out-of-the-way cell. If she were left there for even an hour she would go
mad with terror.
She saw before her starvation, slow starvation. She struggled through
interminable hours of anguish. Ah, how she would listen for a step; how
she would call!
She would shake the door; she would scrape the masonry of the walls with
her nails; she would bite the grating with her teeth.
When they finally found her she would be lying dead on the floor, and
they would find everywhere traces of how she had tried to break her way
out.
Why did not Gandolfo come? Now she must have been there a quarter of an
hour, a half-hour. Why did he not come?
She was sure that she had been shut in a whole hour when Gandolfo came.
Where had he been such a long time?
He had not been long at all. He had only been away five minutes.
“God! God! so that is being a prisoner; that is Gaetano’s life!” She
burst into tears when she saw the open sky once more above her.
A while later, as they stood out on an open _loggia_, Gandolfo showed her
a couple of windows with shutters and green shades.
“Does any one live there?” she asked.
“Yes, Donna Micaela, some one does.”
Gandolfo told her that a man lived there who never went out except at
night,--a man who never spoke to any one.
“Is he crazy?” asked Donna Micaela.
“No, no; he is as much in his right mind as you or I. But people say that
he has to conceal himself. He is afraid of the government.”
Donna Micaela was much interested in the man. “What is his name?” she
said.
“I call him Signor Alfredo.”
“How does he get any food?” she asked.
“I prepare it for him,” said Gandolfo.
“And clothes?”
“I get them for him. I bring him books and newspapers, too.”
Donna Micaela was silent for a while. “Gandolfo,” she said, and gave him
a rose which she held in her hand, “lay this on the tray the next time
you take food to your poor prisoner.”
After that Donna Micaela sent some little thing almost every day to the
man in the monastery. It might be a flower, a book or some fruit. It was
her greatest pleasure. She amused herself with her fancies. She almost
succeeded in imagining that she was sending all these things to Gaetano.
When the day for the bazaar came, Donna Micaela was in the cloister early
in the morning. “Gandolfo,” she said, “you must go up to your prisoner
and ask him if he will come to the entertainment this evening.”
Gandolfo soon came back with the answer. “He thanks you very much, Donna
Micaela,” said the boy. “He will come.”
She was surprised, for she had not believed that he would venture out.
She had only wished to show him a kindness.
Something made Donna Micaela look up. She was standing in the cloister
garden, and a window was thrown open in one of the buildings above her.
Donna Micaela saw a middle-aged man of an attractive appearance standing
up there and looking down at her.
“There he is, Donna Micaela,” said Gandolfo.
She was happy. She felt as if she had redeemed and saved the man. And it
was more than that. People who have no imagination will not understand
it. But Donna Micaela trembled and longed all day; she considered how she
would be dressed. It was as if she had expected Gaetano.
Donna Micaela soon had something else to do than to dream; the livelong
day a succession of calamities streamed over her.
The first was a communication from the old Etna brigand, Falco Falcone:--
DEAR FRIEND, DONNA MICAELA,--As I have heard that you intend
to build a railway along Etna, I wish to tell you that with my
consent it will never be. I tell you this now so that you need
not waste any more money and trouble on the matter.
Enlightened and most nobly born signora, I remain
Your humble servant,
FALCO FALCONE.
Passafiero, my sister’s son, has written this letter.
Donna Micaela flung the dirty letter away. It seemed to her as if it were
the death sentence of the railway, but to-day she would not think of it.
Now she had her bazaar.
The moment after, her road-builders, Giovanni and Carmelo, appeared. They
wished to counsel her to get an engineer. She probably did not know what
kind of ground there was on Etna. There was, first, lava; then there was
ashes; and then lava again. Should the road be laid on the top layer of
lava, or on the bed of ashes, or should they dig down still deeper? About
how firm a foundation did a railway need? They could not go ahead without
a man who understood that.
Donna Micaela dismissed them. To-morrow, to-morrow; she had no time to
think of it to-day.
Immediately after, Donna Elisa came with a still worse piece of news.
There was a quarter in Diamante where a poverty-stricken and wild people
lived. Those poor souls had been frightened when they heard of the
railway. “There will be an eruption of Etna and an earthquake,” they had
said. Great Etna will endure no fetters. It will shake off the whole
railway. And people said now that they ought to go out and tear up the
track as soon as a rail was laid on it.
