PART I

I

It was the night of Midsummer Eve. Olì came forth from the white-walled

Cantoniera[1] on the Mamojada road, and hurried away across the fields.

She was fifteen, well-grown and beautiful, with very large, very bright,

feline eyes of greenish grey, and a sensuous mouth of which the cleft

lower lip suggested two ripe cherries. She wore a red petticoat and

stiff brocade bodice sustaining and defining her bosom; from the red cap

tied under her prominent chin, issued two braids of glossy black hair

twisted over her ears. This hair-dressing and the picturesque costume

gave the girl an almost Oriental grace. Her fingers were heavily ringed,

and she carried long streamers of scarlet ribbon, with which to "_sign

the flowers of St John_," that is, to mark those bunches of mullein,

thyme, and asphodel which she must pick to-morrow at dawn for the

compounding of charms and drugs. True, even were the _signing_ omitted,

there was small danger of anyone's touching Olì's selected plants; the

fields round the Cantoniera, where she lived with her father and her

little brothers, were completely deserted. Only one tumble-down house

was in sight, emerging from a field of corn like a rock out of a green

lake.

Everywhere in the country round, the wild Sardinian spring[2] was on its

death-bed; the flowers of the asphodel, the golden balls of the broom

were dropping; the roses showed pale in the thickets, the grass was

already yellow; a hot odour of hay perfumed the heavy air. The Milky Way

and the distant splendour of the horizon, which seemed a band of far off

sea, made the night clear as twilight. The dark blue heaven and its

stars were reflected in the scanty waters of the river. On its bank,

Olì found two of her little brothers looking for crickets.

"Go home this moment!" she said, in her beautiful, still childish voice.

"No!" replied one of the little fellows.

"Then you won't see the heavens burst to-night. Good children on the

night of St John see the heavens open, and then they can look into

Paradise, and see the Lord, and the angels, and the Holy Spirit. What

you'll see is a hobgoblin if you don't go straight back home!"

"All right," said the elder, impressed; and though the other protested,

he allowed himself to be led away.

Olì, however, went on; beyond the river, beyond the path, beyond the

dark copse of wild olive. Here and there she stooped over some plant,

which she tied with her scarlet ribbons; then straightened herself and

scanned the night with the sharp gaze of her cat-like eyes, her heart

beating with anxiety, with fear, and with joy.

The fragrant night invited to love, and Olì was in love. She was

fifteen, and on the excuse of "signing the flowers of St John," she was

making her way to a love-tryst.

One night six months earlier a stranger had come to the Cantoniera to

ask for some fire-kindling. He was a _contadino_ or farm-labourer sent

by the owner of the extensive fields round the tumble-down house, and

had arrived for the sowing. He was young and tall, with long black curls

and coal-black eyes so bright one could hardly look at them! Olì alone

was not afraid to meet their gaze with her own fine eyes, which were

never abashed by anyone.

The _Cantoniere_, a man, not old, though worn with hard work, poverty,

and many troubles, received the young man kindly, gave him a flint,

catechised him about his master, and invited him to look in whenever he

liked. After this the farm-servant frequented the _Cantoniera_

assiduously. He told stories to the children, and taught Olì where to

look for the best mushrooms and edible herbs.

One day he took her to the ruined _nuraghe_[3] on the hill, half hidden

by thickets of red-berried thorn trees, and told her that among the huge

stones of the gigantic tomb there was a treasure hidden.

"And I know of several other hidden treasures," he said gravely, while

Oh picked bunches of wild fennel; "I shall certainly manage to find one

of them; and then----"

"Then what?" asked Olì half sceptical, raising her eyes, which

reflected the green of the surrounding landscape.

"Then I will leave this place. If you will come with me, I'll take you

to the continent. Oh, I know all about the continent! I'm not long home

from my military service. I've been to Rome, to Calabria, to all sorts

of places. Over there everything is splendid. If you'll come----"

Olì laughed softly. She was still a little ironical, but flattered and

happy. Behind the ruin, hidden in the thicket, her two little brothers

were whistling to lure a sparrow. No other human voice, no human step

was heard in the whole green immensity. The young man's arm slipped

round Olì's waist. He drew her to him and closed her eyes with kisses.

From that day the two young things loved each other fiercely, trusting

the secret of their passion to the silent riverside thickets, to the

dark hiding-places of the solitary _nuraghes_. All her life Olì had

been oppressed by loneliness and poverty. She loved this man for all be

represented to her imagination, for the wondrous things and places he

had seen, for the town from which he had come, for the wealthy master he

served, for the plans he had traced for the future. He loved Olì for

her beauty and for the fire of her temperament. Both were thoughtless

and without conscience. Primitive, impulsive, self-pleasing, they loved

because life was exuberant in their bosoms, and enjoyment a necessity.

The girl's mother had, it seemed, been just such another ardent and

fantastic woman.

"She was of well-to-do family," explained Olì, "and had titled

relations. They wanted to marry her to an old man who had a great deal

of land. My grandfather, my mother's father, was a poet. He could

improvise three or four songs in one evening, and the songs were so

beautiful that when he sang them in the street everybody got them by

heart. Oh yes! my grandfather was a very great poet! I know some of his

poetry myself. My mother taught it to me. Let me repeat some to you."

Olì recited a few verses in the dialect of Logudoro; then went on: "My

mother's brother, Uncle Merziòro Desogos, used to do painting in the

churches, and he carved pulpits. But at last he killed himself because

he had got into prison. Yes, my mother's relations belonged to the

nobility and were educated people. But she didn't choose to marry that

rich old man! She had seen my father, who at that time was as handsome

as a banner in a procession." She fell in love with him and they ran

away together. I remember her saying, "My father has cast me off, but

I don't care! Some folk love riches; I love my Micheli, and that's

enough for me!"

One day the _Cantoniere_ went to Nuoro the town, to buy wheat. He came

back more melancholy even than usual.

"Olì, mind yourself. Olì!" he said, threatening his daughter with his

finger, "bad luck to that farm-servant if he sets foot in here again! He

has deceived us, even as to his name. He told us his name was Quirico;

but it isn't, it's Anania. He comes from Argosolo. The people of

Argosolo are a race of goshawks, of thieves and jail-birds! Mind

yourself, young woman! He's a married man."

Olì wept, and her tears fell with the wheat into the great coffer of

black wood. But scarcely was the coffer shut down and Uncle Micheli[4]

gone away to his work, than the girl was off to her lover.

"Your name is Anania! You are married!" she said, her eyes flashing with

rage.

Anania had just completed his sowing and still carried his grain-bag.

Blackbirds sang, swinging on the olive branches. Great white clouds made

the blue of the sky more intense. All was sweetness, silence, oblivion.

"Listen," said the young man; "it's unfortunately true I have a wife--an

old woman. They forced her upon me (as they tried to force that rich old

man upon your mother), because I was poor and she had a great deal of

money. What does it matter? She's quite old and will soon die. We are

young, Olì, and I care for no one but you I If you give me up, it will

kill me!"

Olì was touched, and she believed all he said.

"But what are we to do?" she asked; "my father will beat me if we go on

loving each other."

"Have patience, my little lamb. My wife will die very soon. And even if

she doesn't, I am sure to find the treasure and then we'll go off

together to the continent."

Olì protested; wept. She had no great faith in the treasure, but she

let the love-making continue.

The sowing season was over, but Anania still came frequently to the

farm, to watch the corn coming up, to hoe, and to weed. At the hour of

siesta he did not sleep, but amused himself pulling down the _nuraghe_.

He said he wanted stones for a wall; really he was looking for the

treasure.

"If it isn't here, then it's there, and I intend to find it," he said to

Olì. "You know at Maras a labourer like me found a bundle of bars of

gold. He didn't know they were gold and handed them over to the

blacksmith. The idiot! I'd have known quick enough! Giants used to live

in the _nuraghes_," he went on, "and they had all their utensils of

gold. Even the nails in their shoes were gold. Oh! treasures can always

be found if one looks for them! When I was in Rome I saw a place where

they keep gold coins and things once hidden away by those old giants. In

some parts of the world there are giants alive still, and they are so

rich that their scythes and their ploughs are all made of silver."

He spoke seriously, his eyes shining with golden dreams. But he could

not have told what exactly he intended to do with the treasure when he

had found it. He looked no further than to the flight with Olì. Beyond

that all was vague.

About Easter the girl herself had occasion to go to Nuoro. She sought

information about Anania's wife, and learned that the woman was elderly

but by no means old, and not rich at all.

"Well," he said, when Olì reproached him for having deceived her,

"she's poor now, but when I married her she had money. After the wedding

I had to go to my military service, and I got ill and spent a lot. My

wife was ill too. Oh you don't know how expensive a long illness is!

Besides, we lent money and couldn't get it back. And I'll tell you what

I suspect! While I was away my wife sold some land and has hidden the

money she got for it. There! I'll take my oath that's it!"

He spoke seriously, and again Olì believed. She believed because she

wished to believe, and because Anania had got her into the habit of

believing anything. He was carried away himself by his imaginations. For

instance, in his master's kitchen-garden he found a big ring of reddish

metal, and at once concluded it was gold.

"There must be a treasure here also!" he thought, and hurried to tell

his new fancy to Olì.

Spring now reigned over the wild country. Elderflowers were reflected in

the blue river; voluptuous fragrance rose from the warm grass. In the

clear moonlit nights, so soft, so silent, it seemed as though the

vibrating air were an intoxicating love-philtre. Olì roamed hither and

thither, her eyes misty with passion. In the long luminous twilight, in

the dazzling noons, when the distant mountains melted into the sky, her

pensive look followed her little brothers, who, half naked and dark as

bronze statuettes, made the meadows merry with their bird-like pipings;

and she thought of the day when she must leave them to go forth with

Anania. For she had seen the gold ring of his finding, and she was

filled with hope, and her blood boiled with the poison of the spring.

"Olì!" called Anania from the depths of the thicket. She trembled,

advanced cautiously, fell into the young man's arms. They seated

themselves on the warm grass, beside bushes of pennyroyal and wild

laurel which exhaled strong perfume.

"I was almost prevented coming!" said the youth; "the mistress has been

brought to bed of a daughter; and my wife has gone up to help, and

wanted me to stay at home. 'No,' I told her, 'I've got to pick the

pennyroyal and the laurel to-night. Have you forgotten it's Midsummer

Eve?' So here I am."

He fumbled at his breast, while Olì touched the laurel and asked what it

was good for.

"Don't you know? Laurel gathered to-night is for medicine, and has other

virtues too. If you strew leaves of laurel here and there round the wall

of a vineyard or a sheepfold, no wild animal can get in to gnaw the

grapes or to carry off the lambs."

