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.”
IV
DIAMANTE
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.
V
DON FERRANTE
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.”