sight, and the poor people, both from Geraci and Corvaja, are waiting to
hear how it will turn out for their young lord, the last Alagona.
He wished them well, and he had great strength and power. If he could
only have lived--
“God has taken his hand from Sicily,” they say. “He lets all those perish
who wish to help the people.”
All the afternoon and evening, and even till midnight, the crowd of
people are still outside Donna Elisa’s house. At precisely twelve o’clock
Donna Elisa throws open the shop-door and comes out on the steps. “Is he
better?” they all cry at the sight of her.--“No, he is not better.”
Then there is silence; but at last a single trembling voice asks: “Is he
worse?”--“No, no; he is not worse. He is the same. The doctor is with
him.”
Donna Elisa has thrown a black shawl over her head and carries a lantern
in her hand. She goes down the steps to the street, where the people are
sitting and lying, closely packed one beside one another. She makes her
way quietly through them.
“Is Gandolfo here?” she asks. “Yes, Donna Elisa.” And Gandolfo comes
forward to her.
“You must come with me and open your church for me.”
Every one who hears Donna Elisa say that, understands that she wishes
to go to the Christchild in the church of San Pasquale and pray for
Gaetano. They rise and wish to go with her.
Donna Elisa is much touched by their sympathy. She opens her heart to
them.
“I will tell you something,” she says, and her voice trembles
exceedingly. “I have had a dream. I do not know how I could sleep
to-night. But while I was sitting at the bedside, and was most anxious,
I did fall asleep. I had scarcely closed my eyes before I saw the
Christchild before me in his crown and gold shoes, as he stands out in
San Pasquale. And he spoke in this way to me: ‘Make the unhappy woman who
is on her knees praying in my church your son’s wife, then Gaetano will
be well.’ He hardly had time to say it before I awoke, and when I opened
my eyes, I seemed to see the Christchild disappearing through the wall.
And now I must go out and see if any one is there.
“But now you all hear that I vow that if there is any woman out in the
church of San Pasquale, I shall do what the image commanded me. Even if
it is the poorest girl from the street, I shall take charge of her and
make her my son’s wife.”
When Donna Elisa has spoken, she and all those who have waited in the
street go out to San Pasquale. The poor people are filled with shuddering
expectation. They can scarcely contain themselves from rushing by Donna
Elisa, in order to see if there is any one in the church.
Fancy if it is a gypsy girl who has sought shelter there for the night!
Who can be in the church at night except some poor, homeless wanderer?
Donna Elisa has made a terrible vow.
At last they come to Porta Etnea, and from there they go quickly,
quickly down the hill. The saints preserve us, the church door is open!
Some one really is there.
The lantern shakes in Donna Elisa’s hand. Gandolfo wishes to take it from
her, but she will keep it. “In God’s name, in God’s name,” she murmurs as
she goes into the church.
The people crowd in after her. They almost crush one another to death in
the door, but their excitement keeps them silent, no one says a word. All
gaze at the high altar. Is any one there? Is any one there? The little
hanging-lamp over the image shines pitifully faint. Is any one there?
Yes, some one is there. There is a woman there. She is on her knees,
praying, and her head is so deeply bent that they cannot see who she is.
But when she hears steps behind her she lifts her long, bowed neck and
looks up. It is Donna Micaela.
At first she is frightened and starts up as if she wished to escape.
Donna Elisa is also frightened, and they look at one another as if they
had never met before. Then Donna Micaela says in a very low voice: “You
have come to pray for him, sister-in-law.” And the people see her move a
little way along so that Donna Elisa may have room directly in front of
the image.
Donna Elisa’s hand trembles so that she has to set the lantern down on
the floor, and her voice is quite hoarse as she says: “Has none other but
you been here to-night, Micaela?”--“No, none other.”
Donna Elisa has to support herself against the wall to keep from falling,
and Donna Micaela sees it. She is instantly beside her and puts her
arm about her waist. “Sit down, sit down!” She leads her to the altar
platform and kneels down in front of her. “Is he so ill? We will pray for
him.”