"But you aren't a shepherd, are you?"

"I want it for my master's vineyard; for the threshing-floor too, or the

ants will steal the grain. Won't you come when I'm beating out the

grain? There'll be lots of people: it's a holiday, and at night there'll

be singing."

"Oh, my father wouldn't let me go," she said with a sigh.

"How stupid of him! it's clear he doesn't know my wife. She's

decrepit--worn out like these stones! Wherever have I put it?" said

Anania, still fumbling.

"Put what? your wife?" laughed Olì.

"A cross. I've found a silver cross this time."

"A silver cross? Where you found the ring? And you never told me?"

"Ah, here it is! See, it's real silver!" He drew a packet from his arm

hole. Olì opened it, touched the little cross, and asked anxiously--

"Is it really silver? Then the treasure must be there!"

She looked so pleased that Anania, who had found the cross in quite a

different place, thought it best to leave her to her illusion.

"Yes, there in the garden. Who knows all the precious things there may

be! I shall have a search at night."

"But won't the treasure belong to your master?"

"No, it belongs to any one who finds it," replied Anania, and as if to

enforce his argument, he folded Olì in his arms and kissed her.

"When I find the treasure, then you'll come?" he asked, trembling. "Say

you will, my flower! It's clear I must find it at once, for I can't go

on living without you. When I look at my old wife, I'd like to die; but

when I'm with you, Olì, then I want to live a thousand years. My

flower!"

Olì listened, and she also trembled. Around them was deepest silence;

the stars shone like pearls, like eyes smiling with love; ever sweeter

on the air was the scent of the laurel.

"My wife must die very soon," said Anania; "what's the good of old

people in the world? In a year we shall probably be married."

"San Giovanni grant it!" sighed Olì. "But it's wrong to wish any one's

death. And now let me go home."

"Ah, stay a little longer!" he supplicated. "Why should you go so soon?

What's to become of me without you?"

But she rose, all tremulous.

"Perhaps we'll see each other to-morrow morning. I shall be picking my

flowers before sunrise. I'll make you a charm against temptations."

But he was not thinking about temptations. He knelt, clasping Olì in

his arms, and began to cry.

"No, my flower, don't go! don't go! Stay a little longer, Olì, my

little lamb! You are my life. See, I kiss the ground where you put your

feet. Stay a little, or, indeed, indeed, I shall die!"

He groaned and shook; and his voice moved Oh even to tears.

She stayed.

Not till autumn did Uncle Micheli perceive that his daughter had gone

wrong. Then fierce anger overpowered this wearied and suffering man, who

had known all the griefs of life except dishonour. That was unbearable.

He took Olì by the arm, and cast her out. She wept, but Uncle Micheli

was implacable. He had warned her a thousand times. He had trusted her.

Had her lover been a free man he might have forgiven. But this--No!

this, he could never pardon.

For some days Olì found shelter in the tumble-down house round which

Anania had sown his corn. The little brothers brought her scraps of

food, till Uncle Micheli found it out and beat them.

Now autumn was covering the heavens with great livid clouds; it rained

ceaselessly; the thickets were blown by damp winds, or they glittered

with cold hoar frost. Olì made her way to Nuoro to ask help from her

lover. Perhaps he had a presentiment of her coming, for outside the town

he met her. He was kind, he comforted her, he wrapped her in his own

jacket; he took her to Fonni, a mountain village above Mamojada.

"Don't be frightened," said the young man; "I have a relation at Fonni,

and you'll be all right with her. Trust me, my little lamb! I will never

desert you."

So he took her to his kinswoman, a widow with a little boy of four. When

Olì saw this child, dirty, ragged, all eyes and ears, she thought of

her little brothers and she wept. Ah! who now would care for the little

motherless ones? Who would bake their bread, or wash their little

garments in the river? And whatever would become of her father, the poor

widower, so feverish and unhappy? Ah, well----Olì cried for a day and a

night. Then she raised her head and looked about her with darkened eyes.

Anania had gone away. The widow, pale and thin, with the face of a

spectre framed by a yellow handkerchief, sat spinning before a wretched

fire of twigs. All round was misery, rags, dirt. Great cobwebs hung

trembling from the smoke-blackened tiled roof. A few sticks of wooden

furniture gave scanty comfort. The boy with the big ears never spoke or

laughed. He was already dressed in the costume of the place with a

sheepskin cap. His only amusement was roasting chestnuts in the hot

ashes.

"Have patience, daughter; it's the way of the world!" said Aunt Grathia

the widow, not raising her eyes from her distaff. "Oh! you'll see far

worse things if you live. We are born to suffer. When I was a girl I

also laughed; then I cried; now both laughing and crying are over."

Olì felt her heart freeze. Oh, what griefs! what immense griefs!

Outside, night was falling. It was bitter cold. The wind roared in the

chimney with the voice of a stormy sea. In the murky brightness of the

fire, the widow went on with her spinning, her mind busy with memory.

Olì crouched on the ground, and she too remembered--the warm night of

San Giovanni--the scent of the laurel--the light of the smiling stars.

Little Zuanne's chestnuts burst among the ashes which strewed the

hearth--the wind battered furiously at the door, like a monster scouring

the night. After a long silence the widow again spoke.

"I also belong to a good family. This boy's father was called Zuanne.

Sons, you know, should always have their father's name, so that they may

grow up like them. Ah, yes! my husband was a very distinguished man. He

was tall as a poplar tree. Look, there's his coat hanging against the

wall."

Olì looked round, and there, on the earthen wall, she saw a long cloak

of _orbace_,[5] among whose folds the spiders had woven their dusky

veil.

"I shall never take it down," continued the widow, "not though I am

dying of cold. My sons may wear it when they are as clever as their

father."

"But what was their father?" asked Olì.

"Well," said the widow, not changing her voice, but with some animation

on her spectral countenance, "he was a robber. For ten years he was a

robber--yes, ten. He took to the country a few months after our wedding.

I used to go and visit him up there on the mountain of Gennargentu. He

hunted eagles and vultures and strayed sheep. Every time I went to see

him we used to roast a good haunch of mutton. We slept out of doors, in

the wind, on the tops of the mountains. We covered ourselves with that

cloak, and my husband's hands were always burning even when it snowed.

He kept company with----"

"With whom?" asked Olì, forgetting her own troubles. The child was

listening too, his great ears pricked till he seemed a hare listening to

the voice of a distant fox.

"Oh, well, with other robbers. They were all most intelligent men,

sharp, active, ready for anything, ready especially for death. Do you

suppose brigands are bad folk? You are wrong, my dear sister. They are

men who live by their wits, that's all. My husband used to say, 'In the

old days men made war on each other; that's over now, but they still

need to fight. They organize thefts, highway robberies, _bardanas_,[6]

not to do harm, but to make use of their ability and strength.'"

"A fine sort of ability!" said Olì; "why don't they knock their heads

against a wall if they've nothing to do?"

"You don't understand, my daughter," said the widow, proud and sad;

"it's all a matter of Fate. If you like, I will tell you how my husband

made himself a brigand." She said "made himself a brigand" with great

dignity.

"Yes, tell me," answered Olì, shuddering a little. The shadows had

grown denser; the wind howled with a continuous thunder rumble; they

seemed in a hurricane-pervaded forest. The words, the cadaverous face of

the woman in that black surrounding, now and then momently illuminated

by a flash of livid flame, excited Olì to a childish voluptuousness of

terror. She seemed involved in one of those fearful legends which Anania

used to relate for her little brothers; and she herself, she with her

infinite wretchedness, was a part of the hideous story.

The widow went on--

"We had been married a few months. We were well off, my dear. We had

corn, potatoes, chestnuts, vines, land, houses, a dog, and a horse. My

husband was a landowner. But often he had nothing to do, and then he got

bored. He used to say, 'I must set up a shop, I can't stand this

idleness. When I'm idle I get bad thoughts.' But we hadn't capital

enough to start a shop. Then one day a friend said to him, 'Zuanne

Atonzu, will you join in a _bardana_? There'll be a lot of us, and a

clever fellow as guide, and we're going to a distant village to attack

the house of a man who has three chests of money and silver. The man

who's to show the way came here to Capo di Sopra[7] on purpose to tell

us of it and to suggest a bard. We've got to cross mountains, rivers,

and forests. Come with us.' My husband told me of the invitation.

'Well,' I said, 'what do you want with the rich man's silver?' He

answered, 'I snap my fingers at the trifle I may get of the booty; but I

like the idea of mountains and forests and new things to see. I'm

curious to know how they manage these _bardanas_, and there'll be plenty

of other fellows going just to show their pluck and to pass the time.

Isn't it worse to have me sit in the tavern and get drunk?' I cried, I

implored," said the widow, twisting her thread with her skinny finger

and following the motion of her spindle with hollow eyes, "I

supplicated, but he went. He gave out he was gone to Cagliari on

business; but he went on the bardana. I stayed at home, for I was in the

family way. Afterwards he told me all about it. There were about sixty

of them, and they travelled in little groups, meeting at appointed

places to consult. Corleddu was the captain, a Goliath, strong as the

lightning, with eyes of fire and his chest covered with red hair. For

the first few days there was rain, hurricanes were unchained, torrents

rose in flood, one of the company was struck by a thunderbolt. They

marched at night by torchlight. At last they reached a forest near the

mountain of the Seven Brothers. There the Captain said, 'Brethren, the

signs of the sky are not propitious. The affair will go badly. Moreover,

I smell treachery. I believe our guide is a spy. Let us disband; and put

the thing off for another time.' Many approved, but Pilatu Barras, the

robber from Orani, (his nose had been shot off and lie wore a silver

one) got up and said, 'Brothers in God' (he always used that

expression), 'I can't have this. Rain is no sign that heaven is against

us. On the contrary annoyances are good, and teach the young to put off

softness. If the guide betrays us, we'll kill him. Come on, donkeys!'

Corleddu shook his head, and another cried out, 'Pilatu can't smell!'

Then Barras shouted, 'Brothers in God, it is dogs who smell, not

Christians. My nose is of silver and can't smell, but yours is a bone of

the dead! What I say is that if we disband, we smell of cowardice. There

are young men among us on their first expedition. If you send them away,

they'll go back to sit by the ashes of their hearths, idle, and good for

nothing. Come on, donkeys!' They went on. Corleddu was right, the guide

was a traitor. Soldiers were waiting in the rich man's house. There was

a fight and many of the robbers were wounded; others were recognized,

one was killed. Lest he should be recognized, his comrades stripped him,

cut off his head, and buried it and his clothes far away in the forest.

