gorgeously decorated. The
green, red, and white standard of Italy waved from
the roof, and red cloths, fringed with gold, bearing
the saint’s initials, were spread over the window-sills
and balcony railings. Up and down the wall
ran garlands of holly, shaped into stars and arches,
and round the windows crept wreaths made of the
little pink roses from Donna Elisa’s garden. Just
over the entrance stood the saint’s image, framed
in lilies, and on the threshold lay cypress-branches.
And if one had entered the house, one would have
found it as much adorned on the inside as on the
outside. From the cellar to the attic it was scoured
and covered with flowers, and on the shelves in
the shop no saint was too small or insignificant to
have an everlasting or a harebell in his hand. Like
Donna Elisa, every one in penniless Diamante had
decorated along the whole street. In the street
above the house of the little Moor there was such an
array of flags that it looked like clothes hung out to
dry from the earth to the sky. Every house and
every arch carried flags, and across the streets were
hung ropes, from which fluttered pennant after
pennant.
At every tenth step the people of Diamante had
raised triumphal arches over the street. And over
every door stood the image of the saint, framed in
wreaths of yellow everlastings. The balconies were
covered with red quilts and bright-colored table-cloths,
and stiff garlands wound up the walls.
There were so many flowers and leaves that no
one could understand how they had been able to get
them all in January. Everything was crowned and
wreathed with flowers. The brooms had crowns of
crocuses, and each door-knocker a bunch of hyacinths.
In windows stood pictures with monograms, and
inscriptions of blood-red anemones.
And between those decorated houses the stream of
people rolled as mighty as a rising river. It was
not the inhabitants of Diamante alone who were
honoring San Sebastiano. From all Etna came
yellow carts, beautifully ornamented and painted,
drawn by horses in shining harness, and loaded
down with people. The sick, the beggars, the blind
singers came in great crowds. There were whole
trains of pilgrims, unhappy people, who now, after
their misfortunes, had some one to pray to.
Such numbers came that the people wondered how
they all would ever find room within the town walls.
There were people in the streets, people in the
windows, people on the balconies. On the high
stone steps sat people, and the shops were full of
them. The big street-doors were thrown wide, and
in the openings chairs were arranged in a half-circle,
as in a theatre. There the house-owners sat with
their guests and looked at the passers-by.
The whole street was filled with an intoxicating
noise. It was not only the talking and laughter of
the people. There were also organ-grinders standing
and turning hand-organs big as pianos. There
were street-singers, and there were men and women
who declaimed Tasso in cracked, worn-out voices.
There were all kinds of criers, the sound of organs
streamed from all the churches, and in the square on
the summit of the mountain the town band played so
that it could be heard over all Diamante.
The joyous noise, and the fragrance of the flowers,
and the flapping of the flags outside Donna Micaela’s
window had power to wake her from her stupor.
She rose up, as if life had sent for her. “I will not
die,” she said to herself. “I will try to live.”
She took her father’s arm and went out into the
street. She hoped that the life there would mount
to her head so that she might forget her sorrow.
“If I do not succeed,” she thought, “if I can find
no distraction, I must die.”
Now in Diamante there was a poor old stone-cutter,
who had thought of earning a few soldi during
the festival. He had made a couple of small
busts out of lava, of San Sebastiano and of Pope Leo
XIII. And as he knew that many in Diamante
loved Gaetano, and grieved over his fate, he also
made a few portraits of him.
Just as Donna Micaela came out into the street
she met the man, and he offered her his wretched
little images.
“Buy Don Gaetano Alagona, Donna Micaela,”
said the man; “buy Don Gaetano, whom the government
has put in prison because he wished to
help Sicily.”
Donna Micaela pressed her father’s arm hard and
went hurriedly on.
In the Café Europa the son of the innkeeper
stood and sang canzoni. He had composed a few
new ones for the festival, and among others some
about Gaetano. For he could not know that people
did not care to hear of him.
When Donna Micaela passed by the café and
heard the singing, she stopped and listened.
“Alas, Gaetano Alagona!” sang the young man.
“Songs are mighty. I shall sing you free with
my songs. First I will send you the slender canzone.
