through the whole town. It was soon plain that everything that depended
on people who did not believe in the Christchild of Diamante was badly
managed and unsuccessful. Even the Etna railway was conducted in the
wrong way. Accidents were happening constantly on the steep inclines;
and the price of the tickets was too high. The people began to use the
omnibuses and post wagons again.
Donna Micaela and others with her began to think of carrying the
Christ-image out into the world. They would go out and show how he
gave health and subsistence and happiness to all who were quiet and
industrious and helped their neighbor. If people could once see, they
would certainly be converted.
“The image ought to stand on the Capitol and govern the world,” said the
people of Diamante.
“All those who govern us are incapable,” said the people. “We prefer to
be guided by the holy Christchild.”
“The Christchild is powerful and charitable; if he ruled us, the poor
would be rich, and the rich would have enough. He knows who wish to do
right. If he should come to power, they who now are ruled would sit in
the parliament. He would pass through the world like a plough with a
sharp edge, and that which now lies unprofitable in the depths would then
bear harvests.”
Before their longed-for plans came to pass, however, in the first days
of March, 1896, the news of the battle at Adna arrived. The Italians
had been defeated, and several thousands of them were killed or taken
prisoners.
A few days later there was a change of ministry in Rome. And the man who
came to power was afraid of the rage and despair of the Sicilians. To
pacify them he pardoned out several of the imprisoned socialists. The
five for whom he thought the people longed most were set free. They were
Da Felice, Bosco, Verro, Barbato and Alagona.
Ah, Micaela tried to be glad when she heard it. She tried not to weep.
She had believed that Gaetano was in prison because the Christ-image was
to break down the walls of his cell. He was sent there by the grace of
God, because he had to be forced to bow his head before the Christchild
and say: “My Lord and my God.”
But now it was not the image which had freed him; he would come out the
same heathen as before; the same yawning chasm would still exist between
them.
She tried to be glad. It was enough that he was free. What did she or her
happiness matter in comparison to that!
But it happened so with everything for which Diamante had hoped and
striven.
The great desert was very cruel to the poor oasis.
II
IN PALERMO
At last, at last, it is one o’clock at night. Those who are afraid to
oversleep rise from their beds, dress themselves and go out into the
street.
And those who have sat and hung over a café table till now start up when
they hear steps echo on the stone pavements. They shake the drowsiness
from their bodies and hurry out. They mingle in the swiftly increasing
stream of people, and the heavy feet of Time begin to move a little
faster.
Mere acquaintances press each other’s hands with heartfelt warmth. It
is plain that the same enthusiasm fills all souls. And the most absurd
people are out; old university professors, distinguished noblemen and
fine ladies, who otherwise never set their foot in the street. They are
all equally joyous.
“God! God! that he is coming, that Palermo is to have him back again!”
they say.
The Palermo students, who have not moved from their usual headquarters in
Quattro Canti all night, have provided torches and colored lanterns. They
were not to be lighted till four o’clock, when the man they expected was
to come; but about two o’clock one or two of them begin to try whether
their torches burn well. Then they light everything and greet the flames
with cheers. It is impossible to stand in darkness when so much joy is
burning within them.
In the hotels the travellers are waked and urged to get up. “There is a
festival in Palermo to-night, O signori!”
The travellers ask for whom. “For one of the socialists whom the
government has pardoned out of prison. He is coming now in the steamer
from Naples.”--“What kind of a man is he?”--“His name is Bosco, and the
people love him.”
There are preparations everywhere in the night for his sake. One of the
goatherds on Monte Pellegrino is busy tying little bunches of blue-bells
for his goats to wear in their collars. And as he has a hundred goats,
and they all wear collars--But it must be done. His goats could not
wander into Palermo the next morning without being adorned in honor of
the day.
The dressmakers have had to sit at their work till midnight to finish all
the new dresses that are to be worn that morning. And when such a little
dressmaker has finished her work for others, she has to think of herself.
She puts a couple of plumes in her hat and piles up bunches of ribbon a
yard high. To-day she must be beautiful.
The long rows of houses begin to be illuminated. Here and there a rocket
whizzes up. Fire-crackers hiss and snap at every street corner.