My husband was recognized, so after that he had to become a bandit. I

lost my baby."

The widow had stopped spinning, her spindle fell on her lap and she

spread out her hands to the fire. Olì shuddered with cold, with horror,

with a fearful pleasure. How dreadful, how poetic, was all this the

widow was telling! Olì had always imagined robbers were wicked. No,

they were brave, wise, pushed by destiny; just as she herself was being

pushed----

"Now we'll have supper!" said the widow, rousing herself. She got up,

lighted a rude lamp of blackened iron, and prepared the meal; potatoes,

always potatoes, for two days Olì had eaten nothing but potatoes, and a

couple of chestnuts.

"Anania is your relation?" asked the girl, after they had eaten for some

time in silence.

"Yes, a distant relation of my husband's. He's from Argosolo, not Fonni.

But," said the widow, shaking her head contemptuously, "Anania's not at

all like the blessed one! My man would have hung himself from an oak

tree sooner than do this vile action of Anania's, my poor sister!"

Olì burst into tears. She retired to the chimney corner, and when

little Zuanne seated himself near her, she drew his head to her knee,

and held one of his little hard, dirty hands, thinking of her lost

little brothers.

"They are like little naked birds," she cried, "left in the nest when

their mother is shot and doesn't come back. Oh, who will feed them? The

little one can't even undress himself!"

"Then he can sleep in his clothes," said the widow grimly; "what are you

crying for, idiot? You should have thought of all that before; it's

useless now. You must be patient. The Lord God doesn't forget even the

birds in the nest."

"What a storm! What a storm!" lamented Olì; then asked suddenly, "Do

you believe in ghosts, Aunt Grathia?"

"I?" said the widow, putting out the lamp and resuming her spindle, "I

believe neither in the dead nor in the living."

Zuanne lifted his head and said softly, "I'm here," then hid his face

again in Olì's lap.

The widow continued her recital.

"After that I had a son. His name is Fidele, and he's eight years old

and has gone to work at a sheepfold. Then I had this one. We are very

poor now, sister. My husband wasn't dishonest, you know; he had lived on

his own property, and that's why we had to sell everything except just

this house."

"How did he die?" asked the girl, caressing the head of the apparently

sleeping child.

"How did he die? Oh, on one of his expeditions. He never got into

prison," said the widow, proudly, "though the police were after him like

hunters after a boar. He was clever at hiding, and when the police were

looking for him on the mountains, he would be spending the night

here--yes, here, at this hearth where you are sitting now."

The child looked up, his two great ears suddenly on fire; then sank

again on Olì's lap.

"Yes, I tell you, here. One day, two years ago, he learned that a patrol

was searching the hills for him, and he sent to tell me, 'While they are

busy at that I'm going to take part in a job; on the way back, I'll stop

with you, little wife. Look out for me.' I looked out three nights,

four. I span a whole hank of black wool."

"Where was he?"

"Don't you understand? On a _bardana_, of course!" cried the widow

impatiently. Then she dropped her voice. "I waited four nights, but I

was anxious. Every step I heard set my heart beating. The fourth night

passed. My heart had shrunk, till it was as little as an almond. Then I

heard a beating at the door. I opened. 'Woman, wait no longer,' said a

man with a mask over his face. And he gave me my husband's cloak.

Ah----" the widow gave a sigh which was almost a groan. Then she was

silent.

Olì watched her a long time. Suddenly her gaze was attracted to the

frightened gaze of the little Zuanne, whose hands, hard and brown as the

claws of a bird, were clenching themselves, and fingering the wall.

"What is it? What do you see?"

"Dead man!" lisped the child.

"What? A dead man?" said Olì laughing.

But when she was in bed, alone in a grey, cold garret, round whose roof

the wind screeched ever louder, searching and hammering the rafters,

Olì thought of the widow's story; of the mask who had said, 'Woman,

wait no more'; of the long black cloak hanging on the wall; of the child

who had seen the dead man. And she thought of the little naked birds in

the deserted nest; of her poor little neglected brothers; of Anania's

treasure; of midsummer night; and of her dead mother. She was

afraid--she was sad, so sad that though she believed herself doomed to

hell, she longed to die.

[Footnote 1: The man in charge of a portion of the high road is called

the _Cantoniere_, and lives in the _Cantoniera_.]

[Footnote 2: _Primavera_: we should call it, in June, early summer.]

[Footnote 3: Prehistoric ruin.]

[Footnote 4: In Sardinia the older persons are given the titles of Uncle

and Aunt.]

[Footnote 5: Coarse woollen stuff.]

[Footnote 6: Brigandage committed by a large number in concert.]

[Footnote 7: The province of Sassari]

II

Olì's son was born at Fonni in the springtime. He was called Anania by

the advice of his godmother, the bandit's widow. He passed his infancy

at Fonni, and in his imagination never forgot that strange village

perched on the mountain crest, like a slumbering vulture.

During the long winter, Fonni was all snow and fog; but with the spring

grass invaded even the steep village street, where beetles slept among

the big, sun-warmed cobblestones, and ants ran confidingly in and out of

their holes. The meagre brown houses with their roofs of _scandule_

(wooden tiles overlapping each other like fish-scales), showed on the

street side narrow black doorways, balconies of rotten wood, little

stairs often vine-garlanded. The Basilica of the Martyrs, with its

picturesque belfry, rose among the green oaks of the old Convent court,

dominating the whole little town and carved against a sky of crystalline

blue. Fabulous beauty reigned on all sides. The tall mountains of the

Gennargentu, their luminous summits outlined as it were with silver,

crowned the great Barbagia valley, which in a succession of immense

green shells rose to the hill-tops; among these Fonni with its scaled

roofs and stony streets, defied the thunder and the winds. The district

was in winter almost deserted, for its numerous population of wandering

shepherds (men strong as the blast, and astute as foxes) descended with

their flocks to the warm southern plains. But in the fine weather, a

continuous coming and going of horses, dogs, shepherds, old and young,

animated the mountain paths. Zuanne, the widow's son, at eleven years

old was already a herdsman. He led goats belonging to different persons

to pasture on the far side of the wilderness which surrounded the

village. At dawn, he passed down the street whistling, and the goats

knowing the sound came leaping out of the houses to follow him. Towards

evening he brought them back to the entrance of the village; from there

the intelligent creatures went off by themselves to the houses of their

masters. Zuanne of the big ears, was generally accompanied by his friend

and brother, the little Anania. They were barefoot and wore jackets and

cloaks of _orbace_, long breeches of coarse cloth, sheepskin caps.

Anania had watering eyes and a perpetual cold in his head. With tongue

or finger he rubbed his dirty face into strange patterns of moustachios

and whiskers.

While the goats fed among the rocks, green with eglantine and aromatic

herbs, the two children roamed about. They descended to the road and

threw stones at the passers-by; they penetrated into potato plantations

where strong wary women were at work; they sought wind-falls in the

great damp shadows of the gigantic walnut trees. Zuanne was tall and

lithe: Anania stronger and for his age bolder. They were both

story-tellers of extraordinary ingenuity, and were excited by strange

fancies. Zuanne was always talking of his father, boasting of him,

resolving to follow his example, and to avenge his memory. Anania meant

to be a soldier.

"I'll catch you," he said calmly, and Zuanne the brigand replied with

alacrity, "I'll murder you."

They often played at banditti, armed with guns of cane. They had a

suitable den, and Anania the soldier never succeeded in discovering the

robber, though the latter cried Cuckoo from the thicket in which he

crouched. A real cuckoo would answer from the distance, and often the

children, forgetting their murderous intent, would go off in search of

the melancholy bird--a search no more successful than the search for the

robber. When they seemed quite close to the mysterious voice, it would

sob further off, and still further. Then the little brothers in

ill luck, buried in the grass, or outstretched on the mossy rock, would

punish the cuckoo with questions. Zuanne being shy only said--

_Cuccu bellu agreste Cuckoo, beautiful wild thing,

Narami itte ora est._ Tell me what o'clock doth ring.

and the bird would call seven times when he ought to have answered ten.

Nevertheless Anania ventured bolder demands.

_Cuccu bellu e' mare Cuckoo, beauty of the sea,

Cantos annos bi cheret a How many years shall marry

m'isposare?_ me?

"Cu--cu--cu--cu."

"Four years, you little devil! You're going to marry young!"

sang out Zuanne.

"Be quiet. He didn't hear me."

_Cuccu bellu 's lizu Cuckoo, beauty of lily fair,

Cantos annos bi cheret a fagher In how many years shall my

fixu?_ son be here?

This time the cuckoo gave a reasonable answer, and the children in the

great silence, broken only by the melancholy oracle, went on with

questions not entirely merry.

_Cuccu, bellu e sorre Cuckoo, beauty and sister dear.

Cantos annos bi cheret a mi In how many years will my

morrer?_ death draw near?

Once Anania went away by himself. He walked along the high road, up and

up; then crossed the copses and climbed among the granite boulders,

traversing long hollows covered with the little violet flowers of the

heather. At last he reached the top of what seemed an immense mountain.

The sun had vanished, but he fancied there were great fires flaming

behind the purple hills of the horizon, and sending up burning light

over the whole sky. Anania was frightened by the red heaven; by the

height he had reached, and the terrible silence which surrounded him. He

thought of Zuanne's father and looked round in a panic. Ah! though he

meant to be a soldier he was mortally afraid of robbers! and the long

black cloak on the sooty wall at home gave him spasms of terror. Almost

head over heels he fled from his peak and was glad when he heard Zuanne

calling him. Zuanne's great wish was to see the brigands; so Anania told

him where he had been and described the black mountains and the flaming

sky; then added that he had seen them. The widow's son was first

contemptuous, then excited. He looked at Anania with respect, as

thoughtful and taciturn they returned home together, followed by the

goats whose little bells tinkled plaintively in the silence of the

twilight.

When he was not running beside Zuanne, little Anania passed the day in

the great court of the church of the Martyrs. He played with the sons of

the wax-candle-maker, who had his workshop close by. The quiet Courtyard

was shadowed by great trees, and surrounded by an arcade falling into

ruin. A little stone stair led to the church, on the simple facade of

which a cross was painted. Anania and the candlemaker's children spent

hours on the little stair, playing with the pebbles and making little

candles of chalk. A yawning carabiniere[8] used to stand at the window

of the ancient convent; in the cells military boots and tunics were

visible; and a voice might be heard singing in falsetto with a

Neapolitan accent--

"_A te questo rosario_"--

Some monk--one of the few left in the damp and decadent spot--dirty,

tattered, with broken sandals, would pass through the court mumbling his

prayers in dialect. Sometimes the soldier at the window, the friar on

the staircase, amused themselves talking to the children. The

_carabiniere_ would turn sharp to Anania and ask news of his mother.