A day of misfortune, a day of misfortune! Donna Micaela felt farther from
her object than ever.
“What is the good of our collecting money at our bazaar?” she said
despondingly.
The day promised ill for her bazaar. In the afternoon it began to rain.
It had not rained so in Diamante since the day when the clocks rang.
The clouds sank to the very house-roofs, and the water poured down from
them. People were wet to the skin before they had been two minutes in the
street. Towards six o’clock, when Donna Micaela’s bazaar was to open, it
was raining its very hardest. When she came out to the monastery, there
was no one there but those who were to help in serving and selling.
She felt ready to cry. Such an unlucky day! What had dragged down all
these adversities upon her?
Donna Micaela’s glance fell on a strange man who was leaning against a
pillar, watching her. Now all at once she recognized him. He was the
_jettatore_--the _jettatore_ from Catania, whom people had taught her to
fear as a child.
Donna Micaela went quickly over to him. “Come with me, signor,” she said,
and went before him. She wished to go so far away that no one should hear
them, and then she wished to beg of him never to come before her eyes
again. She could do no less. He must not ruin her whole life.
She did not think in what direction she went. Suddenly she was at the
door of the monastery church and turned in there.
Within, it was almost dark. Only by the Christ-image a little oil lamp
was burning.
When Donna Micaela saw the Christ-image she was startled. Just then she
had not wished to see him.
He reminded her of the time when his crown had rolled to Gaetano’s feet,
when he had been so angry with the brigands. Perhaps the Christ-image did
not wish her to drive away the _jettatore_.
She had good reason to fear the _jettatore_. It was wrong of him to come
to her entertainment; she must somehow be rid of him.
Donna Micaela had gone on through the whole church, and now stood and
looked at the Christ-image. She could not say a word to the man who
followed her.
She remembered what sympathy she had lately felt for him, because a
prisoner, like Gaetano. She had been so happy that she had tempted him
out to life. What did she now wish to do? Did she wish to send him back
to captivity?
She remembered both her father and Gaetano. Should this man be the third
that she--
She stood silent and struggled with herself. At last the _jettatore_
spoke:--
“Well, signora, is it not true that now you have had enough of me?”
Donna Micaela made a negative gesture.
“Do you not desire me to return to my cell?”
“I do not understand you, signor.”
“Yes, yes, you understand. Something terrible has happened to you to-day.
You do not look as you did this morning.”
“I am very tired,” said Donna Micaela, evasively.
The man came close up to her as if to force out the truth. Questions and
answers flew short and panting between them.
“Do you not see that all your festival is likely to be a failure?”--“I
must arrange it again to-morrow.”--“Have you not recognized me?”--“Yes,
I have seen you before in Catania.”--“And you are not afraid of the
_jettatore_?”--“Yes, formerly, as a child.”--“But now, now are you not
afraid?” She avoided answering him. “Are you yourself afraid?” she said.
“Speak the truth!” he said, impatiently. “What did you wish to say to me
when you brought me here?”
She looked anxiously about her. She had to say something; she must have
something to answer him. Then a thought occurred to her which seemed to
her quite terrible. She looked at the Christ-image. “Do you require it?”
she seemed to ask him. “Shall I do it for this strange man? But it is
throwing away my only hope.”
“I hardly know whether I dare to speak of what I wish of you,” she said.
“No, you see; you do not dare.”--“I intend to build a railway; you know
that?”--“Yes, I know.”--“I want you to help me.”--“I?”
Now that she had made a beginning, it was easier for her to continue. She
was surprised that her words sounded so natural.
“I know that you are a railroad builder. Yes, you understand of course
that with my railroad no pay is given. But it would be better for you
to help me work than to sit shut in here. You are making no use of your
time.”
He looked at her almost sternly. “Do you know what you are saying?”--“It
is of course a presumptuous request.”--“Just so, yes, a presumptuous
request.”
Thereupon the poor man began to try to terrify her.
“It will go with your railway as with your festival.” Donna Micaela
thought so too, but now she thought that she had closed all ways of
escape for herself; now she must go on being good. “My festival will soon
be in full swing,” she said calmly.
“Listen to me, Donna Micaela,” said the man. “The last thing a man ceases
to believe good of is himself. No one can cease to have hope for himself.”
“No; why should he?”
He made a movement as if he were impatient with her confidence.