The flower shops along Via Vittorio Emanuele are emptied again and again.
Always more, more of the white orange-blossoms! All Palermo is filled
with the sweet fragrance of the orange-blossoms.
The gate-keeper in Bosco’s house has no peace for a moment. Magnificent
cakes and towerlike bouquets are incessantly passing up the stairway, and
poems of welcome and telegrams of congratulation are constantly coming.
There is no end to them.
The poor bronze emperor on the Piazza Bologna, poor, ugly Charles the
Fifth, who is forlorn and thin and wretched as San Giovanni in the
desert, has in some inscrutable manner got a bunch of flowers in his
hand. When the students standing on Quattro Canti, quite near by, hear of
it, they march up to the emperor in a procession, light him with their
torches, and raise a cheer for the old despot. And one of them takes his
bunch of flowers to give it to the great socialist.
Then the students march down to the harbor.
Long before they get there their torches are burnt out, but they do not
care. They come with arms about each other’s necks, singing loudly, and
sometimes breaking off in their song to shout: “Down with Crispi! Long
live Bosco!” The song begins again, but it is again broken off, because
those who cannot sing throw their arms round the singers and kiss them.
Guilds and corporations swarm out of the quarters of the town where the
same trade has been carried on for more than a thousand years. The masons
come with their band of music and their banner; there come the workers in
mosaic; here come the fishermen.
When the societies meet, they salute one another with their banners.
Sometimes they take time to stop and make speeches. Then they tell of
the five released prisoners, the five martyrs whom the government at
last has given back to Sicily. And all the people shout: “Long live
Bosco! Long live Da Felice! Long live Verro! Long live Barbato! Long live
Alagona!”
If any one who has had enough of the life in the streets comes down to
the harbor of Palermo, he stops and asks: “What place is this? Madonna
Santissima, where am I?”
For he has expected to find the harbor still deserted and dark.
All the boats and skiffs in the harbor of Palermo have been taken by
different societies and unions. They are floating about in the harbor,
richly hung with colored Venetian lights, and every minute great bunches
of rockets are sent up from them.
Over the heavy thwarts priceless rugs and hangings have been spread, and
on them sit ladies, the beautiful Palermo ladies, dressed in light silks
and shaded velvets.
The small craft glide about on the water, now in big groups, now
separately. From the big ships rise masts and oars covered with pennants
and lights, and the little harbor steam-launches dart about with funnels
wreathed in flowers.
Beneath it all the water lies and shines and mirrors and reflects, so
that the light from one lantern becomes a stream of brightness, and the
drops that fall from the oars are like a rain of gold.
Round about the harbor stand a hundred thousand, a hundred and fifty
thousand people, quite delirious with joy. They kiss one another; they
raise shouts of rapture, and they are happy, happy. They are beside
themselves with joy. Many of them cannot keep from weeping.
Fire, that is joy. It is good that fires can be lighted. Suddenly a great
blaze flames up on Monte Pellegrino, just over the harbor. Mighty flames
burst from all the pointed mountain walls surrounding the town. There are
fires on Monte Falcone, on San Martino, on the mountain of The Thousands,
where Garibaldi passed.
Far out on the sea comes the big Naples steamer. And on the steamer is
Bosco, the socialist.
He cannot sleep that night. He has gone up from his cabin, and paces to
and fro on the deck. And then his old mother, who has journeyed to Naples
to meet him, comes from her cabin to keep him company. But he cannot
talk with her. He is thinking that he will soon be at home. Ah, Palermo,
Palermo!
He has been in prison over two years. They have been two years of
suffering and longing, and has it been of any good? That is what he
wishes to know. Has it been of benefit that he has been faithful to
the cause, and gone to prison? Has Palermo thought of him? Have his
sufferings won the cause a single follower?
His old mother sits crouched on the gangway, and shivers in the chill
of the night. He has asked her, but she knows nothing of such things.
She speaks of little Francesco and little Lina, how they have grown. She
knows nothing of what he is struggling for.
Now he comes to his mother, takes her by the wrist, leads her to the
railing, and asks her if she sees anything far away to the south. She
looks out over the water with her dim eyes, and sees only the night, only
the black night on the water. She does not see at all that a cloud of
fire is floating on the horizon.