"What's she doing?"

"She's spinning."

"What else does she do?"

"She goes to the fountain for water."

"Tell her to come here. I want to speak to her."

"Yes, Sir," answered the little innocent.

He gave the message to Olì. Though he had once seen her talking to the

soldier, she was angry and boxed his ears. She told him not to go back

to the courtyard; but of course he disobeyed as he could not live

without either Zuanne or the wax-candlemaker's children.

Except on Sunday, and on the Feast of the Martyrs in spring, sad

solitude reigned in the great sunshiny court, in the ruined arcades

which smelt of wax, under the big walnut tree, which to Anania seemed

taller than the Gennargentu, in the Basilica where the pictures and

stucco ornaments were perishing of neglect. Yet in his after life the

boy remembered with nostalgic sweetness that deserted spot; and the oats

which in spring used to come up between the stones, and the rusty leaves

of the walnut tree falling in autumn like the feathers of a dying bird.

Zuanne who was devoured with longing to play in the courtyard, and who

was bored when Anania deserted him, was jealous of the candlemaker's

children, and did his best to keep his friend away from them.

"I want you to-morrow," he said to the younger boy, while they roasted

chestnuts in the ashes; "I've got a hare's nest to show you. She has

such a lot of little ones and they're as small as your fingers! They're

quite naked, with long ears. Eh! their ears are as long as the devil's!"

he ended, drawing on his invention. Anania went in search of the

leverets, and of course didn't find them. Zuanne swore he had seen them,

that they must have run away, that it showed Anania's folly in not

having looked for them sooner.

"You waste all your time with _them_," he said scornfully; "well, they

can make wax hares for you! I'd have caught the whole nestful of the

real ones, if I hadn't been waiting to show them to you. Well, now we'll

look for a crow's nest."

The little goatherd did all he could to amuse Anania, but the young

child found the autumn mists cold on the mountains, and he stayed among

the houses. In those days he saw little of his mother and treasured up

few remembrances of her. She was always out. She worked by the day in

fields or houses. She dug potatoes and came home late, worn out, livid

with cold, famished. Anania's father had not been to Fonni for a long

time; the boy had no recollection of ever having seen him.

It was the bandit's widow who to a certain extent mothered the poor

little love-child, and of her he retained pleasant memories. The widow

had rocked him and hushed him to sleep with the melancholy wail of

strange dirges. She washed his head, she cut his nails, she blew his

nose violently. Every evening she sat spinning by the fire and telling

the heroic deeds of her bandit. The children listened greedily; but Olì

no longer cared for the stories and often went away to lie down on her

bed in the garret. Anania's sleeping place was at her feet. Often when

he went up he found his mother already asleep, but cold as ice; and he

tried to warm her feet with his own little hot ones. More than once he

heard her sob in the silence of the night, but he was too much in awe of

her to ask her why.

He consulted Zuanne on the subject, and the little goatherd thought it

his duty to impart certain information to his friend.

"You ought to know," he said, "that you're a bastard; your father isn't

married to your mother. There are lots of people like that, you know,"

he added consolingly.

"Why didn't he marry her?"

"Because he had a wife already. He'll marry her when that one dies."

"When will that one die?"

"When God wills. Your father used to come and see us, so I know him."

"What's he like?" asked Anania, frowning under an impulse of hatred

towards this unknown father who didn't come to see him. This was

probably what his mother cried about at night.

"Well," said Zuanne, cudgelling his memory, "he's tall and very handsome

with eyes like fireflies. He has a soldier's coat."

"Where is he?"

"At Nuoro, Nuoro is a great city which can be seen from the Gennargentu.

I know the Monsignore at Nuoro, because he christened me."

"Have you been there? To Nuoro?"

"Of course I have," said Zuanne, lying.

"I don't believe it. You haven't been there. I remember you haven't been

there!"

"I was there before you was born, that's how it was!"

After this Anania went willingly with Zuanne even when it was cold. He

kept asking questions about his father and about Nuoro and the road to

that city. At night he dreamed of the road, and saw a city with so many,

many churches, with such big, big houses, and mountains higher than even

the Gennargentu.

One day late in November Olì went to Nuoro for the feast of Le Grazie.

When she came back she had a quarrel with Aunt Grathia. Indeed latterly

she had been quarrelling with every one and slapping the children.

Anania heard her crying the whole night through, and though she had

beaten him yesterday he was full of pity. He would have liked to say--

"Never mind, mother dear. Zuanne says if he was like me that he'd go to

Nuoro the moment he was grown up and find his father and make him come

to see us. But I am ready to go before I'm grown up. Let me go, dear

mother!" But he dared not utter a word.

It was still night when Olì rose, went to the kitchen, came back, went

down a second time, returned with a bundle.

"Get up!" she bade the child.

She helped him to dress; then put a chain round his neck from which hung

a little bag of green brocade strongly sewn.[9]

"What's in it?" asked the child, fingering the little packet.

"It's a _ricetta_, a receipt which will bring you good fortune. An old

monk I met on the road gave it to me. Mind you always wear it on your

chest, next your skin. Don't ever lose it."

"What was the monk like? Had he a long beard? Had he a stick?"

"Yes, a beard and a stick."

"Was it _he_?"

"Who?"

"The Lord Jesus."

"Perhaps!" said Olì. "Well, promise you'll never lose the little bag.

Swear it."

"I swear on my conscience," said Anania, much impressed. "Is the chain

strong?"

"Very strong."

Olì took the bundle, clasped the child's hand in hers, and led him to

the kitchen. There she gave him a bowl of coffee and a piece of bread.

Then she threw an old sack over his shoulders and they went out.

It was dawn.

The cold was intense. Fog filled the valley and hid the immense cloister

of mountains. Here and there a snow-dad summit emerged like a silvery

cloud. Monte Spada, a huge block of bronze, now and then appeared for a

moment through the moving veil of vapour. Anania and his mother crossed

the deserted street and stepped out into the mist. They began to descend

the high road which went down lower and lower into a distance full of

mystery. Anania's little heart beat; for the grey, damp road, watched

over by the outermost houses of Fonni, whose scaled roofs seemed black

wings plucked of their feathers, this road which continuously descended

towards an unknown, cloud-filled abyss--was the road to Nuoro.

Mother and son walked fast. The boy often had to run, but he did not

tire. He was used to running, and the lower they descended the more

excited he felt, hot and eager as a bird. More than once he asked--

"Where are we going, mother?"

Once she answered, "To pick chestnuts." Another time, "Into the

country." Another, "You will see." Anania danced, ran, stumbled, rolled.

Now and then he felt his chest for the charm. The fog was lifting. High

up the sky appeared, a watery blue, furrowed, as it were, by long

streaks of white lead. The mountains showed livid through the mist. At

last a ray of pale sunshine illuminated the little church of Gonare,

which on the top of a pyramidal mountain stood up against a background

of leaden cloud.

"Is that where we're going?" asked Anania, pointing to a wood of

chestnut trees. Drops hung from the leaves and from the bursting thorny

fruit. A little bird cried in the silence of the hour and the place.

"Further on," said Olì.

Anania resumed his delightful running. Never in any excursion had he

pushed so far. The continued descent, the changed nature, the grass

slopes, the moss-grown walls, the spinnies of hazel, the red berries on

the thorn trees, the little chirruping birds, all seemed to him new and

glorious.

The fog vanished. A triumphant sun cleared the mountains. The clouds

over Monte Gonare had become a beautiful golden pink. The little church

was so distinct against them that it seemed near.

"But where the devil is this place?" asked little Anania, opening his

hands with a gesture of great contempt.

"We are getting near. Are you tired?"

"I? Tired?" he said, starting to run again.

He began, however, to feel a little pain in his knees. He did not run so

fast. He walked by Olì's side and chattered. But the woman, the bundle

on her head, her face white, circles round her eyes, hardly heeded him

and made absent answers.

"Shall we come back to-night? Why didn't you let me tell Zuanne? Is the

wood far off? Is it at Mamojada?"

"Yes, at Mamojada."

"When is the _festa_ at Mamojada? Is it true that Zuanne has been at

Nuoro? This is the road to Nuoro, I know that. And it takes ten hours to

walk to Nuoro. Have you been to Nuoro? When is the _festa_ at Nuoro?"

"It's over. It was the other day. Would you like to go to Nuoro?" asked

Olì, rousing herself.

"Of course, I should. And then--then----"

"You know your father is at Nuoro?" said Olì, guessing his thought.

"Would you like to be with him?"

Anania considered. Then he wrinkled his brows, and answered, "Yes."

What was he thinking when he said that? His mother did not ask. She only

said--

"Shall I take you to him?"

"Yes," said the child.

Towards noon they halted beside a garden. A woman, with her petticoats

sewn between her legs like pantaloons, was hoeing vigorously. A white

cat sometimes followed the woman, sometimes darted after a green lizard

which now appeared now vanished among the stones of the wall. Ever

afterwards Anania remembered these details. The day had become warm, the

sky blue. The mountains were grey as if dried by the sun; the dark woods

flecked with light. The sun had warmed the grass and waked sparkles in

the streamlets.

Olì sat on the ground, opened her bundle, took out some bread, and

called Anania who had climbed on the wall to watch the woman and the

cat. Just then the post-carriage, which was coming down from Fonni,

appeared at the turn of the road. It was driven by a big, red-haired man

with a moustache and puffy cheeks which made him seem perpetually

laughing.

Olì tried to hide, but the big man had seen her.

"Where are you going, little woman?"

"Where I choose," she answered in a low voice.

Anania still on the wall, peeped into the coach. It was empty, and he

cried, "Take me in it, Uncle Batusta, take me!"

"But where are you going? Come!" said the big man, drawing up.

"If you must know, we're going to Nuoro," said Olì eating as she spoke;

"it would be a charity to give us a lift. We're as tired as donkeys!"

"Listen," said the big man, "go on to the other side of Mamojada, I have

to stop there. After that I'll pick you up."

He kept his promise. Presently the wayfarers were sitting beside him on

the box seat. He began to gossip with Olì. Anania was tired, but he

felt acute pleasure in his position between his mother and this big man

with the long whip, in the fresh fields and blue sky framed by the hood

of the vehicle, in the swift trot of the horses. The greater mountains

had now all disappeared; and the child thought of how Zuanne would envy

him this long journey into a new district. "What a lot I shall tell him

when I go home," he thought; "I'll say to him, 'I have ridden in a coach

and you haven't.'"

"Why the devil are you going to Nuoro?" the big man was asking Olì.