“Micaela,” says Donna Elisa, “I thought that I should find help
here.”--“Yes, you shall see, you will.”--“I dreamed that the image
came to me, that he came to me and said that I was to come here.”--“He
has also helped us many times before.”--“But he said this to me: ‘Make
the unhappy woman who is on her knees praying before my altar your
son’s wife, then your son will be well.’”--“What do you say that he
said?”--“I was to make her who was kneeling and praying out here my son’s
wife.”--“And you were willing to do it? You did not know whom you would
meet!”
“On the way I made a vow--and those who followed me heard it--that
whoever it might be, I would take her in my arms and lead her to my home.
I thought that it was some poor woman whom God wished to help.”--“It is
one indeed.”--“I was in despair when I saw that there was no one here but
you.”
Donna Micaela does not answer; she gazes up at the image. “Is it your
will? Is it your will?” she whispers anxiously.
Donna Elisa continues to bemoan herself. “I saw him so plainly, and
he has never deceived before. I thought that some poor girl who had
no marriage portion had prayed to him for a husband. Such things have
happened before. What shall I do now?”
She laments and bewails; she cannot get away from the thought that it
ought to be a poor woman. Donna Micaela grows impatient. She takes her
by the arm and shakes her. “But Donna Elisa, Donna Elisa!”
Donna Elisa does not listen to her; she continues her laments. “What
shall I do? what shall I do?”
“Why, make the poor woman who was kneeling and praying here your son’s
wife, Donna Elisa!”
Donna Elisa looks up. Such a face as she sees before her! So bewitching,
so captivating, so smiling!
But she may not look at it for more than a second. Donna Micaela hides it
instantly in Donna Elisa’s old black dress.
* * * * *
Donna Micaela and Donna Elisa go together into the town. The street
winds so that they cannot see Donna Elisa’s house until they are quite
near. When it at last comes into view they see that the shop windows are
lighted up. Four gigantic wax-candles are burning behind the bunches of
rosaries.
Both the women press each other’s hands. “He lives!” one whispers to the
other. “He lives!”
“You must not tell him anything about what the image commanded you to
do,” says Donna Micaela to Donna Elisa.
Outside the shop they embrace one another and each goes her own way.
In a little while Gaetano comes out on the steps of the shop. He stands
still for a moment and breathes in the fresh night air. Then he sees how
lights are burning in the dark palace across the street.
Gaetano breathes short and panting; he seems almost afraid to go further.
Suddenly he dashes across like some one going to meet an unavoidable
misfortune. He finds the door to the summer-palace unlocked, takes the
stairs in two bounds, and bursts open the door to the music-room without
knocking.
Donna Micaela is sitting there, wondering if he will come now in the
night or the next morning. Then she hears his step outside in the
gallery. She is seized with terror; how will he be? She has longed so
unspeakably for him. Will he really be so that all that longing will be
satisfied?
And will no more walls rise between them? Will they for once be able to
tell each other everything? Will they speak of love, and not of socialism?
When he opens the door she tries to go to meet him, but she cannot; she
is trembling in every limb. She sits down and hides her face in her hands.
She expects him to throw his arms about her and kiss her, but that he
does not do. It is not Gaetano’s way to do what people expect of him.
As soon as he could stand upright he has thrown on his clothes to come
to see her. He is apparently wildly gay when he comes now. He would
have liked her to take it lightly also. He will not be agitated. He had
fainted in the forenoon. He could stand nothing.
He stands quietly beside her until she regains her composure. “You have
weak nerves,” he says. That is actually all he says.
She and Donna Elisa and every one is convinced that he has come to clasp
her in his arms and say that he loves her. But just for that reason it is
impossible for Gaetano. Some people are malicious; it is their nature
never to do just what they ought to do.
Gaetano begins to tell her of his journey; he does not speak even of
socialism, but talks of express-trains and conductors and curious
travelling companions.
Donna Micaela sits and looks at him; her eyes beg and implore more and
more eagerly. Gaetano seems to be glad and happy to see her, but why can
he not say what he has to say?
“Have you been on the Etna railway?” she asks.
“Yes,” he answers, and begins quite unconstrainedly to speak of the
beauty and usefulness of the road. He knows nothing of how it came to be.
