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.”