He shall glide in between your prison-gratings, and
break them. Then I will send you the sonnet, that
is fair as a woman, and which will corrupt your
guards. I will compose a glorious ode to you, which
will shake the walls of your prison with its lofty
rhythms. But if none of these help you, I will burst
out in the glorious epos, that has hosts of words.
Oh, Gaetano, mighty as an army it marches on!
All the legions of ancient Rome would not have
had the strength to stop it!”
Donna Micaela hung convulsively on her father’s
arm, but she did not speak, and went on.
Then Cavaliere Palmeri began to speak of Gaetano.
“I did not know that he was so beloved,” he said.
“Nor I,” murmured Donna Micaela.
“To-day I saw some strangers coming into Donna
Elisa’s shop, and begging her to be allowed to buy
something that he had carved. She had left only a
couple of old rosaries, and I saw her break them to
pieces and give them out bead by bead.”
Donna Micaela looked at her father like a beseeching
child. But he did not know whether she wished
him to be silent or to go on speaking.
“Donna Elisa’s old friends go about in the garden
with Luca,” he said, “and Luca shows them Gaetano’s
favorite places and the garden beds that he used to
plant. And Pacifica sits in the workshop beside
the joiner’s-bench, and relates all sorts of things
about him, ever since he was—so big.”
He could tell no more; the crush and the noise
became so great about him that he had to stop.
They meant to go to the Cathedral. On the
Cathedral steps sat old Assunta, as usual. She held
a rosary in her hands and mumbled the same prayer
round the whole rosary. She asked the saint that
Gaetano, who had promised to help all the poor,
might come back to Diamante.
As Donna Micaela walked by her, she distinctly
heard: “San Sebastiano, give us Gaetano! Ah, in
your mercy; ah, in our misery, San Sebastiano,
give us Gaetano!”
Donna Micaela had meant to go into the church,
but she turned on the steps.
“There is such a crowd there,” she said, “I do
not dare to go in.”
She went home again. But while she had been
away, Donna Elisa had watched her opportunity.
She had hoisted a flag on the roof of the summer-palace;
she had spread draperies on the balconies,
and as Donna Micaela came home, she was fastening
up a garland in the gateway. For Donna Elisa
could not bear to have the summer-palace underrated.
She wished no honor to San Sebastiano
omitted at this time. And she feared that the saint
would not help Diamante and Gaetano if the palace
of the old Alagonas did not honor him.
Donna Micaela was pale as if she had received her
death warrant, and bent like an old woman of eighty
years.
She murmured to herself: “I make no busts of
him; I sing no songs about him; I dare not pray to
God for him; I buy none of his beads. How can he
believe that I love him? He must love all these
others, who worship him, but not me. I do not
belong to his world, he can love me no longer.”
And when she saw that they wished to adorn her
house with flowers, it seemed to her so piteously
cruel that she snatched the wreath from Donna Elisa
and threw it at her feet, asking if she wished to kill
her.
Then she went past her up the stairs to her room.
She threw herself on the sofa and buried her face in
the cushions.
She now first understood how far apart she and
Gaetano were. The idol of the people could not
love her.
She felt as if she had prevented him from helping
all those poor people.
How he must detest her; how he must hate her!
Then her illness came creeping back over her.
That illness which consisted of not being loved!
It would kill her. She thought, as she lay there,
that it was all over.
While she lay there, suddenly the little Christchild
stood before her inward eye. He seemed to
have entered the room in all his wretched splendor.
She saw him plainly.
Donna Micaela began to call on the Christchild
for help. And she was amazed at herself for not
having turned before to that good helper. It was
probably because the image did not stand in a
church, but was carried about as a museum-piece by
Miss Tottenham, that she remembered him only in
her deepest need.
It was late in the evening of the same day. After
dinner Donna Micaela had given all her servants
permission to go to the festival, so that she and her
father were alone in the big house. But towards ten
o’clock her father rose and said he wished to hear
the singing-contest in the square. And as Donna
Micaela did not dare to sit alone, she was obliged
to go with him.
When they came to the square they saw that it
was turned into a theatre, with lines upon lines of
chairs. Every corner was filled with people, and it
was with difficulty that they found places.
“Diamante is glorious this evening, Micaela,”
said Cavaliere Palmeri. The charm of the night
seemed to have softened him. He spoke more
simply and tenderly to his daughter than he had
done for a long time.