Gaetano is saying to himself that he is a brute. Why does he not speak
the words for which she is longing? But why is she sitting there so
humbly? Why does she show that he needs only to stretch out his hand and
take her? He is desperately, stormily happy to be near her, but he feels
so sure of her, so certain. It is so amusing to torture her.
The people of Diamante are still standing outside in the street, and they
all feel as great a happiness as if they had given away a daughter in
marriage.
They have been patient till now in order to give Gaetano time to declare
himself. But now it surely must be accomplished. And they begin to
shout:--
“Long live Gaetano! long live Micaela!”
Donna Micaela looks up with inexpressible dismay. He surely must
understand that she has nothing to do with it.
She goes out to the gallery and sends Luca down with the request that
they will be silent.
When she comes back, Gaetano has risen. He offers her his hand; he wishes
to go.
Donna Micaela puts out her hand almost without knowing what she is doing.
But then she draws it back; “No, no,” she says.
He wishes to go, and who knows whether he will come again on the morrow.
She has not been able to talk to him; she has not been able to say a word
to him of all that she wished to say.
Surely there was no need for them to be like ordinary lovers. That man
had given her life all its life for many years. Whether he spoke to her
of love or not was of no importance; yet she wishes to tell him what he
has been to her.
And now, just now. One has to make the most of one’s opportunities when
Gaetano is in question. She dares not let him go.
“You must not go yet,” she says. “I have something to say to you.”
She draws forward a chair for him; she herself places herself a little
behind him. His eyes are too gay to-night, they trouble her.
Then she begins to speak. She lays before him the great, hidden treasures
of her life. They were all the words he had said to her and all the
dreams he had set her to dreaming. She had not lost one. She had
collected and saved them up. They had been the only richness in her poor
life.
In the beginning she speaks fast, as if repeating a lesson. She is afraid
of him; she does not know whether he likes her to speak. At last she
dares to look at him. He is serious now, no longer malicious. He sits
still and listens as if he would not lose a syllable. Just now his face
was sickly and ashen, but now it suddenly changes. His face begins to
shine as though transfigured.
She talks and talks. She looks at him, and now she is beautiful. How
could she help being beautiful? At last she can speak out to him, she
can tell him how love came to her and how it has never left her since.
Finally she can tell him how he has been all the world to her.
Words cannot say enough; she takes his hand and kisses it.
He lets her do it without moving. The color in his cheeks grows no
deeper, but it becomes clearer, more transparent. She remembers Gandolfo,
who had said that Gaetano’s face was so white that it shone.
He does not interrupt her. She tells him about the railway, speaks of one
miracle after another. He looks at her now and then. His eyes glow at the
sight of her. He is not by any means making fun of her.
She wonders exceedingly what is passing in him. He looks as if what
she said was nothing new to him. He seems to recognize everything she
says. Could it be that his love for her was the same as that she felt
for him? Was it connected with every noble feeling in him? Had it been
the elevating power in his life? Had it given wings to his artistic
powers? Had it taught him to love the poor and the oppressed? Is it once
more taking possession of him, making him feel that he is an artist, an
apostle, that nothing is too high for him?
But as he is still silent she thinks that perhaps he will not be tied to
her. He loves her, but possibly he wishes to be a free man. Perhaps he
thinks that she is not a suitable wife for a socialist.
Her blood begins to boil. She thinks that he perhaps believes that she is
sitting there and begging for his love.
She has told him almost everything that has happened while he has been
away. Now she suddenly breaks off in her story.
“I have loved you,” she says. “I shall always love you, and I think that
I should like you to tell me once that you love me. It would make the
parting easier to bear.”
“Would it?” he says.
“Can I be your wife?” she says, and her voice trembles with indignation.
“I no longer fear your teachings as I did; I am not afraid of your poor;
I wish to turn the world upside down, I, as well as you. But I am a
believer. How can I live with you if you do not agree with me in that? Or
perhaps you would win me to unbelief? Then the world would be dead for
me. Everything would lose its meaning, its significance. I should be a
miserable, destitute creature. We must part.”
“Really!” he turns towards her. His eyes begin to glow with impatience.
“You may go now,” she says quietly; “I have said to you everything I
wished to say. I should have wished that you had something to say to me.