"If you wish to know," she answered him, "I'm going to service. I've

arranged with a good mistress. It's hopeless living at Fonni. The widow

of Zuanne Atonzu has turned me out."

"That's not true," thought Anania. Why did his mother lie? Why didn't

she say the truth that she was going to Nuoro to find her boy's father?

Well, she probably had her reasons for lying. Anania did not bother

himself, especially as he was sleepy.

He leaned against his mother and shut his eyes.

"Who's at the _Cantoniera_ now?" asked Olì suddenly. "Is my father

there still?"

"No, he's gone."

She sighed heavily. The vehicle stopped for a moment then rolled on.

Anania was asleep.

At Nuoro, he became aware of delusions. Was this the city of his dreams?

Well, yes, the houses were bigger than the houses at Fonni, but not at

all so big as he had expected. The mountains, sombre against the violet

sky, were small, quite ridiculous. The streets, however, seemed wide;

and the children in them were very impressive, for in speech and in

garments they were quite unlike the children of Fonni.

Till evening, mother and son wandered about Nuoro. At last they went

into a church. Many people were there, the altar flamed with candles,

sweet singing was blended with a sound still sweeter which came the boy

knew not whence. Ah! that was something really beautiful! Anania thought

of Zuanne and the pleasure of describing his adventures.

Olì whispered in his ear--

"Don't move till I come back. I'm going to find the friend at whose

house we shall sleep."

He remained alone at the bottom of the church. It was alarming, but he

encouraged himself looking at the people, the candles, the flowers, the

saints. Also he had the charm hidden on his breast. That was a comfort.

Suddenly he remembered his father. Where was he? Why ever didn't they go

and find him?

Olì soon returned. She waited till the service was over, then took her

boy's hand and led him out by a side door. They walked down several

streets. At last they got beyond the houses. It was late, it was cold;

Anania was hungry and thirsty. He felt sad, and thought of Aunt

Grathia's hearth, of the roast chestnuts, and of Zuanne's chatter. They

were in a lane bordered by hedges; the mountains, which seemed so small

to the child, were visible.

"Look here," said Olì, and her voice shook, "did you notice the last

house with the big open door?"

"Yes."

"Your father's in there. You want to see him, don't you? Turn back and

go in at the big door. You'll find another door straight before you. It

will be open. Go in by that door, and look about you. It's a press where

they make oil. A tall man with his sleeves turned up and his head bare

is walking behind the horse. That is your father."

"Aren't you coming too?" asked the boy.

Olì shuddered. "I'll come presently. You must go in first. When you see

him, say, 'I am the son of Olì Derios!' Do you understand? Come along!"

They turned back. Anania felt his mother's hand shake and he heard her

teeth chatter. They stopped at the big door; she bent down, arranged the

charm round the child's neck and kissed him. "Go on," she said, giving

him a push.

Anania entered. He saw the other door, faintly illuminated, and went on.

He found himself in a black, black place, lighted only by a red furnace

upon which a cauldron was seething. A black horse went round and round,

turning a large, heavy, very oily wheel in a sort of round vat. A tall

man, bareheaded, with his sleeves turned up and all his clothes stained

black with oil, followed the horse, stirring the crushed olives in the

vat with a wooden pole. Two other men moved backwards and forwards,

pushing a screw fixed in a press, from which flowed the black and

steaming oil. Before the fire sat a boy with a red cap.

It was this boy who first saw the stranger child.

"Get out!" he shouted.

Anania, frightened, but encouraged by the thought of his amulet, did not

speak. He gazed about him, bewildered, and expecting his mother to come

in. The man with the pole looked at him with shining eyes, then asked--

"What do you want?"

Could this be his father? Anania looked at him shyly, then pronounced

the words his mother had taught him.

"I am the son of Olì Derios."

The two men who were turning the screw stopped suddenly and one of them

cried--

"Your brat!"

The tall man threw his pole down, approached the child, stared, shook

him and asked--

"Who has sent you here? What do you want? Where's your mother?"

"She's outside. She's coming."

The oil-miller rushed out, followed by the boy with the red cap. But

Olì had disappeared; and nothing more was heard of her.

Learning what had occurred, Aunt Tatàna, the oil-miller's wife, came to

the mill. She was a woman not young, but still beautiful, fair and

plump, with soft, warm brown eyes surrounded by little wrinkles. On her

upper lip was a very faint golden moustache. Her manner was quiet, but

cheerful and kind. She put her hands on Anania's shoulders, bent down

and examined him.

"Don't cry, poor little man!" she said gently. "Mother will come in a

few minutes! Be quiet, you!" she added, turning to the men and the boy,

who were inclined to meddle.

Anania wept inconsolably and answered no questions. The boy kept staring

at him with wicked blue eyes and a mocking smile on his round rosy face.

"Where has she gone? Isn't she coming? Where shall I find her?" sobbed

the deserted child desperately. Something must have happened to his

mother; she had been frightened; where could she be? Why didn't she

come? And this horrible, oily, rough man--was this his father?

But the coaxing and gentle words of Aunt Tatàna comforted him a little.

He stopped crying, and rubbed the tears all over his cheeks in his usual

way; then thought of flight.

The woman, the oil-miller, the two men, and the boy were all talking

loud. They swore, laughed, disputed.

"He's your own child. He's just like you!" said the woman, turning to

her husband. But the miller cried--

"I don't want him! I tell you I don't want him!"

"Have you no heart? Holy Saint Catharine! can men be so cruel?" said

Aunt Tatàna, jesting but serious. "Ah, Anania, that's you all over! You

are always yourself!"

"Who else would you have me be?" he growled, "Well, I'm going for the

police."

"You shan't go for the police, stupid! Wash your dirty linen at home,

please!"

He insisted, so she said, temporising, "Well, well, go for the police

to-morrow. At present finish your work; and remember the words of King

Solomon about leaving the evening wrath till the morning."

The three men returned to their work; but while the miller stirred the

olives under the wheel, he muttered and swore, and the others laughed.

The woman said quietly--

"You are making bad worse. You have only yourself to blame. By Saint

Catharine it's I who ought to be offended! Remember, Anania, that God

doesn't leave wages till Saturday!"

Then she turned to the child who was crying again.

"Hush! little son!" she said, "we'll set it all right to-morrow. There!

don't you know little birds always leave the nest when they get wings?"

"But did you know of this little bird's existence?" laughed one of the

men; and the boy crowded on Anania and said teasingly, "Why has your

mother run away? What sort of a woman is she?"

"Bustianeddu!" thundered the miller, "if you don't go this moment I'll

kick you out!"

"Try!" said the boy impudently.

"You can tell him the sort of woman she is!" cried one of the men, and

the other laughed till his sides shook and he neglected the screw of the

press.

Aunt Tatàna was fondling the child, examining his poor clothes and

asking him questions. He answered in an uncertain, lamentable voice

interrupted by sobs.

"Poor little one! Poor little dear! Little bird without wings! without

wings and without a nest!" said the kind soul, "be quiet, my little pet.

Aren't you rather hungry? Come! we'll go in and Aunt Tatàna will give

you some nice supper, and then we'll put you to bed, with the guardian

angel; and to-morrow it will all come right!"

After this promise he allowed himself to be led to a little house beside

the olive-mill. Here she gave him white bread and cheese, and an egg and

a pear. Never had Anania supped so well! The pear worked wonders, added

to Aunt Tatàna's sweet words and motherly caresses.

"To-morrow!" said the woman.

"To-morrow!" accepted the child.

While he ate, Aunt Tatàna moved about preparing her husband's supper.

She talked to Anania and gave him good counsels which she said she had

herself been taught by King Solomon and Holy Saint Catharine.

Suddenly the round visage of the boy Bustianeddu appeared at the window.

"Get away, little frog!" she said, "it's cold."

"Yes, it's cold," he returned, "so please let me come in."

"Why aren't you at the mill?"

"They've sent me away. There's such a crowd there."

"Well, come in," said the woman, opening the door. "Come in, poor

orphan, you also are without a mother! What's Uncle Anania doing? Is he

angry still?"

"Oh I suppose so!" said Bustianeddu, sitting down and gnawing the core

of the stranger child's pear.

"They've all arrived," he went on, discoursing and gesticulating like a

grown person; "my father, and Maestro Pane, and Uncle Pera, and that

liar Franziscu Carchide, and Aunt Corredda, every single one of

them----"

"What are they saying?" asked the woman, with quick interest.

"They're saying you'll have to adopt the kid. Uncle Pera laughs and

says, who will Uncle Anania leave his goods to, if he has no child?

Uncle Anania ran at him with the pole. Then they all laughed like mad."

Aunt Tatàna's interest was overpowering. Telling Bustianeddu to mind

the child, she went back to the mill.

At once Bustianeddu began confidentially to his charge--

"My father has 100 _lire_ in the chest of drawers, and I know where he

keeps the key. We live close here, and have some land for which we pay

taxes. One day the Commissioner came and seized the barley. What's in

that saucepan making that cra--cra--cra--? Don't you think it's burning?

I'd better look in." (he lifted the cover) "The devil! Potatoes! I

thought it was something better. I'm going to taste them!"

With two fingers he hooked out a boiling lump, blew on it and ate it up.

Then he took another.

"What are you doing?" said Anania shocked, "if the woman comes back----"

"We know how to make macaroni, my father and I," said the imperturbable

youngster, "do you know? And tomato sauce----"

"No, I don't know," said Anania absently.

He was thinking of his mother, his mind besieged by sad questions. Where

had she gone? Why hadn't she come into the mill? Why had she gone away

and forgotten him? Now that he had eaten and was warm, Anania would have

liked to run away. To run away and look for his mother. To run away and

find his mother. This idea took firm roots and would not leave him.

After a while Aunt Tatàna came back. She brought with her a ragged

woman with uncertain step, a red nose, and a large hanging mouth; a

horrible-looking person.

"And this--this is the little bird?" she said stammering and looking

lovingly at the foundling. "Let me see your little face, to bless you!

By God's truth, he's as pretty as a star! And the man doesn't want him?

Well Tatàna Atonzu, it's for you to pick him up--to pick him up like a

sugar-plum----"

She came nearer and kissed Anania. He turned away, for she smelt of

drink.

"Aunt Nanna," said the incorrigible Bustianeddu, pretending to drain a

glass, "have you had enough for to-day?"

"Eh? Eh? What? What do you mean? What are you doing here, you little

fly, you p--poor little orphan? Go home to your b--bed."

"You'd better go to bed yourself," said Aunt Tatàna, "take yourselves

off, both of you."