Donna Micaela felt instantly that he spoke the
truth. She felt as she had done when she first
came to Diamante. It was a town of miracles, a
town of beauty, a little sanctuary of God.
Directly in front of her stood a high and stately
building made of shining diamonds. She had to
think for a moment before she could understand what
it was.
Yet it was nothing but the front of the Cathedral,
covered with flowers of stiff silver and gold paper
and with thousands of little mirrors stuck in between
the flowers. And in every flower was hung a little
lamp with a flame as big as a fire-fly. It was the
most enchanting illumination that Donna Micaela
had ever seen.
There was no other light in the market-place, nor
was any needed. That great wall of diamonds
shone quite sufficiently. The black Palazzo Geraci
was flaming red, as if it had been lighted by a
conflagration.
Nothing of the world outside of the square was
visible. Everything below it was in the deepest
darkness, and that made her think again that she
saw the old enchanted Diamante that was not of the
earth, but was a holy city on one of the mounts of
heaven. The town-hall with its heavy balconies
and high steps, the long convent and the Roman
gate were again glorious and wonderful. And she
could hardly believe it was in that town that she
had suffered such terrible pain.
In the midst of the great crowd of people, no
chill was felt. The winter night was mild as a
spring morning; and Donna Micaela began to feel
something of spring in her. It began to stir and
tremble in her in a way which was both sweet and
terrible. It must feel so in the snow-masses on
Etna when the sun melts them into sparkling
brooks.
She looked at the people who filled the market-place,
and was amazed at herself that she had been
so tortured by them in the forenoon. She was glad
that they loved Gaetano. Alas, if he had only continued
to love her, she would have been unspeakably
proud and happy in their love. Then she could
have kissed those old callous hands that made images
of him and were clasped in prayers for him.
As she was thinking this, the church-door was
thrown open and a big, flat wagon rolled out of the
church. Highest on the red-covered wagon stood
San Sebastiano by his stake, and below the image
sat the four singers, who were to contest.
There was an old blind man from Nicolosi; a
cooper from Catania, who was considered to be the
best improvisatore in all Sicily; a smith from
Termini, and little Gandolfo, who was son to the
watchman in the town-hall of Diamante.
Everybody was surprised that Gandolfo dared to
appear in such a difficult contest. Did he do it
perhaps to please his betrothed, little Rosalia? No
one had ever heard that he could improvise. He
had never done anything in his whole life but eat
mandarins and stare at Etna.
The first thing was to draw lots among the competitors,
and the lots fell so that the cooper should
come first and Gandolfo last. When it fell so
Gandolfo turned pale. It was terrible to come last,
when they all were to speak on the same subject.
The cooper elected to speak of San Sebastiano,
when he was a soldier of the legion in ancient
Rome, and for his faith’s sake was bound to a stake
and used as a target for his comrades. After him
came the blind man, who told how a pious Roman
matron found the martyr bleeding and pierced with
arrows, and succeeded in bringing him back to life.
Then came the smith, who related all the miracles
San Sebastiano had worked in Sicily during the
pest in the fifteenth century. They were all much
applauded. They spoke many strong words of blood
and death, and the people rejoiced in them. But
every one from Diamante was anxious for little
Gandolfo.
“The smith takes all the words from him. He
must fail,” they said.
“Ah,” said others, “little Rosalia will not take
the engagement ribbon out of her hair for that.”
Gandolfo shrunk together in his corner of the
wagon. He grew smaller and smaller. Those sitting
near could hear how his teeth chattered with
fright.
When his turn came at last, and he rose and began
to improvise, he was very bad. He was worse than
any one had expected. He faltered out a couple of
verses, but they were only a repetition of what the
others had said.
Then he suddenly stopped and gasped for breath.
In that moment the strength of despair came to
him. He straightened himself up, and a slight
flush rose to his cheeks.
“Oh, signori,” said little Gandolfo, “let me speak
of that of which I am always thinking! Let me
speak of what I always see before me!”
And he began unopposed and with wonderful
power to tell what he himself had seen.
He told how he who was son to the watchman of
the town-hall had crept through dark attics and had
lain hidden in one of the galleries of the court-room
the night the court-martial had been held to pass
sentence on the insurgents in Diamante.
