The train from Palermo was late. Already long, shadowy fingers were
reaching down the valleys across which the railroad track meandered.
Far to the left, out of an opalescent sea, rose the fairy-like Lipari
Islands, and in the farthest distance Stromboli lifted its smoking cone
above the horizon. On the landward side of the train, as it reeled and
squealed along its tortuous course, were gray and gold Sicilian
villages perched high against the hills or drowsing among fields of
artichoke and sumac and prickly pear.
To one familiar with modern Sicilian railway trains the journey
eastward from Palermo promises no considerable discomfort, but
twenty-five years ago it was not to be lightly undertaken--not to be
undertaken at all, in fact, without an unusual equipment of patience
and a resignation entirely lacking in the average Anglo-Saxon. It was
not surprising, therefore, that Norvin Blake, as the hours dragged
along, should remark less and less upon the beauties of the island and
more and more upon the medieval condition of the rickety railroad coach
in which he was shaken and buffeted about. He shifted himself to an
easier position upon the seat and lighted a cheroot; for although this
was his first glimpse of Sicily, he had watched the same villages come
and go all through a long, hot afternoon, had seen the same groves of
orange and lemon and dust-green olive-trees, the same fields of Barbary
figs, the same rose-grown garden spots, until he was heartily tired of
them all. He felt at liberty to smoke, for the only other occupant of
the compartment was a young priest in flowing mantle and silk beaver
hat.
Finding that Blake spoke Italian remarkably well for a foreigner, the
priest had shown an earnest desire for closer acquaintance and now
plied him eagerly with questions, hanging upon his answers with a
childlike intensity of gaze which at first had been amusing.
"And so the Signore has traveled all the way from Paris to attend the
wedding at Terranova. Veramente! That is a great journey. Many
wonderful adventures befell you, perhaps. Eh?" The priest's little eyes
gleamed from his full cheeks, and he edged forward until his knees
crowded Blake's. It was evident that he anticipated a thrilling tale
and did not intend to be disappointed.
"It was very tiresome, that's all, and the beggars at Naples nearly
tore me asunder."
"Incredible! You will tell me about it?"
"There's nothing to tell. These European trains cannot compare with
ours."
Evidently discouraged at this lack of response, the questioner tried a
new line of approach.
"The Signore is perhaps related to our young Conte?" he suggested. "And
yet that can scarcely be, for you are Inglese--"
"Americano."
"Indeed?"
"Martel and I are close friends, however. We met in Paris. We are
almost like brothers."
"Truly! I have heard that he spends much time studying to be a great
painter. It is very strange, but many of our rich people leave Sicily
to reside elsewhere. As for me, I cannot understand it."
"Martel left when his father was killed. He says this country is behind
the times, and he prefers to be out in the world where there is life
and where things progress."
But the priest showed by a blank stare that he did not begin to grasp
the meaning of this statement. He shook his head. "He was always a wild
lad. Now as to the Signorina Ginini, who is to be his beautiful
Contessa, she loves Sicily. She has spent most of her life here among
us."
With a flash of interest Blake inquired: "What is she like? Martel has
spoken of her a great many times, but one can't place much dependence
on a lover's description."
"Bellissima!" the priest sighed, and rolled his eyes eloquently. "You
have never seen anything like her, I assure you. She is altogether too
beautiful. If I had my way all the beautiful women would be placed in a
convent where no man could see them. Then there would be no fighting
and no flirting, and the plain women could secure husbands. Beautiful
women are dangerous. She is rich, too."
"Of course! That's what Martel says, and that is exactly the way he
says it. But describe her."
"Oh, I have never seen her! I merely know that she is very rich and
very beautiful." He went off into a number of rapturous "issimas!" "Now
as for the Conte, I know him like a book. I know his every thought."
"But Martel has been abroad for ten years, and he has only returned
within a month."
"To be sure, but I come from the village this side of San Sebastiano,
and my second cousin Ricardo is his uomo d'affare--his overseer. It is
a very great position of trust which Ricardo occupies, for I must tell
you that he attends to the leasing of the entire estate during the
Conte's absence in France, or wherever it is he draws those marvelous
pictures. Ricardo collects the rents." With true Sicilian naivete the
priest added: "He is growing rich! Beato lui! He for one will not need
to go to your golden America. Is it true, Signore, that in America any
one who wishes may be rich?"