She gave the woman a gentle push, but before going away Nanna begged for

a drop of something. Bustianeddu offered her water; she snatched at the

glass eagerly, but after one sip shook her head and set it down. Then

she moved unsteadily away. Aunt Tatàna sent Bustianeddu after her, and

shut the door.

"You are tired, my pet," she said to Anania, "come, I will put you to

bed."

She took him to a big room behind the kitchen and undressed him, coaxing

him with sweet words.

"Don't be frightened, my little one. Mother will come to-morrow; or else

we'll go together and look for her. Do you know how to cross yourself?

Can you say your _Credo_? Yes, every night we ought to say the _Credo_!

I'll teach it to you, and some nice prayers; especially one by San

Pasquale which will prepare you for the hour of death. Ah! I see you

have a _Rezetta_! What a pretty one! That is nice! San Giovanni will

take care of you. Yes, he was once a little naked boy like you, though

afterwards he baptized our Lord Jesus. Go to sleep, my pet. In the name

of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen."

Anania found himself in a great bed with red pillows. Aunt Tatàna

covered him up; then she went away, leaving him in the dark. He held his

amulet very tight, shut his eyes, and did not cry. However he could not

sleep.

To-morrow! To-morrow! But oh dear! how many years had passed since they

had started from Fonni? What ever would Zuanne think? Strange fancies,

confused thoughts passed through the little mind; among them all, the

figure of his mother remained distinct. Where had she gone? Was she

cold? To-morrow he would see her again. To-morrow. If they didn't take

him to find her he would go by himself. To-morrow----

Anania heard the olive-miller come in. He disputed with his wife. He

cried, "I don't want the child! I don't want him!"

Then there was silence. But, suddenly, someone opened the door, came

into the room, walked on tip-toe to the bed, cautiously lifted the

quilt. A bristly moustache touched Anania's cheek. He was pretending to

be asleep, but he opened his eyes, a tiny, tiny bit, and saw that the

person who had kissed him was his father!

A few minutes later Aunt Tatàna came in and lay down in the great bed

beside Anania. He heard her praying a long time, whispering and

sighing--then he fell asleep.

[Footnote 8: Carabinieri--The country police.]

[Footnote 9: _La Rezetta_, an amulet containing prayers written

on paper, flowers gathered on St John's night, relics, etc.]

III

No one reported to the police that a child had been deserted. Olì was

able to disappear unhindered. It was never exactly known whither she had

gone. Someone said he had seen her on the steamer from Sardinia to

Civita Vecchia. Later, a Fonni shopkeeper, who had been to the continent

on business, declared he had met Olì in Rome, smartly dressed and

accompanied by other women of obvious character.

These things were told at the olive-mill, the child being present. He

listened eagerly. Like some little wild animal which has apparently been

tamed, he continually meditated escape. At Fonni, while living with his

mother, he had thought of running away to find his father; now he was

with his father and he thought of running away to look for Olì. She

might be far off, she might be beyond the sea--no matter; he felt

capable of finding her by himself. Not that he loved her! No, he could

not love one who had given him more blows than kisses, one who had

deserted him! Instinctively he felt that was shameful. But then neither

did he love his father. Anania could not forget his first impression,

the terror and repulsion with which the dark, oily, angry man had

inspired him, the man who had kissed him in secret while before the

world he stormed at and insulted him.

But Aunt Tatàna--ah, she loved him! She washed and brushed and dressed

him; she taught him prayers and the precepts of King Solomon. She took

him to church, and gave him nice things to eat, and let him sleep with

her. Little by little Anania gave her his affection. In a short time he

was another boy. He grew fat and gave himself airs; he had forgotten his

rough Fonni costume, and wore a nice little suit of dark fustian. He

acquired the Nuoro accent, and was knowing and sharp like Bustianeddu.

Yet his little heart remained unchanged. It could not change. Dreams of

flight, of adventure, of wondrous accidents, were blended in his

childish soul with nostalgic yearning for his native place, for the

people and the things he knew, for the liberty he had enjoyed, for the

unkind mother who had become to him an object of pity and of shame.

Though he was better off, the little wild creature suffered under the

dislocation of all his habits. He wanted he knew not what. He thought he

wanted his mother--because everyone had a mother! because to have lost

his mother was not so much grief as humiliation. He understood that his

mother could not be with the olive-miller, because he had another wife;

well, then, he would rather be left with his mother. He belonged to her;

perhaps also he instinctively felt her the weaker and became her

champion.

As time passed, all these thoughts, these instincts grew fainter, but

they did not disappear from his little soul; so also her physical image

was transformed in his memory, never obliterated.

One day he learned something unexpected about Bustianeddu, whose

friendship he had so far endured rather than courted.

"My mother's not dead," said this boy, almost boastingly, "she's away on

the continent like yours. She ran away one time when my father was in

prison. When I'm grown up, I'll go and find her. I swear it. I've an

uncle on the continent too. He's a schoolmaster. He wrote that he'd seen

my mother in a street and was going to beat her, but the people held him

off. It was my uncle gave me this red cap."

This story was quite comforting to Anania, and drew him into intimacy

with Bustianeddu. For years they were companions, at the olive-mill, in

the streets, beside Aunt Tatàna's fire. Bustianeddu was much the age of

Zuanne, Anania's lost brother. At bottom he was warmhearted and

generous. He said he attended school; but often the schoolmaster asked

the boy's father for his invisible pupil. The father was a small dealer

in skins and fleeces; when these inquiries reached him, he tied his son

up with a rope of undressed leather, locked him in, and bade him learn

his lessons. Like older criminals, Bustianeddu came out of prison more

reckless and cunning than before. But his father was often away from

home; and then the boy, weighted with responsibility, became very

serious. He swept the house, washed the linen, cooked the dinner. Anania

was delighted to help him. In return Bustianeddu gave him advice and

taught him many things good and evil. They were often at the olive-mill

where "Big Anania" (so called to distinguish him from his son) worked

for his master the rich Signor Daniele Carboni. Big Anania called Signor

Carboni "_Master_," because he had served him for years--as

olive-miller, field-labourer, gardener, vine-dresser, according to

season; he was, however, very independent, and his work though well paid

was not without its risks.

On one side of the olive-mill was the courtyard through which Anania had

entered that first night; on the other a garden which sloped down to the

high road. It was a beautiful garden, partly orchard, partly wild, with

rocky boulders among which straggled bushes of white thorn, Indian figs,

almond trees, and peaches. There was one oak tree with rugged stem,

harbouring nests of great locusts, caterpillars, and all sorts of birds.

The garden belonged to Signor Carboni, and was the envy of all the boys

in the neighbourhood. The old gardener, Uncle Pera _Sa Gattu_ (the cat),

carried a cudgel to keep them out. From this garden the strong,

beautiful Nuoro girls could be seen going to the fountain, amphoras on

their heads, like the women of the Bible. Uncle Pera ogled them while he

sowed his peas and beans, putting three peas in each hole, and shouting

to scare the sparrows.

Anania and Bustianeddu watched him from the mill window, anxious

themselves to get into the sunny orchard, and waiting till the gardener

should take himself off. Uncle Pera, a dried-up little man,

clean-shaven, his face the colour of brick-dust, was too fond of his

vegetables to desert them often. Not till nightfall did he go up to the

mill to warm himself and to gossip.

This was a good olive year and the press was at work night and day. Two

_ettolitri_ of olives produced about two _litri_ of oil. Near the door

stood a tin for oil to feed the lamps of this or that Madonna; pious

persons poured into it a few drops from each load of olives. All round

the press the floor was crowded with barrels and tubs, with sacks of

black, shining olives, with heaps of steaming refuse. The whole place

was dark, hot, dirty. The cauldron was always boiling, the wheel turned

by the big bay horse was always in motion, always distilling oil. The

smell of the husks, though too strong, was not exactly disagreeable. The

furnace sent out a fine heat, and round it in the long chilly evenings

were gathered all the coldest persons of the neighbourhood. Beside the

miller and his staff, five or six people came regularly. Efès Cau, once

a man of means, now reduced by drink to extreme poverty, slept almost

nightly at the mill, contaminating the corner where he lay, to the great

annoyance of cleaner persons.

Anania and Bustianeddu sat in a corner on a heap of hot husks, amused by

the talk of their elders, delighted by the absurdities of the drunken

Efès.

Uncle Pera offered him wine; but Franziscu Carchide, the handsome young

shoemaker, interposed.

"No, no, Efès, if you don't dance, you don't drink. You must sing too.

Come!"

"'When Amelia so pure and so pale----'"

Anania and Bustianeddu laughed till their sides ached, squatting on the

husks like a pair of chickens.

"Let's put pins where he sleeps," suggested Bustianeddu.

"What for?" asked the more kindly Anania.

"To prick him, of course. Then he'll dance with a vengeance. I've

brought the pins."

"All right," said the other, unwillingly.

The sot was still dancing, singing, reeling, stretching his hand to the

glass. The people and the children laughed.

Then came Nanna, the drunken woman, cleaner and more sober than usual.

"Aren't you ashamed?" she said, seizing Efès by the arm; "don't you see

all these beggars, these filthy persons are mocking you? And what are

they laughing at me for? I've been out working to-day. Good Lord, how I

have worked! Ah, Efès, Efès! have you forgotten how rich your house

used to be? Your mother had gold buttons as big as my fist. Your house

was like a church, so clean, so full of fine things. If you had kept

from the drink, everyone would have treasured you like a sugar plum. Now

you're a laughing-stock, like a dancing bear. What are they laughing at

now? By the Lord, they must be all drunk! Come, miller, spare me a drop

of oil to eat with my supper. Your wife is a saint, miller, but upon my

word you are a devil. When are you going to find that treasure you talk

about?"

Meanwhile Efès, seated on a sack, wept, thinking of his mother and the

rich home of his youth. Carchide strove to console him with another

glass, but Efès wept on, even while he drank.

A farmer from a neighbouring village, and Bustianeddu's father, a young

man with blue eyes and red beard, conspired together to make Nanna

drunk. She told scandalous stories of Uncle Pera, and Uncle Pera swore

at the two men who worked the screw of the olive press, and told them

they were lazy good-for-nothings.

Maestro Pane, the humpbacked carpenter, who wore his grey moustache at

one side only of his toothless mouth, sat under the window beating his

fist on his knee and talking very loud. No one, however, listened, for

he was in the habit of talking to himself.

Under the influence of the wine. Nanna was becoming loquacious.

"Yes, that old gardener waits every morning till the girl comes down to

the fountain. Then he calls her in, promising to give her some

lettuce----"

"Ah, you tipsy wretch!" cried Uncle Pera, jumping up with his cudgel.

"Well, what harm am I saying? I say that when she comes in for the

lettuce you teach her the Ave Maria."

