to die,” he said, hoarsely; but he corrected himself and said: “I am
permitted to die.”
Donna Elisa asked what the matter was, and said that she would fetch help.
“Sit down here,” he said, and made a feeble attempt to wipe away the dust
on the platform with his sleeve.
Donna Elisa said that she wished to fetch the priests and sisters of
charity.
He seized her skirt and held her back.
“I want to speak to you first, Donna Elisa.”
It was hard for him to talk, and he breathed heavily after each word.
Donna Elisa sat down beside him and waited.
He lay for a while and panted; then a flush rose to his cheeks; his eyes
began to shine, and he spoke with ease and eagerness.
“Donna Elisa,” said Fra Felice, “I have a legacy to give away. It has
troubled me all day. I do not know to whom I shall give it.”
“Fra Felice,” said Donna Elisa, “do not concern yourself with such a
thing. There is no one who does not need a good gift.”
But now when Fra Felice’s strength had returned, he wished, before he
made up his mind about the legacy, to tell Donna Elisa how good God had
been to him.
“Has not God been great in his grace to make me a _polacco_?” he said.
“Yes, it is a great gift,” said Donna Elisa.
“Only to be a little, little _polacco_ is a great gift,” said Fra Felice;
“it is especially useful since the monastery has been given up, and when
my comrades are gone or dead. It means having a bag full of bread before
one even stretches out one’s hand to beg. It means always seeing bright
faces, and being greeted with deep reverences. I know no greater gift
for a poor monk, Donna Elisa.”
Donna Elisa thought how revered and loved Fra Felice had been, because he
had been able to predict what numbers would come out in the lottery. And
she could not help agreeing with him.
“If I came wandering along the road in the heat,” said Fra Felice, “the
shepherd came to me and went with me a long way, and held his umbrella
over me as shelter against the sun. And when I came to the laborers in
the cool stone-quarries, they shared their bread and their bean-soup
with me. I have never been afraid of brigands nor of _carabinieri_. The
official at the custom-house has shut his eyes when I went by with my
bag. It has been a good gift, Donna Elisa.”
“True, true,” said Donna Elisa.
“It has not been an arduous profession,” said Fra Felice. “They spoke to
me, and I answered them; that was all. They knew that every word has its
number, and they noticed what I said and played accordingly. I never knew
how it happened, Donna Elisa; it was a gift from God.”
“You will be a great loss to the poor people, Fra Felice,” said Donna
Elisa.
Fra Felice smiled. “They care nothing for me on Sunday and Monday, when
there has just been a drawing,” he said. “But they come on Thursday
and Friday and on Saturday morning, because there is a drawing every
Saturday.”
Donna Elisa began to be anxious, because the dying man thought of nothing
but that. Suddenly there flashed across her memory thoughts of one and
another who had lost in the lottery, and she remembered several who had
played away all their prosperity. She wished to turn his thoughts from
that sinful lottery business.
“You said that you wished to speak of your will, Fra Felice.”
“But it is because I have so many friends that it is hard for me to know
to whom I shall give the legacy. Shall I give it to those who have baked
sweet cakes for me, or to those who have offered me artichokes, browned
in sweet oil? Or shall I bequeath it to the sisters of charity who nursed
me when I was ill?”
“Have you much to give away, Fra Felice?”
“It will do, Donna Elisa. It will do.”
Fra Felice seemed to be worse again; he lay silent with panting breast.
“I had also wished to give it to all poor, homeless monks, who had lost
their monasteries,” he whispered.
And then after thinking for a while: “I should also have liked to give it
to the good old man in Rome. He, you know, who watches over us all.”
“Are you so rich, Fra Felice?” said Donna Elisa.
“I have enough, Donna Elisa; I have enough.”
He closed his eyes, and rested for a while; then he said:--
“I want to give it to everybody, Donna Elisa.”
He acquired new strength at the thought; a slight flush was again visible
in his cheeks, and he raised himself on his elbow.
“See here, Donna Elisa,” he said, while he thrust his hand into his cloak
and drew out a sealed envelope, which he handed to her, “you shall go and
give this to the syndic, to the syndic of Diamante.
“Here, Donna Elisa,” said Fra Felice, “here are the five numbers that win
next Saturday. They have been revealed to me, and I have written them
down. And the syndic shall take these numbers and have them fastened up
on the Roman Gate, where everything of importance is published. And he
shall let the people know that it is my testament. I bequeath it to the
people. Five winning numbers, a whole quintern, Donna Elisa!”