But perhaps it is better as it is. We will not make it harder to part
than it need be.”
One of Gaetano’s hands holds her hands firmly and closely, the other
holds her head still. Then he kisses her.
Was she mad, that she could think that he would let anything, anything in
the world, part them now?
IV
ONLY OF THIS WORLD
As she grew up everybody said of her: “She is going to be a saint, a
saint.”
Her name was Margherita Cornado. She lived in Girgenti on the south side
of Sicily, in the great mining district. When she was a child her father
was a miner; later he inherited a little money, so that he no longer
needed to work.
There was a little, narrow, miserable roof-garden on Margherita Cornado’s
house in Girgenti. A small and steep stairway led up to it, and one had
to creep out through a low door. But it was well worth the trouble. When
you reached the top you saw not only a mass of roofs, but the whole
air over the town was gaily crowded with the towers and façades of all
Girgenti’s churches. And every façade and every tower was a quivering
lace-work of images, of loggias, of glowing canopies.
And outside the town there was a wide plain which sloped gently down
towards the sea, and a semicircle of hills that guarded the plain. The
plain was glittering red; the ocean was blue as enamel; the hillsides
were yellow; it was a whole orient of warmth and color.
But there was even more to be seen. Ancient temples were dotted about
the valley. Ruins and strange old towers were everywhere, as in a fairy
world.
As Margherita Cornado grew up, she used to spend most of her days there;
but she never looked out over the dazzling landscape. She was occupied
with other things.
Her father used to tell her of the life in the sulphur mines at Grotte,
where he had worked. While Margherita Cornado sat on the airy terrace,
she thought that she was incessantly walking about the dark mine veins,
and finding her way through dim shafts.
She could not help thinking of all the misery that existed in the mines;
especially she thought of the children, who carried the ore up to the
surface. “The little wagons,” they called them. That expression never
left her mind. Poor, poor little wagons, the little mine-wagons!
They came in the morning, and each followed a miner down into the mine.
As soon as he had dug out enough ore, he loaded the mine-wagon with a
basket of it, and then the latter began to climb. Several of them met on
the way, so that there was a long procession. And they began to sing:--
“One journey made in struggling and pain,
Nineteen times to be travelled again.”
When they finally reached the light of day, they emptied their baskets
of ore and threw themselves on the ground to rest a moment. Most of them
dragged themselves over to the sulphurous pools near the shaft of the
mine and drank the pestiferous water.
But they soon had to go down again, and they gathered at the mouth of
the mine. As they clambered down, they cried: “Lord and God, have mercy,
have mercy, have mercy!”
Every journey the little wagons made, their song grew more feeble. They
groaned and cried as they crawled up the paths of the mine.
The little wagons were bathed in perspiration; the baskets of ore ground
holes in their shoulders. As they went up and down they sang:--
“Seven more trips without pause for breath,
The pain of living is worse than death.”
Margherita Cornado had suffered for those poor children all her own
childhood. And because she was always thinking of their hardships, people
believed that she would be a saint.
Neither did she forget them as she grew older. As soon as she was grown,
she went to Grotte, where most of the mines are, and when the little
wagons came out into the daylight, she was waiting for them by the shaft
with fresh, clean water. She wiped the perspiration from their faces, and
she dressed the wounds on their shoulders. It was not much that she could
do for them, but soon the little wagons felt that they could not go on
with their work any day that Margherita Cornado did not come and comfort
them.
But unfortunately for the little wagons, Margherita was very beautiful.
One day one of the mining-engineers happened to see her as she was
relieving the children, and instantly fell very much in love with her.
A few weeks after, Margherita Cornado stopped coming to the Grotte mines.
She sat at home instead and sewed on her wedding outfit. She was going
to marry the mining-engineer. It was a good match, and connected her with
the chief people of the town, so she could not care for the little wagons
any longer.
A few days before the wedding the old beggar, Santuzza, who was
Margherita’s god-mother, came and asked to speak to her. They betook
themselves to the roof-garden in order to be alone.
“Margherita,” said the old woman, “you are in the midst of such happiness
and magnificence that perhaps there is no use speaking to you of those
who are in need and sorrow. You have forgotten all such things.”