They all laughed, even little Anania, though he could not imagine why

Uncle Pera should teach the Ave Maria by force to the girl who was going

to the fountain.

That night when Anania was safe in Aunt Tatàna's big bed he could not

sleep, but turned and twisted as if pins were pricking him.

"What's the matter, child?" asked Aunt Tatàna in her gentle way, "have

you the stomachache?"

"No, no."

"Then what is it?"

After a few minutes he revealed his remorse.

"We put pins in the place where Efès sleeps."

"You naughty boys! Why did you do that?"

"Because he gets drunk----"

"Holy Saint Catharine!" sighed the good woman, "how wicked boys are

nowadays! Suppose someone put pins in your bed? Would you like it? No?

Wouldn't you? Then you are more wicked than Efès. All people in the

world are wicked, my little lamb, but we must have pity on one another.

If we don't pity each other we shall be like the fishes in the sea which

devour their brothers. King Solomon said no one must judge but God. Do

you understand?"

Anania thought of his mother, his mother who had been so wicked and had

deserted him; and he felt sad--so sad!

IV

One day in March, Bustianeddu invited Anania to dine with him. The

skin-dealer was away on his business, and the boy, after two days'

imprisonment for truancy, was alone at home. On his right cheek was the

mark of a heavy blow administered by his irate parent.

"They want to make a scholar of me," he said to Anania, spreading out

his hands like a man discussing some matter of importance, "but I don't

intend to be a scholar. I intend to be a pastry-cook. Why shouldn't I?"

"Yes, why not?" echoed Anania.

"Because they think it _disgraceful_!" said the other, drawling the word

contemptuously, "they think learning a trade is disgraceful when one

might be a scholar. That's what my relations say. But I've got a joke

ready for them! Just you wait a bit."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll tell you afterwards. Now we'll have dinner."

He had prepared macaroni; at least he gave this name to certain lumps,

greasy, and hard as almonds, seasoned with dried tomatoes. The boys ate

in company with a grey cat, which snatched morsels from the dish with

his paw, and ate them furtively in a corner.

"How clever he is!" said Anania, following the creature with his eyes;

"our cat has been stolen!"

"Lots of ours have been stolen. They disappear and we don't know what

becomes of them."

"All the cats in the place disappear. What do the people who take the

poor things do with them?"

"They roast them. Cat is good, you know; just like hare. On the

continent they sell cats as hares. So my father says."

"Has your father been to the Continent?"

"Yes; and I intend to go myself."

"_You_?" said Anania, laughing enviously.

Bustianeddu thought the moment had come for telling his plans. "I can't

stay here," he said pompously. "I intend to go away. I'll find my mother

and be a pastry-cook. If you like, you may come with me."

Anania grew red with excitement. His heart beat very loud.

"But we've no money," he observed.

"We'll take the hundred lire which are in that chest of drawers. If you

like, we'll take them now. Only we must hide them for a while, for if we

set out at once my father will guess we've got them. We'll wait till the

cold weather's over. Then we'll go. Come here."

He led Anania to a dirty room where was great confusion of evil smelling

lamb's skins. He found a key in a hiding-place and opened a drawer with

it. The drawer contained a red note for a hundred lire, some silver and

a few smaller notes. The little thieves took the red note, shut the

drawer and put back the key in its place.

"Now you keep it," said Bustianeddu, "and when it's dark we'll hide it

down the hole of the oak tree in the garden behind the mill. Then we'll

wait."

Before he had time to object, Anania found the note thrust into his

bosom, and rubbing against his precious amulet. He passed a day of

intolerable anxiety; fevered with remorse and terror, hope and the

wildest of projects.

To escape! to escape! How and whither he knew not, but his dream was to

come true. He was sick with alarm and joy. A hundred seemed a treasure

inexhaustible; but for the present he felt himself guilty of a grave

crime, and the hour which was to deliver him from the stolen property

seemed to be never coming.

It was by no means the first time the boys had trespassed in Uncle

Pera's garden; it was easy to jump down from the window of the unused

mill stable. But never had they ventured in at night and it was some

time before they could screw up their courage for the deed. The evening

was clear and cold. A full moon rose behind the black crags of Orthobene

and flooded the garden with gold. The two children, flattening their

noses against the window pane, heard a long despairing wail, a human or

superhuman lament.

"Whatever's that?" said Anania; "it must be a devil! I won't go. I'm

frightened."

"Then stay here, silly. It's only a cat!" said Bustianeddu scornfully,

"I'm going. I'll hide the money in the oak, where Uncle Pera won't think

of looking. Then I'll come back. You stay here and keep watch. If any

danger comes, whistle."

What this danger might be the two friends did not know, but the mere

imagination sufficed to make the adventure delightful; the fantastic

moonlight, even the long drawn lamentation of the cat, added to its

flavour. Bustianeddu jumped down into the orchard, Anania stayed at the

window, all eyes and ears, trembling a little with fear. Hardly had his

companion vanished in the direction of the oak tree, when two black

shadows passed close to the window. Anania shuddered, whistled faintly,

and crouched to conceal himself. What spasms of alarm and strange

enjoyment did he not feel. How ever would Bustianeddu escape? What was

actually happening down there in the dark? Oh! the lament of the torn-cat

was more horrible than ever! It ended in a wild and lacerating shriek;

then ceased. Silence. What mystery! What horror! Anania's heart was

bursting in his bosom. What had befallen his friend? Had he been seized?

arrested? He would be taken off to prison, and Anania himself would have

his part in the woeful punishment!

He had no idea of running away. He waited under the window courageously.

"Anania! Where the devil are you gone to?"

Anania leaned out, extended a hand to his friend, marvellously

preserved.

"The devil!" repeated Bustianeddu, panting, "I managed that admirably."

"Did you hear me whistle? I whistled very loud."

"I didn't hear you at all. But I did hear two men coming. I hid under

the cabbages. Who do you suppose they were? Uncle Pera and Maestro Pane.

What do you suppose they were doing? They were snaring cats. The

caterwauler got caught and Uncle Pera killed him with his stick. Maestro

Pane put the beast under his cloak and said quite jolly, 'What a fat

one!' 'Not so bad,' said Uncle Pera, 'the last was as thin as a

tooth-pick.' Then they went away."

"Oh!" cried Anania open-mouthed.

"When they go in they'll roast him. Then they'll have supper. Now we

know what becomes of our cats. They snare 'em--those two. It's a mercy

they didn't see me."

"And the money?"

"That's all right. Hidden. We'll go in now, Ninny. You're no good."

Anania was not offended. He shut the window and they went back to the

olive-mill. The usual scene was in progress. Efès, leaning against the

wall was singing his accustomed song:--

"When Amelia so pure and so pale----"

and Carchide was relating his adventures in a neighbouring town.

"----the _Sindaco_ was a friend of my father's when we were rich," said

the handsome young man whose family had always been in the direst

poverty; "when I arrived he was there to meet me. He invited me to his

house. Damn those rich folk! Thirty men-servants, if you please, and

seven women. We crossed two courts, one within the other; very high

walls, iron gates, the window all barred----"

"Why were they barred?" asked the miller.

"Thieves, my dear fellow, thieves. The man's as rich as the king----"

"Bah!" cried the man who was working the press.

"What do you know about it?" asked Carchide scornfully; "at their

father's death the Syndic and his brothers weighed out their gold by the

pound. The Syndic's wife has eight _tancas_[10] in a row--all watered by

streams; with more than a hundred fountains. They say his father had

found a treasure. The King of Spain hid more than 100,000 gold ducats

there at the time he was making war on Eleonora of Arborea, and the

Syndic's father found it."

"Ah, ha!" said the olive-miller, leaning on his black pole while a

shiver of excitement ran through him.

"Those are what I call rich men," continued Carchide; "here at Nuoro

you're all snoozers."

"My master is wealthy," protested the miller, "he's got more in one

corner of a field than your scrubby Syndic in all his _tancas_

together."

"I like that!" said the young man with a gesture of scorn, "you don't

know what you're talking about!"

"No more do you."

"Your master's all debts. We'll soon see the end of him."

"Strike you blind first!"

"Go to the devil!"

The young shoemaker and the miller were near blows, but their quarrel

was interrupted by Efès Cau falling into a fit. He sank on the heap of

husks, twisted, writhed, wriggled like a worm, his eyes rolling, his

face convulsed.

Anania fled to a corner screaming with terror, but Bustianeddu was all

curiosity and he joined the persons who tried to restrain the poor

wretch. Presently Efès returned to himself and sat up, still trembling

and glaring.

"Who--who knocked me down? Why did you strike me? Am I not enough

punished by God without your interfering?" Then he began to cry.

They laid him down again and he huddled himself up and called on his

mother and dead sister.

Anania watched; pitying, but still terrified. He would have liked to

help, but could not restrain his disgust; the man had once been

rich--now he was a heap of stinking rags flung on the refuse like an

unclean thing.

Bustianeddu had run for Aunt Tatàna. She came, leaned over the

sufferer, touched him, spoke to him kindly, put a sack under his head.

"He must have some broth," she said; "Ah! this sin of his! this sin!

Run, little son," she went on, turning to Anania, "run to the _Signor

padrone_, and beg a little soup for Efès Cau. Look! do you see the

result of sin? There, take this bowl and run!"

Anania went gladly, Bustianeddu accompanying him. The _padrone_'s house

was at no great distance, and the boy had often been sent there to fetch

fodder, lamp-oil, and other trifles.

The streets were lighted in patches by the moon. Groups of peasants went

by, singing wild and melancholy choruses. Before Signor Carboni's white

house, there was an enclosed square court with high walls. Entrance was

through a large red door. The boys hammered loudly. At last the door

opened and Anania handed in the bowl, explaining the sad case of Efès

Cau.

"Sure the soup's not for yourselves?" asked the servant girl

suspiciously.

"Go to the devil, Maria _Iscorronca_,[11]" said Bustianeddu; "we don't

want your dirty broth!"

"Little animal, I'll pay you out!" said the girl chasing him into the

street. Bustianeddu scampered off, but Anania made his own way into the

moonlit court.

"What is it? What do those boys want?" asked a faint little voice from

the shadow near the kitchen-door.

Anania went forward. "It's only me!" he said, "Efès Cau is fearfully

bad. He's at the mill, and _Mother_ wants the mistress to send him a cup

of soup."

"Come in!" said the voice.

The servant who had failed to catch Bustianeddu, now made an attack upon

Anania. But the little girl who had said "Come in," sprang to the rescue

of the boy from the mill.

"Let him alone. What harm has he done? Go and fetch him the soup at

once--this minute!" said the young lady, dragging the maid by her skirt.