“When I first began to think about the thing,” he said, “I was easily
consoled. ‘There have been a few unfortunate occurrences,’ I said to
myself, ‘so you have the reputation, and it has become a belief. It is
the belief that has made the trouble. People have met you, and people
have believed that they would come to grief, and come to grief they did.
It is a misfortune worse than death to be considered a _jettatore_, but
you need not yourself believe it.’”
“It is so absurd,” said Donna Micaela.
“Yes, of course, whence should my eyes have got the power to bring
misfortune? And when I thought of it I determined to make a trial. I
travelled to a place where no one knew me. The next day I read in the
paper that the train on which I had travelled had run over a flagman.
When I had been one day in the hotel, I saw the landlord in despair, and
all the guests leaving. What had happened? I asked. ‘One of our servants
has been taken with small-pox.’ Ah, what a wretched business!
“Well, Donna Micaela, I shut myself in and drew back from all intercourse
with people. When a year had passed I had found peace. I asked myself why
I was shut in so. ‘You are a harmless man,’ I said; ‘you wish to hurt no
one. Why do you live as miserably as a criminal?’ I had just meant to go
back to life again, when I met Fra Felice in one of the passages. ‘Fra
Felice, where is the cat?’--‘The cat, signor?’--‘Yes, the monastery cat,
that used to come and get milk from me; where is he now?’--‘He was caught
in a rat-trap.’--‘What do you say, Fra Felice?’--‘He got his paw in a
steel trap and he could not get loose. He dragged himself to one of the
garrets and died of starvation.’ What do you say to that, Donna Micaela?”
“Was it supposed to be your fault that the cat died?”
“I am a _jettatore_.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, what folly!”
“When some time had passed, again the desire to live awoke within me.
Then Gandolfo knocked on my door, and invited me to your festival. Why
should I not go? It is impossible to believe that one brings misfortune
only by showing one’s self. It was a festival in itself, Donna Micaela,
only to get ready and to take out one’s black clothes, brush them, and
put them on. But when I came down to the scene of the festival, it was
deserted; the rain streamed in torrents; your Venetian lanterns were
filled with water. And you yourself looked as if you had suffered all
life’s misfortunes in a single day. When you looked at me you became
ashy gray with terror. I asked some one: ‘What was Signora Alagona’s
maiden name?’--‘Palmeri.’--‘Ah, Palmeri; so she is from Catania. She has
recognized the _jettatore_.’”
“Yes, it is true; I recognized you.”
“You have been very friendly, very kind, and I am distressed to have
spoiled your festival. But now I promise you that I shall keep away both
from your entertainment and your railway.”
“Why should you keep away?”
“I am a _jettatore_.”
“I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.”
“I do not believe it either. Yes, yes, I believe. Do you see, people say
that no one can have power over a _jettatore_ who is not as great in evil
as he. Once, they say, a _jettatore_ looked at himself in the glass,
and then fell down and died. Well, I never look at myself in the glass.
Therefore I believe it.”
“I do not believe it. I think I almost believed it when I saw you out
there. Now I do not believe it.”
“Perhaps you will let me work on your railway?”
“Yes, yes, if you only will.”
He came again close up to her, and they exchanged a few short sentences.
“Come forward to the light; I wish to see your face!”--“You think that
I am dissembling.”--“I think that you are polite.”--“Why should I be
polite to you?”--“That railway means something to you?”--“It means life
and happiness to me.”--“How is that?”--“It will win one who is dear to
me.”--“Very dear?”
She did not reply, but he read the answer in her face.
He bent his knee to her, and sank his head so low that he could kiss the
hem of her dress. “You are good; you are very good. I shall never forget
it. If I were not who I am, how I would serve you!”
“You _shall_ serve me,” she said. And she was so moved by his misfortunes
that she felt no more fear of his injuring her.
He sprang up. “I will tell you something. You cannot go across the floor
without stumbling if I look at you.”
“Oh!” she said.
“Try!”
And she tried. She was very much frightened, and had never felt so
unsteady as when she took her first step. Then she thought: “If it were
for Gaetano’s sake, I could do it.” And then it was easy.
She walked to and fro on the church floor. “Shall I do it again?” He
nodded.
As she was walking, the thought flashed through her brain: “The
Christchild has taken the curse from him, because he is to help me.” She
turned suddenly and came back to him.