Then he had seen Don Gaetano Alagona on the
bench of the accused with a lot of wild fellows who
were worse than brutes.
He told how beautiful Gaetano had been. He
had seemed like a god to little Gandolfo beside
those terrible people about him. And he described
those bandits with their wild-beast faces, their
coarse hair, their clumsy limbs. He said that no
one could look into their eyes without a quiver of
the heart.
Yet, in all his beauty, Don Gaetano was more
terrible than those people. Gandolfo did not know
how they dared to sit beside him on the bench.
Under his frowning brows his eyes flashed at his
fellow-prisoners with a look which would have killed
their souls, if they like others had possessed such a
thing.
“‘Who are you,’ he seemed to ask, ‘who dare
to turn to plundering and murder while you call on
sacred liberty? Do you know what you have done?
Do you know that on account of your devices I am
now a prisoner? And it was I who would have
saved Sicily!’” And every glance he cast at them
was a death warrant.
His eyes fell on all the things that the bandits
had stolen and that were now piled up on a table.
He recognized them. Could he help knowing the
clocks and the silver dishes from the summer-palace?
could he help knowing the relics and coins
that had been stolen from his English patroness?
And when he had recognized the things, he turned
to his fellow-prisoners with a terrible smile. “‘You
heroes! you heroes!’ said the smile; ‘you have
stolen from two women!’”
His noble face was constantly changing. Once
Gandolfo had seen it contracted by a sudden terror.
It was when the man sitting nearest to him stretched
out a hand covered with blood. Had he perhaps had
a sudden idea of the truth? Did he think that those
men had broken into the house where his beloved
lived?
Gandolfo told how the officers who were to be the
judges had come in, silent and grave, and sat down
in their places. But he said when he had seen
those noble gentlemen his anxiety had diminished.
He had said to himself that they knew that Gaetano
was of good birth, and that they would not sentence
him. They would not mix him up with the bandits.
No one could possibly believe that he had wished to
rob two women.
And see, when the judge called up Gaetano
Alagona his voice was without hardness. He spoke
to him as to an equal.
“But,” said Gandolfo, “when Don Gaetano rose,
he stood so that he could see out over the square.
And through the square, through this same square,
where now so many people are sitting in happiness
and pleasure, a funeral procession was passing.
“It was the White Brotherhood carrying the body
of the murdered Giannita to her mother’s house.
They walked with torches, and the bier, carried on
the bearers’ shoulders, was plainly visible. As the
procession passed slowly across the market-place,
one could recognize the pall spread over the corpse.
It was the pall of the Alagonas adorned with
a gorgeous coat of arms and rich silver fringes.
When Gaetano saw it, he understood that the corpse
was of the house of Alagona. His face became
ashy gray, and he reeled as if he were going to
fall.
“At that moment the judge asked him: ‘Do you
know the murdered woman?’ And he answered:
‘Yes.’ Then the judge, who was a merciful man,
continued: ‘Was she near to you?’ And then Don
Gaetano answered: ‘I love her.’”
When Gandolfo had come so far in his story,
people saw Donna Micaela suddenly rise, as if she
had wished to contradict him, but Cavaliere Palmeri
drew her quickly down beside him.
“Be quiet, be quiet,” he said to her.
And she sat quiet with her face hidden in her
hands. Now and then her body rocked and she
wailed softly.
Gandolfo told how the judge, when Gaetano had
acknowledged that, had shown him his fellow-prisoners
and asked him: “‘If you loved that woman,
how can you have anything in common with the
men who have murdered her?’”
Then Don Gaetano had turned towards the bandits.
He had raised his clenched hand and shaken it at
them. And he had looked as if he had longed for a
dagger, to be able to strike them down one after
another.
“‘With those!’” he had shouted. “‘Should I
have anything in common with those?’”
And he had certainly meant to say that he had
nothing to do with robbers and murderers. The
judge had smiled kindly at him, as if he had only
waited for that answer to set him free.
But then a divine miracle had happened.
And Gandolfo told, how among all the stolen
things that lay on the table, there had also been a
little Christ image. It was a yard high, richly
covered with jewels and adorned with a gold crown
and gold shoes. Just at that moment one of the
officers bent down to draw the image to him; and as
he did so, the crown fell to the floor and rolled all
the way to Don Gaetano.