Then he begins to walk again, and she creeps down under cover. He does
not need to talk to her; it is joy enough to have him home again after
only two years’ absence. He was condemned to be away for twenty-four.
She had not expected ever to see him again. But now the king has showed
grace. For the king is a good man. If only he were allowed to be as good
as he wished!
Bosco walks across the deck, and asks the sailors if they do not see the
golden cloud on the horizon.
“That is Palermo,” say the seamen. “There is always a bright light
floating over it at night.”
It cannot be anything that concerns him. He tries to persuade himself
that nothing is being done for him. He can hardly expect every one all at
once to have become socialists.
But after a while he thinks: “Still there must be something unusual going
on. All the sailors are gathering forward at the bow.”
“Palermo is burning,” say the seamen.
Yes, that is what it must be.--It is because he has suffered so terribly
that he expects something should be done for him.
Then the sailors see the fires on the mountains.
It cannot be a conflagration. It must be some saint’s day. They ask one
another what day it is.
He, too, tries to believe that it is some such thing. He asks his mother
if it is a feast-day. They have so many of them.
They come nearer and nearer. The thundering sound of the festival in the
great city meets them.
“All Palermo is singing and playing to-night,” says one.
“A telegram must have come of a victory in Africa,” says another.
No one has a thought that it can be for his sake. He goes and places
himself at the stern in order not to see anything. He will not deceive
himself with false hopes. Would all Palermo be illuminated for a poor
socialist?
Then his mother comes and fetches him. “Do not stand there! Come and see
Palermo! It must be a king who is coming there to-day. Come and look at
Palermo!”
He considers a moment. No, he does not think that any king is visiting
Sicily just now. But he cannot dare to think, when no one else, not even
his mother--
All at once every one on the steamer gives a loud cry. It sounds almost
like a cry of distress. A big cutter has steered right down on them and
now glides along by the steamer’s side.
The cutter is all flowers and lights; over the railing hang red and white
silken draperies, everybody on board is dressed in red and white. Bosco
stands on the steamer and looks to see what that beautiful messenger
brings. Then the sail turns, and on its white surface shines to meet him:
“Long live Bosco!”
It is his name. Not a saint’s, not a king’s, not the victorious
general’s! The homage is for no other on the steamer. His name, his name!
The cutter sends up some rockets; a whole cloud of stars rain down, and
then it is gone.
He enters the harbor, and there is jubilation and enthusiasm and cheering
and adoration. People say: “We do not know how he will be able to live
through it.”
But as soon as he realizes the homage, he feels that he does not at all
deserve it. He would like to fall on his knees before those hundred and
fifty thousand people who pay him homage and pray to them for forgiveness
that he is so powerless, that he has done nothing for them.
* * * * *
As though by a special fate, Donna Micaela is in Palermo that night. She
is there to start one of those new undertakings which she thinks she
ought to organize in order to retain life and reason. She is probably
there either on account of the draining or of the marble quarry.
She is down at the harbor; like all the others. People notice her as she
pushes her way forward to the edge of the water: a tall, dark woman, with
an air of being some one, a pale face with marked features and imploring,
longing, passionate eyes.
During the reception in the harbor, Donna Micaela is fighting out a
strange struggle. “If it were Gaetano,” she thinks, “could I, could I--
“If it were for him all these people were rejoicing, could I--”
There is so much joy--a joy the like of which she has never seen. The
people love one another and are like brothers. And that not only because
a socialist is coming home, but because they all believe that the earth
will soon be happy. “If he were to come now, while all this joy is
roaring about me,” she thinks. “Could I, could I--”
She sees Bosco’s carriage trying to force a way through the crowd. It
moves forward step by step. For long moments it stands quite still. It
will take several hours to come up from the harbor.
“If it were he, and I saw every one crowding round him, could I forbear
from throwing myself into his arms? Could I?”
* * * * *
As soon as she can work her way out of the crowd she takes a carriage,
drives out of Palermo, and passes through the plain of Conca d’Oro to the
big Cathedral of the old Norman kings in Monreale.