Margherita reproved her for speaking so.
“I come with a greeting to you from my son, Orestes. He is in trouble,
and he needs your advice.”
“You know that you can speak freely to me, Santuzza,” said the girl.
“Orestes is no longer at the Grotte mines; you know that, I suppose. He
is at Racalmuto. And he is very badly off there. Not that the pay is so
bad, but the engineer is a man who grinds down the poor to the last drop
of blood.”
The old woman told how the engineer tortured the miners. He made them
work over time; he fined them if they missed a day. He did not look after
the mines properly; there was one cave-in after another. No one was
secure of his life as long as he was under earth.
“Well, Margherita, Orestes had a son. A splendid boy; just ten years old.
The engineer came and wished to buy the boy from Orestes, and set him to
work with the little wagons. But Orestes said no. His boy should not be
ruined by such work.
“Then the engineer threatened him, and said that Orestes would be
dismissed from the mine.”
Santuzza paused.
“And then?” asked Margherita.
“Yes, then Orestes gave his son to the engineer. The next day the boy
got a whipping from him. He beat him every day. The boy grew more and
more feeble. Orestes saw it, and asked the engineer to spare the boy,
but he had no mercy. He said that the boy was lazy, and he continued to
persecute him. And now he is dead. My grandson is dead, Margherita.”
The girl had quite forgotten all her own happiness. She was once more
only the miner’s daughter, the protector of the little wagons, the poor
child who used to sit on the bright terrace and weep over the hardships
of the black mines.
“Why do you let the man live?” she cried.
The old woman looked at her furtively. Then she crept close to her with a
knife. “Orestes sends you this with a thousand questions,” she said.
Margherita Cornado took the knife, kissed the blade, and gave it back
without a word.
It was the evening before the wedding. The parents of the bridegroom were
awaiting their son. He was to come home from the mines towards night; but
he never came. Later in the night a servant was sent to the Grotte mines
to look for him, and found him a mile from Girgenti. He lay murdered at
the roadside.
A search for the murderer was immediately instituted. Strict examinations
of the miners were held, but the culprit could not be discovered. There
were no witnesses; no one could be prevailed upon to betray a comrade.
Then Margherita Cornado appeared and denounced Orestes, who was the son
of her god-mother, Santuzza, and who had not moved to Racalmuto at all.
She did it although she had heard afterwards that her betrothed had
been guilty of everything of which Santuzza had accused him. She did it
although she herself had sealed his doom by kissing the knife.
She had hardly accused Orestes before she repented of it; she was filled
with the anguish of remorse.
In another land what she had done would not have been considered a crime,
but it is so regarded in Sicily. A Sicilian would rather die than be an
informer.
Margherita Cornado enjoyed no rest either by night or by day. She had a
continual aching feeling of anguish in her heart, a great unhappiness
dwelt in her.
She was not severely judged, because every one knew that she had loved
the murdered man and thought that Santuzza had been too cruel towards
her. No one spoke of her disdainfully, and no one refused to salute her.
But it made no difference to her that others were kind to her. Remorse
filled her soul and tortured her like an aching wound. Orestes had
been sentenced to the galleys for life. Santuzza had died a few weeks
after her son’s sentence had been passed, and Margherita could not ask
forgiveness of either of them.
She called on the saints, but they would not help her. It seemed as if
nothing in the world could have the power to free her from the horror of
remorse.
At that time the famous Franciscan monk, Father Gondo, was sojourning in
the neighborhood of Girgenti. He was preaching a pilgrimage to Diamante.
It did not disturb Father Gondo not to have the pope acknowledge the
Christ-image in the church of San Pasquale as a miracle-worker. He had
met the blind singers on his wanderings and had heard them tell of the
image. Through long, happy nights he had sat at the feet of Father Elia
and Brother Tommaso, and from sunset to sunrise they had told him of the
image.
And now the famous preacher had begun to send all who were in trouble
to the great miracle-worker. He warned the people not to let that holy
time pass unheeded. “The Christchild,” he said, “had not hitherto been
much worshipped in Sicily. The time had come when he wished to possess
a church and followers. And to effect it he let his holy image perform
miracle after miracle.”