“Do you know, do you know? you are no _jettatore_!”
“Am I not?”
“No, no!” She took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Do you not see?
do you not understand? It is taken from you.”
Little Gandolfo’s voice was heard in the path outside the church. “Donna
Micaela, Donna Micaela, where are you? There are so many people, Donna
Micaela. Do you hear; do you hear?”
“Is it no longer raining?” said the _jettatore_, in an uncertain voice.
“It is not raining; how could it be raining? The Christ-image has taken
the curse from you because you are going to work for his railway.”
The man reeled and grasped at the air with his hands. “It is gone. Yes, I
think it is gone. Just now it was there. But now--”
He wished again to fall on his knees before Donna Micaela.
“Not to me,” she said; “to him, to him.” She pointed to the Christ-image.
But nevertheless he fell down before her. He kissed her hands, and with a
voice broken by sobs he told her how every one had hated and persecuted
him, and how much misery life had brought him hitherto.
The next day the _jettatore_ went out on Etna and staked out the road.
And he was no more dangerous than any one else.
IX
PALAZZO GERACI AND PALAZZO CORVAJA
At the time when the Normans ruled in Sicily, long before the family of
Alagona had come to the island, the two magnificent buildings, Palazzo
Geraci and Palazzo Corvaja, were built in Diamante.
The noble Barons Geraci placed their house in the square, high up on the
summit of Monte Chiaro. The Barons Corvaja, on the other hand, built
their home far down the mountain and surrounded it with gardens.
The black-marble walls of Palazzo Geraci were built round a square
court-yard, full of charm and beauty. A long flight of steps, passing
under an arch adorned with an escutcheon, led to the second story. Not
entirely round the court-yard, but here and there in the most unexpected
places, the walls opened into little pillared loggias. The walls were
covered with bas-reliefs, with speckled slabs of Sicilian marble and with
the coats of arms of the Geraci barons. There were windows also, very
small, but with exquisitely carved frames; some round, with panes so
small that they could be covered with a grape leaf; some oblong, and so
narrow that they let in no more light than a slit in a curtain.
The Barons Corvaja did not try to adorn the court-yard of their palace,
but on the lower floor of the house they fitted up a magnificent hall.
In the floor was built a basin for gold-fish; in niches in the walls
fountains covered with mosaic, in which clear water spouted into gigantic
shells. Over it all, a Moorish vaulted roof, supported on slender
pillars, with twining vines in mosaic. It was a hall whose equal is only
to be seen in the Moorish palace in Palermo.
There was much rivalry and emulation during all the time of building.
When Palazzo Geraci put forth a balcony, Palazzo Corvaja acquired its
high Gothic bay-windows; when the roof of Palazzo Geraci was adorned with
richly carved battlements, a frieze of black marble, inlaid with white a
yard wide, appeared on Palazzo Corvaja. The Geraci house was crowned by
a high tower; the Corvaja had a roof garden, with antique pots along the
railing.
When the palaces were finished the rivalry began between the families who
had built them. The houses seemed to breed hostility and strife for all
who lived in them. A Baron Geraci could never agree with a Baron Corvaja.
When Geraci fought for Anjou, Corvaja fought for Manfred. If Geraci
changed sides, and supported Aragoni, Corvaja went to Naples, and fought
for Robert and Joanna.
But that was not all. It was an understood thing that when Geraci found a
son-in-law, Corvaja had to increase his power by a rich marriage. Neither
of the families could rest. They had to vie with each other while eating,
while amusing themselves, while working. The Geraci came to the court of
the Bourbons in Naples, not out of desire of distinction, but because the
Corvaja were there. The Corvaja on the other hand had to grow grapes and
mine sulphur, because the Geraci were interested in agriculture and the
working of mines. When a Geraci received an inheritance some old relative
of the Corvaja had to lie down and die, so that the honor of the family
should not be hazarded.
Palazzo Geraci was always kept busy counting its servants, in order not
to let Palazzo Corvaja lead. But not only the servants, but the braid
on the caps, the harnesses and the horses. The pheasant feather on the
heads of the Corvaja leaders must not be an inch higher than that on
the Geraci. Their goats must increase in the same proportion, and the
Geraci’s oxen must have just as long horns as the Corvaja’s.
In our time one might have expected an end to the enmity between the two
palaces. In our time there are just as few Corvaja in the one palace as
there are Geraci in the other.