"Quite true," smiled the young man. "Even our beggars are rich."
The priest wagged his head knowingly. "My mother's cousin, Alfio Amato,
he is an American. You know him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"But surely--he has been in America these five years. A tall, dark
fellow with fine teeth. Think! He is such a liar any one would remember
him. Ebbene! _He_ wrote that there were poor people in America as here,
but we knew him too well to believe him."
"I suppose every one knows about the marriage?"
"Oh, indeed! It will unite two old families--two rich families. You
know the Savigni are rich also. Even before the children were left as
orphans it was settled that they should be married. What a great
fortune that will make for Ricardo to oversee! Then, perhaps, he will
be more generous to his own people. He is a hard man in money matters,
and a man of action also; he does not allow flies to sit upon his nose.
He sent his own daughter Lucrezia to Terranova when the Contessa was
still a child, and what is the result? Lucrezia is no longer a servant.
Indeed no, she is more like a sister to the Signorina. At the marriage
no doubt she will receive a fine present, and Ricardo as well. He is as
silent as a Mafioso, but he thinks."
Young Blake stretched his tired muscles, yawning.
"I'm sorry Martel couldn't marry in France; this has been a tedious
trip."
"It was the Contessa's wish, then, to be wed in Sicily?"
"I believe she insisted. And Martel agreed that it was the proper thing
to do, since they are both Sicilians. He was determined also that I
should be present to share his joy, and so here I am. Between you and
me, I envy him his lot so much that it almost spoils for me the
pleasure of this unique journey."
"You are an original!" murmured the priest, admiringly, but it was
evident that his thirst for knowledge of the outside world was not to
be so easily quenched, for he began to question his traveling companion
closely regarding America, Paris, the journey thence, the ship which
bore him to Palermo, and a dozen other subjects upon which his active
mind preyed. He was full of the gossip of the countryside, moreover,
and Norvin learned much of interest about Sicily and the disposition of
her people. One phenomenon to which the good man referred with the
extremest wonder was Blake's intimacy with a Sicilian nobleman. How an
American signore had become such a close friend of the illustrious
Conte, who was almost a stranger, even to his own people, seemed very
puzzling indeed, until Norvin explained that they had been together
almost constantly during the past three years.
"We met quite by chance, but we quickly became friends--what in my
country we call chums--and we have been inseparable ever since."
"And you, then, are also a great artist?"
Blake laughed at the indirect compliment to his friend.
"I am not an artist at all. I have been exiled to Europe for three
years, upon my mother's orders. She has her own ideas regarding a man's
education and wishes me to acquire a Continental polish. My ability to
tell you all this shows that I have at least made progress with the
languages, although I have doubts about the practical value of anything
else I have learned. Martel has taught me Italian; I have taught him
English. We use both, and sometimes we understand each other. My three
years are up now, and once I have seen my good friend safely married I
shall return to America and begin the serious business of life."
"You are then in business? My mother's cousin, Alfio Amato, is likewise
a business man. He deals in fruit. Beware of him, for he would sell you
rotten oranges and swear by the saints that they were excellent."
"Like Martel, I have land which I lease. I am, or I will be, a
cotton-planter."
This opened a new field of inquiry for the priest, who was making the
most of it when the train drew into a station and was stormed by a
horde of chattering country folk. The platform swarmed with vividly
dressed women, most of whom carried bundles wrapped up in variegated
handkerchiefs, and all of whom were tremendously excited at the
prospect of travel. Lean-visaged, swarthy men peered forth from the
folds of shawls or from beneath shapeless caps of many colors; a pair
of carabinieri idled past, a soldier in jaunty feathered hat posed
before the contadini. Dogs, donkeys, fowls added their clamor to the
high-pitched voices.
Twilight had settled and lights were kindling in the village, while the
heights above were growing black against a rose-pink and
mother-of-pearl sky. The air was cool and fragrant with the odor of
growing things and the open sea glowed with a subdued, pulsating fire.