She goes in, and stands face to face with the most beautiful image
of Christ that human art has created. High up in the choir sits the
blessing-giving Christ in glowing mosaic. He is mighty and mysterious and
majestic. Without number are they who make a pilgrimage to Monreale in
order to feel the consolation of gazing upon his face. Without number are
they who in far distant lands long for him.
The ground rocks under any one who sees him for the first time. His eyes
compel the knees of the foreigner to bend. Without being conscious of it
the lips falter: “Thou, God, art God.”
About the walls of the temple glow the great events of the world in
wonderful mosaic pictures. They only lead to him. They are only there to
say: “All the past is his; all the present belongs to him, and all the
future.”
The mysteries of life and death dwell within that head.
There lives the spirit which directs the fate of the world. There glows
the love which shall lead the world to salvation.
And Donna Micaela calls to him: “Thou son of God, do not part me from
thee! Let no man have power to part me from thee!”
III
THE HOME-COMING
It is a strange thing to come home. While yet on the journey, you cannot
at all realize how strange it will be.
When you come down to Reggio on the Strait of Messina, and see Sicily
emerge from the sea like a bank of fog, you are at first almost
impatient. “Is it nothing else?” you say. “It is only a land like all
others.”
And when you disembark at Messina you are still impatient. Something
ought to have happened while you have been away. It is dreadful to be met
by the same poverty, the same rags, the same misery as when you went away.
You see that the spring has come. The fig-trees are again in leaf; the
grape-vines send out tendrils which grow yards long in a few hours, and a
mass of peas and beans are spread out on the fruit-stands by the harbor.
If you glance towards the heights above the town, you see that the gray
cactus plants that climb along the edges of the cliffs are covered with
blood-red flowers. They have blossomed everywhere like little, glowing
flames. It looks as if the flower cups had been filled with fire, which
now is breaking out.
But, however much the cactus blossoms, it is still gray and dusty and
cobwebby. You say to yourself that the cactus is like Sicily. However
many springs it may blossom, it is still the gray land of poverty.
It is hard to realize that everything has remained quiet and the same.
Scylla and Charybdis ought to have begun to roar as in former days. The
stone giant in the Girgenti temple should have risen with reconstructed
limbs. The temple of Selinunto ought to have raised itself from its
ruins. All Sicily should have awakened.
If you continue your journey from Messina down the coast, you are still
impatient. You see that the peasants are still ploughing with wooden
ploughs and that their horses are just as thin and broken and jaded.
Yes, everything is the same. The sun sheds its light over the earth like
a rain of color; the pelargoniums bloom at the roadside; the sea is a
soft pale blue, and caresses the shore.
Wild mountains with bold peaks line the coast. Etna’s lofty top shines in
the distance.
You notice all at once that something strange is taking place. All your
impatience is gone. Instead you rejoice in the blossoming earth and in
the mountains and in the sea. You are reclaimed by the beautiful earth
as a bit of her lost property. There is no time to think of anything but
tufts and stones.
At last you approach your real home, the home of your childhood. What
wicked thoughts have filled your mind while you have been away! You never
wished to see that wretched home again, because you had suffered too much
there. And then you see the old walled town from afar, and it smiles at
you innocently, unconscious of its guilt. “Come and love me once more,”
it says. And you can only be happy and grateful because it is willing to
accept your love.
Ah, when you go up the zigzag path that leads to the gate of the town!
The light shade of the olive-tree falls over you. Was it meant as a
caress? A little lizard scampers along a wall. You have to stop and
look. May not the lizard be a friend of your childhood who wishes to say
good-day?
Suddenly a fear strikes you. Your heart begins to throb and beat. You
remember that you do not know what you may be going to hear when you come
home. No one has written letters; you have received none. Everything that
recalled home you have put away. It seemed the most sensible way, since
you were never to come home again. Up to that moment your feelings for
your home have been dead and indifferent.
But in that moment you do not know how you can bear it if everything is
not exactly the same on the mountain of your birth. It will be a mortal
blow if there is a single palm missing on Monte Chiaro or if a single
stone has loosened from the town wall.
Where is the big agave at the turn of the cliff? The agave is not
there; it has blossomed and been cut down. And the stone bench at the
street-corner is broken. You will miss that bench; it has been such a
pleasant resting-place. And look, they have built a barn on the green
meadow under the almond-trees. You will never again be able to stretch
out there in the flowering clover.