Don Gaetano picked up the Christ-crown, held it
a moment in his hands and looked at it carefully.
It seemed as if he had read something in it.
He did not hold it more than one minute. In the
next the guard took it from him.
Donna Micaela looked up almost frightened. The
Christ image! He was there already! Should she
so soon get an answer to her prayer?
Gandolfo continued: “But when Don Gaetano
looked up, every one trembled as at a miracle, for
the man was transformed.
“Ah, signori, he was so white that his face seemed
to shine, and his eyes were calm and tender. And
there was no more anger in him.
“And he began to pray for his fellow-prisoners;
he began to pray for their lives.
“He prayed that they should not kill those poor
fellow-creatures. He prayed that the noble judges
should do something for them that they might some
day live like others. ‘We have only this life to live,’
he said. ‘Our kingdom is only of this world.’
“He began to tell how those men had lived. He
spoke as if he could read their souls. He pictured
their life, gloomy and unhappy as it had been. He
spoke so that several of the judges wept.
“The words came strong and commanding, so that
it sounded as if Don Gaetano had been judge and
the judges the criminals. ‘See,’ he said, ‘whose
fault is it that these poor men have gone to destruction?
Is it not you who have the power who ought
to have taken care of them?’
“And they were all dismayed at the responsibility
he forced upon them.
“But suddenly the judge had interrupted him.
“‘Speak in your own defence, Gaetano Alagona,’
he said; ‘do not speak in that of others!’
“Then Don Gaetano had smiled. ‘Signor,’ he
said, ‘I have not much more than you with which
to defend myself. But still I have something. I
have left my career in England to make a revolt in
Sicily. I have brought over weapons. I have made
seditious speeches. I have something, although not
much.’
“The judge had almost begged him. ‘Do not
speak so, Don Gaetano,’ he had said. ‘Think of
what you are saying!’
“But he had made confessions that compelled
them to sentence him.
“When they told him that he was to sit for
twenty-nine years in prison, he had cried out:
‘Now may her will be done, who was just carried
by. May I be as she wished!’
“And I saw no more of him,” said little Gandolfo,
“for the guards placed him between them and led
him away.
“But I, who heard him pray for those who had
murdered his beloved, made a vow that I would do
something for him.
“I vowed to recite a beautiful improvisation to
San Sebastiano to induce him to help him. But I
have not succeeded. I am no improvisatore; I could
not.”
Here he broke off and threw himself down, weeping
aloud before the image. “Forgive me that I
could not,” he cried, “and help him in spite of it.
You know that when they sentenced him I promised
to do it for his sake that you might save him. But
now I have not been able to speak of you, and you
will not help him.”
Donna Micaela hardly knew how it happened, but
she and little Rosalia, who loved Gandolfo, were
beside him at almost the same moment. They drew
him to them, and both kissed him, and said that no
one had spoken like him; no one, no one. Did he
not see that they were weeping? San Sebastiano
was pleased with him. Donna Micaela put a ring
on the boy’s finger and round about him the people
were waving many-colored silk handkerchiefs, that
glistened like waves of the sea in the strong light
from the Cathedral.
“Viva Gaetano! viva Gandolfo!” cried the people.
And flowers and fruits and silk handkerchiefs and
jewels came raining down about little Gandolfo.
Donna Micaela was crowded away from him almost
with violence. But it never occurred to her to be
frightened. She stood among the surging people
and wept. The tears streamed down her face, and
she wept for joy that she could weep. That was the
greatest blessing.
She wished to force her way to Gandolfo; she
could not thank him enough. He had told her that
Gaetano loved her. When he had quoted the words,
“Now may her will be done who was just carried
by,” she had suddenly understood that Gaetano had
believed that it was she lying under the pall of the
Alagonas.
And of that dead woman he had said: “I love
her.”
The blood flowed once more in her veins; her
heart beat again; her tears fell. “It is life, life,”
she said to herself, while she let herself be carried
to and fro by the crowd. “Life has come again to
me. I shall not die.”
They all had to come up to little Gandolfo to
thank him, because he had given them some one
to love, to trust in, to long for in those days of
dejection, when everything seemed lost.