Donna Elisa took the envelope and promised to give it to the syndic. She
could do nothing else, for poor Fra Felice had not many minutes left to
live.
“When Saturday comes,” said Fra Felice, “there will be many who will
think of Fra Felice. ‘Can old Fra Felice have deceived us?’ they will ask
themselves. ‘Can it be possible for us to win the whole quintern?’
“On Saturday evening there is a drawing on the balcony of the town-hall
in Catania, Donna Elisa. Then they carry out the lottery-wheel and
table, and the managers of the lottery are there, and the pretty little
poor-house child. And one number after another is put into the lucky
wheel until they are all there, the whole hundred.
“All the people stand below and tremble in expectation, as the sea
trembles before the storm-wind.
“Everybody from Diamante will be there, and they will stand quite pale
and hardly daring to look one another in the face. Before, they have
believed, but not now. Now they think that old Fra Felice has deceived
them. No one dares to cherish the smallest hope.
“Then the first number is drawn, and I was right. Ah, Donna Elisa, they
will be so astonished they will scarcely be able to rejoice. For they
have all expected disappointment. When the second number comes out, there
is the silence of death. Then comes the third. The lottery managers will
be astonished that everything is so quiet. ‘To-day they are not winning
anything,’ they will say. ‘To-day the state has all the prizes.’ Then
comes the fourth number. The poor-house child takes the roll from the
wheel; and the marker opens the roll, and shows the number. Down among
the people it is almost terrible; no one is able to say a word for joy.
Then the last number comes. Donna Elisa, the people scream, they cry,
they fall into one another’s arms and sob. They are rich. All Diamante is
rich--”
Donna Elisa had kept her arm under Fra Felice’s head and supported him
while he had panted out all this. Suddenly his head fell heavily back.
Old Fra Felice was dead.
* * * * *
While Donna Elisa was with old Fra Felice, many people in Diamante had
begun to trouble themselves about the blind. Not the men; most of the men
were in the fields at work; but the women. They had come in crowds to
Santa Lucia to console the blind, and finally, when about four hundred
women had gathered together, it occurred to them to go and speak to the
syndic.
They had gone up to the square and called for the syndic. He had come out
on the balcony of the town-hall, and they had prayed for the blind. The
syndic was a kind and handsome man. He had answered them pleasantly,
but had not been willing to yield. He could not repeal what had been
decided in the town Junta. But the women were determined that it should
be repealed, and they remained in the square. The syndic went into the
town-hall again, but they stayed in the square and called and prayed.
They did not intend to go away till he yielded.
While this was going on, Donna Elisa came to give the syndic Fra Felice’s
testament. She was grieved unto death at all the misery, but at the same
time she felt a bitter satisfaction, because she had received no help
from the Christchild. She had always believed that the saints did not
wish to help Donna Micaela.
It was a fine gift she had received in San Pasquale’s church. Not only
could it not help the blind, but it was in a fair way to ruin the whole
town. Now what little the people still possessed would go to the lottery
collector. There would be a borrowing and a pawning.
The syndic admitted Donna Elisa immediately, and was as calm and polite
as always, although the women were calling in the square, the blind were
bemoaning themselves in the waiting-room, and people had run in and out
of his room all day.
“How can I be at your service, Signora Antonelli?” he said. Donna Elisa
first looked about and wondered to whom he was speaking. Then she told
about the testament.
The syndic was neither frightened nor surprised. “That is very
interesting,” he said, and stretched out his hand for the paper.
But Donna Elisa held the envelope fast and asked: “Signor Sindaco, what
do you intend to do with it? Do you intend to fasten it to the Roman
Gate?”
“Yes; what else can I do, signora? It is a dead man’s last wish.”
Donna Elisa would have liked to tell him what a terrible testament it
was, but she checked herself to speak of the blind.
“Padre Succi, who directed that the blind should always be allowed in his
church, is also a dead man,” she interposed.
“Signora Antonelli, are you beginning with that too?” said the syndic,
quite kindly. “It was a mistake; but why did no one tell me that the
blind frequent the church of Lucia? Now, since it is decided, I cannot
annul the decision; I cannot.”
“But their rights and patents, Signor Sindaco?”