You are afraid of every step. What will you meet next?
You are so moved that you feel that you could weep if a single old
beggar-woman has died in your absence.
No, you did not know that to come home was so strange.
You came out of prison a few weeks ago, and the torpor of the prison
still has possession of you. You hardly know if you will take the trouble
to go home. Your beloved is dead; it is too terrible to tear your longing
from its grave. So you drift aimlessly about, and let one day pass like
the next. At last you pluck up courage. You must go home to your poor
mother.
And when you are there, you feel that you have been longing for every
stone, every blade of grass.
* * * * *
Ever since he came into the shop Donna Elisa has thought: “Now I will
tell him of Micaela. Perhaps he does not even know that she is alive.”
But she puts it off from minute to minute, not only because she wishes to
have him for a while to herself alone, but also because as soon as she
mentions Micaela’s name he will fall into the anguish and misery of love.
For Micaela will not marry him; she has said so to Donna Elisa a thousand
times. She would like to free him from prison, but she will not be the
wife of an atheist.
Only for one half-hour will Donna Elisa keep Gaetano for herself; only
for one half-hour.
But even so long she may not sit with his hand in hers, asking him a
thousand questions, for the people have learned that he has come. All at
once the whole street is full of those who wish to see him. Donna Elisa
has bolted the door, for she knew that she would not have him in peace a
moment after they had discovered him, but it was of little avail. They
knock on the windows, and pound on the door.
“Don Gaetano,” they cry; “Don Gaetano!”
Gaetano comes laughing out to the steps. They wave their caps and cheer.
He hurries down into the crowd, and embraces one after another.
But that is not what they wish. He must go up on the steps and make a
speech. He must tell them how cruel the government has been to him, and
how he has suffered in prison.
Gaetano laughs still, and stations himself on the steps. “Prison,” he
says; “what is it to talk about? I have had my soup every day, and that
is more than many of you can say.”
Little Gandolfo swings his cap and calls to him: “There are many more
socialists in Diamante now than when you went away, Don Gaetano.”
“How else could it be?” he laughs. “Everybody must become a socialist. Is
socialism anything dreadful or terrible? Socialism is an idyl. It is an
idyl of one’s own home and happy work, of which every one dreams from his
childhood. A whole world filled with--”
He stops, for he has cast a glance towards the summer-palace. There
stands Donna Micaela on one of the balconies, and looks down at him.
He does not think for a moment that it is an illusion or a hallucination.
He sees instantly that she is flesh and blood. But just for that
reason--and also because the prison life has taken all his strength from
him, so that he cannot be considered a well person--
He feels a terrible difficulty in holding himself upright. He clutches
in the air with his hands, tries to get support from the door-post, but
nothing helps. His legs give way under him; he slides down the steps and
strikes his head on the stones.
He lies there like one dead.
Every one rushes to him, carries him in, runs after surgeon and doctor,
prescribes, talks, and proposes a thousand ways to help him.
Donna Elisa and Pacifica get him finally into one of the bedrooms. Luca
drives the people out and places himself on guard before the closed door.
Donna Micaela, who came in with the others, was taken first of them all
by the hand and led out. She was not allowed to stay in at all. Luca had
himself seen Gaetano fall as if from a blow on the temple when he caught
sight of her.
Then the doctor comes, and he makes one attempt after another to rouse
Gaetano. He is not successful; Gaetano lies as if turned to stone. The
doctor thinks that he received a dangerous blow on the head when he fell.
He does not know whether he will succeed in bringing him to life.
The swoon in itself was nothing, but that blow on the hard edge of the
stone steps--
In the house there is an eager bustle. The poor people outside can only
listen and wait.
There they stand the livelong day outside Donna Elisa’s door. There stand
Donna Concetta and Donna Emilia. No love has been lost between them in
former times, but to-day they stand beside one another and mourn.
Many anxious eyes peer in through the windows of Donna Elisa’s house.
Little Gandolfo and old Assunta from the Cathedral steps, and the poor
old chair-maker, stand there the whole afternoon without tiring. It is so
terrible that Gaetano is going to die just when they have got him back
again.