The capo stazione rushed madly back and forth striving by voice and
gesture to hasten the movements of his passengers.
"Partenza! Pronto!" he cried, then blew furiously upon his bugle.
After a series of shudders and convulsions the train began to hiss and
clank and finally crept on into the twilight, while the priest sat knee
to knee with his companion and resumed his endless questioning.
It was considerably after dark when Norvin Blake alighted at San
Sebastiano, to be greeted effusively by a young man of about his own
age who came charging through the gloom and embraced him with a great
hug.
"So! At last you come!" Savigno cried. "I have been here these three
hours eating my heart out, and every time I inquired of that head of a
cabbage in yonder he said, 'Pazienza! The world was not made in a day!'
"'But when? When?' I kept repeating, and he could only assure me that
your train was approaching with the speed of the wind. The saints in
heaven--even the superintendent of the railway himself--could not tell
the exact hour of its arrival, which, it seems, is never twice the
same. And now, yourself? You are well?"
"Never better. And you? But there is no need to ask. You look
disgustingly contented. One would think you were already married."
Martel Savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military
mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back.
"It is good to be among my own people. I find, after all, that I am a
Sicilian. But let me tell you, that train is not always late. Once,
seven years ago, it arrived upon the moment. There were no passengers
at the station to meet it, however, so it was forced to wait, and now,
in order to keep our good-will it always arrives thus."
The Count was a well-set-up youth of an alert and active type, tall,
dark, and vivacious, with a skin as smooth as a girl's. He had an
impulsive, energetic nature that seldom left him in repose, and hence
the contrast between the two men was marked, for Blake was of a more
serious cast of features and possessed a decidedly Anglo-Saxon reserve.
He was much the heavier in build, also, which detracted from his height
and robbed him of that elegance which distinguished the young Sicilian.
Yet the two made a fine-looking pair as they stood face to face in the
yellow glare of the station lights.
"What the deuce made me agree to this trip, I don't know," the American
declared. "It was vile. I've been carsick, seasick, homesick--"
"And all for poor, lovesick Martel!" The Count laughed. "Ah, but if you
knew how glad I am to see you!"
"Really? Then that squares it." Blake spoke with that indefinable
undernote which creeps into men's voices when friend meets friend.
"I've been lost without you, too. I was quite ashamed of myself."
The Count turned to a middle-aged man who had remained in the shadows,
saying: "This is Ricardo Ferara, my good right hand, of whom you have
heard me speak." The overseer raised his hat, and Blake took his hand,
catching a glimpse of a grizzled face and a stiff mop of iron-gray
hair. "You will see to Signore Blake's baggage, Ricardo. Michele!
Ippolito!" the Count called. "The carretta, quickly! And now, caro
Norvin, for the last leg of your journey. Will you ride in the cart or
on horseback? It is not far, but the roads are steep."
"Horseback, by all means. My muscles need exercise."
The young men mounted a pair of compact Sicilian horses, which were
held by still another man in the street behind the depot, and set off
up the winding road which climbed to the village above. Blake regretted
the lateness of the hour, which prevented him from gaining an adequate
idea of his surroundings. He could see, however, that they were
picturesque, for San Sebastiano lay in a tiny step hewed out of the
mountain-side and was crowded into one street overlooking the railway
far below and commanding a view of the sea toward the Calabrian coast.
As the riders clattered through the poorly lighted village, Blake saw
the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid side-streets, more
like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the townspeople
pronouncing the name of the Count of Martinello, while the ever-present
horde of urchins fled from their path. A beggar appeared beside his
stirrup, crying, "I die of hunger, your worship." But the fellow ran
with surprising vigor and manifested a degree of endurance quite
unexampled in a starving man. A glimpse of these, and then the lights
were left behind and they were moving swiftly upward and into the
mountains, skirting walls of stone over which was wafted the perfume of
many flowers, passing fragrant groves of orange and lemon trees, and
less fragrant cottages, the contents of which were bared to their eyes
with utter lack of modesty. They disturbed herds of drowsy cattle and
goats lying at the roadside, and all the time they continued to climb,
until their horses heaved and panted.