The Geraci court-yard is now a dirty hole, which contains donkey-stalls
and pig-styes and chicken houses. On the high steps rags are dried and
the bas-reliefs are broken and mouldy. In one of the passage-ways a
trade in vegetables is carried on, and in the other shoes are made. The
gate-keeper looks like the most ragged of beggars, and from cellar to
attic live none but poor and penniless people.
It is no better in Palazzo Corvaja. There is not a vestige of the mosaic
left in the big hall; only bare, empty arches. No beggars live there,
because the palace is principally in ruins. It no longer raises its
beautiful façade with the carved windows to the bright Sicilian sky.
But the enmity between Geraci and Corvaja is not over. In the old days
it was not only the noble families themselves who competed with one
another; it was also their neighbors and dependents. All Diamante is
to this day divided into Geraci and Corvaja. There is still a high,
loop-holed wall running across the town, dividing the part of Diamante
which stands by the Geraci from that which has declared itself for the
Corvaja.
Even in our day no one from Geraci will marry a girl from Corvaja. And a
shepherd from Corvaja cannot let his sheep drink from a Geraci fountain.
They have not even the same saints. San Pasquale is worshipped in Geraci,
and the black Madonna is Corvaja’s patron saint.
A man from Geraci can never believe but that all Corvaja is full of
magicians, witches, and werewolves. A man from Corvaja will risk his
salvation that in Geraci there are none but rogues and pick-pockets.
Donna Micaela lived in the Geraci district, and soon all that part of the
town were partisans of her railway. But then Corvaja could do no less
than to oppose her.
The inhabitants of Corvaja specially disliked two things. They were
jealous of the reputation of the black Madonna, and therefore did not
like to have another miracle-working image come to Diamante. That was
one thing. The other was that they feared that Mongibello would bury all
Diamante in ashes and fire if any one tried to encircle it with a railway.
A few days after the bazaar Palazzo Corvaja began to show itself hostile.
Donna Micaela one day found on the roof-garden a lemon, which was so
thickly set with pins that it looked like a steel ball. It was Palazzo
Corvaja, that was trying to bewitch as many pains into her head as there
were pins in the lemon.
Then Corvaja waited a few days to see what effect the lemon would have.
But when Donna Micaela’s people continued to work on Etna and stake out
the line, they came one night and pulled everything up. And when the
stakes were set up again the next day, they broke the windows in the
church of San Pasquale and threw stones at the Christ-image.
* * * * *
There was a long and narrow little square on the south side of Monte
Chiaro. On both the long sides stood dark, high buildings. On one of
the short sides was an abyss; on the other rose the steep mountain. The
mountain wall was arranged in terraces, but the steps were crumbled and
the marble railings broken. On the broadest of the terraces rose the
stately ruins of Palazzo Corvaja.
The chief ornament of the square was a beautiful, oblong water-basin
which stood quite under the terraces, close to the mountain wall. It
stood there white as snow, covered with carvings, and full of clear, cold
water. It was the best preserved of all the former glories of the Corvaja.
One beautiful and peaceful evening two ladies dressed in black came
walking into the little square. For the moment it was almost empty. The
two ladies looked about them, and when they saw no one they sat down on
the bench by the fountain, and waited.
Soon several inquisitive children came forward and looked at them, and
the older of the two began to talk to the children. She began to tell
them stories: “It is said,” and “It is told,” and “Once upon a time,”
she said.
Then the children were told of the Christchild who turned himself into
roses and lilies when the Madonna met one of Herod’s soldiers, who had
been commanded to kill all children. And they were told the legend of how
the Christchild once had sat and shaped birds out of clay, and how he
clapped his hands and gave the clay pigeons wings with which to fly away
when a naughty boy wished to break them to pieces.
While the old lady was talking, many children gathered about her, and
also big people. It was a Saturday evening, so that the laborers were
coming home from their work in the fields. Most of them came up to the
Corvaja fountain for water. When they heard that some one was telling
legends they stopped to listen. Both the ladies were soon surrounded by a
close, dark wall of heavy, black cloaks and slouch hats.
Suddenly the old lady said to the children: “Do you like the
Christchild?” “Yes, yes,” they said, and their big, dark eyes
sparkled.--“Perhaps you would like to see him?”--“Yes, we should indeed.”