“Their rights are worth nothing. They have to do with the Jesuits’
monastery, but there is no longer such a monastery. And tell me, Signora
Antonelli, what will become of me if I yield?”
“The people will love you as a good man.”
“Signora, people will believe that I am a weak man, and every day I shall
have four hundred laborers’ wives outside the town-hall, begging now for
one thing, now for another. It is only to hold out for one day. To-morrow
it will be forgotten.”
“To-morrow!” said Donna Elisa; “we shall never forget it.”
The syndic smiled, and Donna Elisa saw that he thought that he knew the
people of Diamante much better than she.
“You think that their hearts are in it?” he said.
“I think so, Signor Sindaco.”
Then the syndic laughed softly. “Give me that envelope, Signora.”
He took it and went out on the balcony.
He began to speak to the women. “I wish to tell you,” he said, “that I
have just now heard that old Fra Felice is dead, and that he has left a
legacy to you all. He has written down five numbers that are supposed
to win in the lottery next Saturday, and he bequeaths them to you. No
one has seen them yet. They are lying here in this envelope, and it is
unopened.”
He was silent a moment to let the women have time to think over what he
had said.
Instantly they began to cry: “The numbers, the numbers!”
The syndic signed to them to be silent.
“You must remember,” he said, “that it was impossible for Fra Felice
to know what numbers will be drawn next Saturday. If you play on these
numbers, you may all lose. And we cannot afford to be poorer than we
are already here in Diamante. I ask you therefore to let me destroy the
testament without any one seeing it.”
“The numbers,” cried the women, “give us the numbers!”
“If I am permitted to destroy the testament,” said the syndic, “I promise
you that the blind shall have their church again.”
There was silence in the square. Donna Elisa rose from her seat in the
hall of the court-house and seized the back of her chair with both hands.
“I leave it to you to choose between the church and the numbers,” said
the syndic.
“God in heaven!” sighed Donna Elisa, “is he a devil to tempt poor people
in such a way?”
“We have been poor before,” cried one of the women, “we can still be
poor.”
“We will not choose Barabbas instead of Christ,” cried another.
The syndic took a match-box from his pocket, lighted a match, and brought
it slowly up to the testament.
The women stood quiet and let Fra Felice’s five numbers be destroyed. The
blind people’s church was saved.
“It is a miracle,” whispered old Donna Elisa; “they all believe in Fra
Felice, and they let his numbers burn. It is a miracle.”
* * * * *
Later in the afternoon Donna Elisa again sat in her shop with her
embroidery frame. She looked old as she sat there, and there was
something shaken and broken about her. It was not the usual Donna Elisa;
it was a poor, elderly, forsaken woman.
She drew the needle slowly through the cloth, and when she wished to take
another stitch she was uncertain and at a loss. It was hard for her to
keep the tears from falling on her embroidery and spoiling it.
Donna Elisa was in such great grief for to-day she had lost Gaetano
forever. There was no more hope of getting him back.
The saints had gone over to the side of the opponent, and worked miracles
in order to help Donna Micaela. No one could doubt that a miracle had
happened. The poor women of Diamante would never have been able to stand
still while Fra Felice’s numbers burned if they had not been bound by a
miracle.
It made a poor soul so old and cross to have the good saints help Donna
Micaela, who did not like Gaetano.
The door-bell jingled violently, and Donna Elisa rose from old habit.
It was Donna Micaela. She was joyful, and came toward Donna Elisa with
outstretched hands. But Donna Elisa turned away, and could not press her
hand.
Donna Micaela was in raptures. “Ah, Donna Elisa, you have helped my
railway. What can I say? How shall I thank you?”
“Never mind about thanking me, sister-in-law!”
“Donna Elisa!”
“If the saints wish to give us a railway, it must be because Diamante
needs it, and not because they love _you_.”
Donna Micaela shrank back. At last she thought she understood why Donna
Elisa was angry with her. “If Gaetano were at home,” she said. She stood
and pressed her hand to her heart and moaned. “If Gaetano were at home he
would not allow you to be so cruel to me.”
“Gaetano?--would not Gaetano?”
“No, he would not. Even if you are angry with me because I loved him
while my husband was alive, you would not dare to upbraid me for it if he
were at home.”
Donna Elisa lifted her eyebrows a little. “You think that he could
prevail upon me to be silent about such a thing,” she said, and her voice
was very strange.