The American's impressions of this entire journey, from the time of his
leaving Paris up to the present moment, had been hurried and unreal,
for he had made close connections at Rome, at Naples, and at Palermo.
Having the leisurely deliberateness of the American Southerner, he
disliked haste and confusion above all things. He had an intense
desire, therefore, to come to anchor and to adjust himself to his
surroundings.
As Martel chattered along, telling of his many doings, Blake noted that
Ricardo and the man who had held the horses were following closely.
Then, as the cavalcade paused at length to breathe their mounts, he saw
that both men carried rifles.
"Why! We look like an American sheriff's posse, Martel," said he. "Do
all Sicilian bridegrooms travel with an armed escort?"
Savigno showed a trace of hesitation. "The nights are dark; the country
is wild."
"But, my dear boy, this country is surely old enough to be safe. Why,
Sicily was civilized long before my country was even heard of. All
sorts of ancient gods and heroes used to live here, I am told, and I
supposed Diana had killed all the game long ago."
He laughed, but Savigno did not join him, and a moment later they were
under way again.
After a brief gallop they drew up at a big, dark house, hidden among
the deeper shadows of many trees, and in answer to Martel's shout a
wide door was flung back; then by the light which streamed forth from
it they dismounted and made their way up a flight of stone steps. Once
inside, Savigno exclaimed:
"Welcome to my birthplace! A thousand welcomes!" Seizing Norvin by the
shoulders, he whirled him about. "Let me see you once. Ah! I am glad
you made this sacrifice for me, for I need you above all men." His
eyes, though bright with affection, were grave--something unusual in
him--and the other inquired, quickly:
"There's nothing wrong, I hope?"
Savigno tossed his head and smiled.
"Wrong! What could be wrong with me now that you are here? No! All is
quite right, but I have been accursed with lonesomeness. Something was
lacking, It was you, caro mio. Now, however, I am the most contented of
mortals. But you must be famished, so I will show you to your room at
once. Francesca has provided a feast for us, I assure you."
"Give me a moment to look around. So this is the castello? Jove! It's
ripping!"
Blake found himself in a great hall similar to many he had seen in his
European wanderings, but ruder and older by far. He judged the castello
to be of Norman build, but remodeled to suit the taste of the Savigni.
To the right, through an open door, he saw a large room where a fat
Sicilian woman was laying the table; to the left was a drawing-room
lighted only by a fire of fagots in a huge, black fireplace, the
furniture showing curiously distorted in the long shadows. Other rooms
opened towards the rear, and he realized that the old place was very
large. It was unkempt also, and showed the lack of a woman's hand.
"You exaggerate!" said Savigno. "After Paris the castello will seem
very mean. We Siciliani do not live in grand style, and, besides, I
have spent practically no time here, since my father (may the saints
receive him) left me free to wander. The place has been closed; the old
servants have gone; it is dilapidated."
"On the contrary, it's just the sort of place it should be--venerable
and overflowing with romance. You must rule like a medieval baron. Why,
you could sell this woodwork to some millionaire countryman of mine for
enough to realize a fortune."
"Per Dio! If taxes are not reduced I shall be forced to some such
expedient," the Count laughed. "It was my mother's home, it is my
birthplace, so I love it--even though I neglect it. As you perceive, it
is high time I took a wife. But enough! If you are lacking in appetite,
I am not, and Francesca is an unbearable tyrant when her meals grow
cold."
He led his friend up the wide stairs and left him to prepare for supper.
"And so this ends it all," said Blake, as the two young men lounged in
the big, empty drawing-room later that evening. They had dined and
gossiped as only friends of their age can gossip, had relived their
adventures of the past three years, and still were loath to part, even
for sleep.
"How so?" queried Savigno. "You speak of marriage as if it were
dissolution."
"It might as well be, so far as the other fellow is concerned."
"Nonsense! I shall not change."
"Oh, yes, you will! Besides, I am returning to America."
"Even so, we are rich; we shall travel; we shall meet frequently. You
will come to Sicily. Perhaps the Contessa and I may even go to America.
Friendship such as ours laughs at the leagues."