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.
VIII
TWO SONGS
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.”