“But, Donna Elisa,” Donna Micaela whispered in her ear, “it is
impossible, quite impossible not to love him. He is beautiful; don’t you
know it? And he subjugates me, and I am afraid of him. You must let me
love him.”
“Must I?” Donna Elisa kept her eyes down and spoke quite shortly and
harshly.
Donna Micaela was beside herself. “It is I whom he loves,” she said. “It
is not Giannita, but me, and you ought to consider me as a daughter;
you ought to help me; you ought to be kind to me. And instead you stand
against me; you are cruel to me. You do not let me come to you and talk
of him. However much I long, and however much I work, I may not tell you
of it.”
Donna Elisa could hold out no longer. Donna Micaela was nothing but a
child, young and foolish and quivering like a bird’s heart,--just one to
be taken care of. She had to throw her arms about her.
“I never knew it, you poor, foolish child,” she said.
VII
AFTER THE MIRACLE
The blind singers had a meeting in the church of Lucia. Highest up in the
choir behind the altar sat thirty old, blind, men on the carved chairs
of the Jesuit fathers. They were poor, most of them; most of them had a
beggar’s wallet and a crutch beside them.
They were all very earnest and solemn; they knew what it meant to be
members of that holy band of singers, of that glorious old Academy.
Now and then below in the church a subdued noise was audible. The blind
men’s guides were sitting there, children, dogs, and old women, waiting.
Sometimes the children began to romp with one another and with the dogs,
but it was instantly suppressed and silenced.
Those of the blind who were _trovatori_ stood up one after another and
spoke new verses.
“You people who live on holy Etna,” one of them recited, “men who live
on the mountain of wonders, rise up, give your mistress a new glory! She
longs for two ribbons to heighten her beauty, two long, narrow bands of
steel to fasten her mantle. Give them to your mistress, and she will
reward you with riches; she will give gold for steel. Countless are the
treasures that she in her might will give them who assist her.”
“A gentle worker of miracles has come among us,” said another. “He stands
poor and unnoticed in the bare old church, and his crown is of tin, and
his diamonds of glass. ‘Make no sacrifices to me, O ye poor,’ he says;
‘build me no temple, all ye who suffer. I will work for your happiness.
If prosperity shines from your houses, I shall shine with precious
stones; if want flees from the land, my feet will be clothed in golden
shoes embroidered with pearls.’”
As each new verse was recited, it was accepted or rejected. The blind men
judged with great severity.
The next day they wandered out over Etna, and sang the railway into the
people’s hearts.
* * * * *
After the miracle of Fra Felice’s legacy, people began to give
contributions to the railway. Donna Micaela soon had collected about a
hundred lire. Then she and Donna Elisa made the journey to Messina to
look at the steam-tram that runs between Messina and Pharo. They had no
greater ambition; they would be satisfied with a steam-tram.
“Why does a railway need to be so expensive?” said Donna Elisa. “It
is just an ordinary road, although people do lay down two steel rails
on it. It is the engineer and the fine gentlemen who make a railway
expensive. Don’t trouble yourself about engineers, Micaela! Let our good
road-builders, Giovanni and Carmelo, build your railway.”
They carefully inspected the steam-tramway to Pharo and brought back all
the knowledge they could. They measured how wide it ought to be between
the rails, and Donna Micaela drew on a piece of paper the way the rails
ran by one another at the stations. It was not so difficult; they were
sure they would come out well.
That day there seemed to be no difficulties. It was as easy to build a
station as an ordinary house, they said. Besides, more than two stations
were not needed; a little sentry-box was sufficient at most of the
stopping-places.
If they could only avoid forming a company, taking fine gentlemen into
their service, and doing things that cost money, their plan of the
railway would be realized. It would not cost so much. The ground they
could certainly get free. The noble gentlemen who owned the land on Etna
would of course understand how much use of the railway they would have,
and would let it pass free of charge over their ground.
They did not trouble themselves to stake out the line beforehand. They
were going to begin at Diamante and gradually build their way to Catania.
They only needed to begin and lay a little piece every day. It was not so
difficult.
After that journey they began the attempt to build the road at their own
risk. Don Ferrante had not left a large inheritance to Donna Micaela,
but one good thing that he had bequeathed her was a long stretch of
lava-covered waste land off on Etna. Here Giovanni and Carmelo began to
break ground for the new railway.
When the work began, the builders of the railway possessed only one
hundred lire. It was the miracle of the legacy that had filled them with
holy frenzy.
What a railway it would be, what a railway!
The blind singers were the share-collectors, the Christ-image gave the
concession, and the old shop woman, Donna Elisa, was the engineer.
VIII
A JETTATORE
In Catania there was once a man with “the evil eye,” a _jettatore_. He
was almost the most terrible _jettatore_ who had ever lived in Sicily.
As soon as he showed himself on the street people hastened to bend their
fingers to the protecting sign. Often it did not help at all; whoever met
him could prepare himself for a miserable day; he would find his dinner
burned, and the beautiful old jelly-bowl broken. He would hear that his
banker had suspended payments, and that the little note that he had
written to his friend’s wife had come into the wrong hands.
Most often a _jettatore_ is a tall, thin man, with pale, shy eyes and
a long nose, which overhangs and _hacks_ his upper lip. God has set
the mark of a parrot’s beak upon the _jettatore_. Yet all things are
variable; nothing is absolutely constant. This _jettatore_ was a little
fellow with a nose like a San Michele.
Thereby he did much more harm than an ordinary _jettatore_. How much
oftener is one pricked by a rose than burned by a nettle!
A _jettatore_ ought never to grow up. He is well off only when he is a
child. Then he still has his little mamma, and she never sees the evil
eye; she never understands why she sticks the needle into her finger
every time he comes to her work-table. She will never be afraid to kiss
him. Although she has sickness constantly in the house, and the servants
leave, and her friends draw away, she never notices anything.
But after the _jettatore_ has come out into the world, he often has a
hard time enough. Every one must first of all think of himself; no one
can ruin his life by being kind to a _jettatore_.
There are several priests who are _jettatori_. There is nothing strange
in that; the wolf is happy if he can tear to pieces many sheep. They
could not very well do more harm than by being priests. One need only ask
what happens to the children whom he baptizes, and the couples whom he
marries.
The _jettatore_ in question was an engineer and wished to build railways.
He had also a position in one of the state railway buildings. The
state could not know that he was a _jettatore_. Ah, but what misery,
what misery! As soon as he obtained a place on the railway a number of
accidents occurred. When they tunnelled through a hill, one cave-in after
another; when they tried to lay a bridge, breach upon breach; when they
exploded a blast, the workmen were killed by the flying fragments.
The only one who was never injured was the engineer, the _jettatore_.
The poor fellows working under him! They counted their fingers and limbs
every evening. “To-morrow perhaps we will have lost you,” they said.
They informed the chief engineer; they informed the minister. Neither
of them would listen to the complaint. They were too sensible and too
learned to believe in the evil eye. The workmen ought to mind better what
they were about. It was their own fault that they met with accidents.
And the gravel-cars tipped over; the locomotive exploded.
One morning there was a rumor that the engineer was gone. He had
disappeared; no one knew what had become of him. Had some one perhaps
stabbed him? Oh, no; oh, no! would any one have dared to kill a
_jettatore_?
But he was really gone; no one ever saw him again.
It was a few years later that Donna Micaela began to think of building
her railway. And in order to get money for it, she wished to hold a
bazaar in the great Franciscan monastery outside Diamante.
There was a cloister garden there, surrounded by splendid old pillars.
Donna Micaela arranged little booths, little lotteries, and little places
of diversion under the arcades. She hung festoons of Venetian lanterns
from pillar to pillar. She piled up great kegs of Etna wine around the
cloister fountain.
While Donna Micaela worked there she often conversed with little
Gandolfo, who had been made watchman at the monastery since Fra Felice’s
death.
One day she made Gandolfo show her the whole monastery. She went through
it all from attic to cellar, and when she saw those countless little
cells with their grated windows and whitewashed walls and hard wooden
seats, she had an idea.
She asked Gandolfo to shut her in in one of the cells and to leave her
there for the space of five minutes.
“Now I am a prisoner,” she said, when she was left alone. She tried the
door; she tried the window. She was securely shut in.
So that was what it was to be a prisoner! Four empty walls about one, the
silence of the grave, and the chill.
“Now I can feel as a prisoner feels,” she thought.
Then she forgot everything else in the thought that possibly Gandolfo
might not come to let her out. He could be called away; he could be
taken suddenly ill; he could fall and kill himself in some of the dark
passage-ways. Many things could happen to prevent him from coming.