This protection, this piping-tone of authority, this plump, rosy little

person dressed in blue woollen, with an important little turned up nose,

very round cheeks, eyes shining in the moonlight between two curls of

auburn hair--pleased Anania immensely. He recognized the _padrone_'s

daughter Margherita Carboni, known by sight to all the children who

frequented the olive-mill. Once or twice Margherita had handed the

barley or the lamp-oil to Anania when he had been sent for them. He

often saw her in the orchard garden, and sometimes her father had

brought her to the mill. Never had he imagined that this rosy young lady

with the superb air, could be so affable and pleasant.

The maid went for the soup, and Margherita asked all about Efès Cau's

seizure.

"He had his dinner here--in this very courtyard," she said very

seriously, "he seemed perfectly well."

"It's because he drinks;" said Anania also very serious, "he twisted

about like a cat!"

Then Anania's face grew red; he had suddenly remembered the torn cat

which Uncle Pera had caught in the snare, and that reminded him of the

hundred lire stolen and hidden in the oak tree in the garden. Stolen!

The hundred lire stolen! Whatever would Margherita Carboni say, if she

knew that he, Anania, the son of the olive-miller, the foundling, the

dependent with whom the little lady was deigning to be so pleasant and

affable--had stolen a hundred lire and that these hundred lire were at

this moment hidden in her own garden! A thief! He was a thief; and he

had thieved an enormous sum. Now he perceived the full shame of his evil

deed. Now he felt humiliation, grief, remorse.

"Like a _cat_?" echoed Margherita setting her teeth and twisting her

little nose; "dear me! dear me! It would be better he died."

The maid came back, bringing the soup. Anania could not say another

word. He took the bowl and moved away carrying it carefully. He was near

crying and when he came up with Bustianeddu at the turn of the street,

he repeated the words "It would be better he died."

"Who? Is the broth hot? I'm going to taste," said Bustianeddu, putting

his face to the bowl. Anania was furious.

"Get away! You're wicked. You'll get like Efès Cau! What did you steal

that money for? It's a mortal sin, to steal. Go and get the money and

put it back in the drawer."

"Pouf! Are you gone mad?"

"Well then I'll tell my _mother_."

"Your _mother_! That's good! Go and find your mother!"

They were walking very slowly. Anania much afraid of spilling the soup.

"We are _thieves_!" he whispered.

"The money is _my_ father's, and you're a ninny. Well! I'll go away

alone, _alone_," replied Bustianeddu energetically.

"All right, go, and never come back," said Anania, "but I shall

tell--Aunt Tatàna!" He was afraid to call her his mother again.

"Sneak!" burst out Bustianeddu doubling his fist; "if you tell I'll kill

you like a lizard. I'll smash your teeth with a stone. I'll gouge out

your eyes!"

Anania still afraid for the soup, bent his shoulders to receive the

violence of his friend, but he did not withdraw the threat of telling

Aunt Tatàna.

"What devil did you meet in that courtyard," continued the other

furiously, "what did that horrid maid say to you? Speak!"

"She didn't say anything. But I don't wish to be a thief."

"You're a bastard anyhow! That's what you are! Well I shall go off at

once, with the money, and without you."

He went away running, leaving Anania overwhelmed with grief. A thief, a

bastard, a foundling, and now left behind by his friend. It was too

much, too much! He began to cry and his tears fell into the soup.

"When, when shall I be able to go?" he sobbed, "when shall I be able to

find _her_?"

"When I'm grown up," he answered himself, more cheerfully, "for the

present--it can't be helped."

Having given the soup to Aunt Tatàna, he went to the stable window.

Silence. No one was to be seen, nothing was to be heard, in the great

garden, damp and moonlit. The mountains showed faintly blue against the

vaporous heaven. All was silence and peace. Suddenly from the mill came

the voice of Bustianeddu.

"Then he hasn't gone? he hasn't taken the money? He hasn't been into the

garden? Suppose I go myself?"

But his courage was not equal to this. He went into the mill and hovered

round Aunt Tatàna who was ministering to Efès. She asked him her usual

question. "What's the matter with you? Have you the stomachache?"

"Yes! Do let us go in," said Anania.

She saw the child wanted to speak to her and she took him home.

"Jesus! Jesus! Holy Saint Catharine!" cried the good woman when Anania

had made his confession, "what has happened to the world? Even the

little birds, even the chickens in the egg, go wrong!"

Anania never knew the means by which Aunt Tatàna persuaded Bustianeddu

to restore the stolen money. But ever after the friends were on strained

terms. They slanged each other and fought about every trifle.

The winter passed; but the olive press was at work even in April, for

never had there been such abundance of olives. At last the day came when

Anania the elder shut down the press, and went into the country to look

after his master's wheat. He took the little boy with him, having

intentions of making him an agriculturist. Anania liked to be useful. He

carried the implements and the provision wallet proudly and ran by his

father's side all day. The cornfields extended over a wide undulating

plain, across which two tall pine-trees, voiceful as torrents, threw

long shadows. It was a sweet and melancholy landscape, bare of trees,

here and there spread with isolated vines. The human voice lost itself

echoless, as if swallowed up by the lonely murmur of the pines, the

thick foliage of which seemed to assimilate the grey blue colour of the

far mountains.

While his father worked his hoe, bending over the transparent green of

the young wheat, Anania wandered about the naked and melancholy fields,

crying with the birds, hunting for herbs and mushrooms. Sometimes the

father looking up, saw him in the distance, and his heart tightened; for

the place, the occupation, the child's small figure, all reminded him of

Olì, of her little brothers, of their sin, of all the love and the

happiness they had enjoyed together. Where was Olì? Who could tell? She

was lost, she had vanished like the birds of the fields. Well--so much

the worse for her. Anania the olive-miller thought he was doing all

anyone could expect, in bringing up the child. If ever he found the

treasure of his dreams, he would put the boy to school. At least he

would make a farmer of him. What more could he do? What about the men

who didn't acknowledge their children, who instead of taking them home

and bringing them up like Christians, left them to misery and an evil

life? Yes, some quite rich men, gentlemen, behaved like that. Yes, even

his master, even Signor Carboni. Thus "big Anania" consoled himself; yet

still the oppression of sadness remained in his heart.

Looking out over the distance he thought he saw the _nuraghe_ near

Olì's old home. At meal-times, or during the midday rest, when they

stretched themselves under the sounding pine-trees, he questioned his

son about his life at Fonni. Anania was shy with his father and seldom

dared to meet his eyes; but once pushed into the path of recollection,

he chattered willingly, abandoning himself to the homesick pleasure of

telling about the past. He remembered everything, the village, the

widow's house and her stories, Zuanne of the big ears, the

_carabiniere_, the friars, the convent court, the chestnuts, the goats,

the mountains, the candle factory. But in spite of the miller's

suggestions he spoke little of his mother.

"Well, did she beat you?"

"Never! Never!"

"I'm sure she beat you."

The child perjured himself swearing he spoke truth.

"Tell me, what did she do all day?"

"She went out to work."

"Did the _carabiniere_ want to marry her?"

"Oh, no. He said to me, 'Tell your mother to come here. I want to talk

to her.'"

"What did she say when you told her?" asked the man with some anxiety.

"She was as mad as a dog."

"Ah!"

He sighed. He was relieved hearing she had not gone to talk to the

_carabiniere_. Yes; he was still fond of her. He still remembered her

clear and burning eyes; he remembered her little brothers; he remembered

her father so sorrowful and so poor. But what could he do? Had he been

free he'd have married her. As it was, he had to desert her. It was vain

to think any more about it. They finished their frugal meal; then he

said to the child:

"Run down there to that fig tree, look and you'll see a very very old

house. Root about in the ground there. Perhaps you'll find something!"

The boy sped away, glad to leave the grave, toil-stained man. And the

father thought:

"Innocents find treasures easily. If we could find a treasure, then I'd

hand over a good lot to Olì, and if my wife were to die, I'd marry her.

It was I who made her go wrong."

But Anania found nothing. Towards evening, father and son went slowly

home, following the broad white road, the depth of which was flooded

with twilight gold. Aunt Tatàna had hot supper waiting for them and a

fire crackling on the dean swept hearth. She blew Anania's nose, washed

his eyes, told her husband the events of the day.

Nanna had tumbled into the fire, Efès had a new pair of shoes, Uncle

Pera had beaten a boy. Signor Carboni had been to the mill to look at

the horse.

"He says the beast has grown terribly thin."

"That's all the work he has done. What does the _padrone_ expect? Even

animals are flesh and blood."

After supper the olive-miller had forgotten all about Olì and her woes.

He went to the tavern. Aunt Tatàna got her distaff, and told stories to

the son of her adoption. Bustianeddu came to listen also.

"Once upon a time there was a king with seven golden eyes on his

forehead like stars;" and so forth.

Or she told the story of Marieddu and the Hobgoblin. Marieddu had

escaped from the Hobgoblin's house. "She ran and ran, all the time

dropping nails which as fast as she dropped them began to multiply. They

multiplied until they filled the whole plain. Uncle Hobgoblin followed

her, followed her, but he never could catch her up because the nails

kept sticking into his feet."

Dear! what shudders of delight this story of Marieddu gave the two

children! What a difference between the dark cottage, the figure, the

stories of the widow of Fonni, and the dear kitchen, the warmth, the

sweet face and the enchanting legends of Aunt Tatàna. Yet there were

times when Anania was bored. Or at least he did not experience the wild

emotion which the widow's narratives had awaked in him. Perhaps it was

because the good Zuanne, the beloved brother, was not there and in his

place was Bustianeddu, who was so naughty and so cruel, who pinched him

and called him names even when people were listening and in spite of

Aunt Tatàna's admonitions.

One evening Bustianeddu called him "bastard" in the hearing of

Margherita Carboni, who had come with her servant bringing a message to

the miller. Aunt Tatàna pushed Bustianeddu away, and silenced him, but

it was too late. Margherita had heard, and Anania felt unspeakable

distress. Aunt Tatàna got bread and honey and set him and Margherita to

eat it together; she gave none to Bustianeddu. But what was the good of

bread and honey, when he had been dubbed "bastard" before Margherita

Carboni? The little girl was dressed in green; her stockings were

violet, and round her neck was a scarf of vivid rose colour. It lent

colour to her soft cheeks and brought out the blue of her shining eyes.

That night Anania saw her in his dreams; lovely, and coloured like the

rainbow. Even in his dream he felt the grief of having been called

"bastard" before her.

That year Easter was not till the end of April. The olive miller

fulfilled his Easter duty, and his confessor bade him legitimize his

son. At Easter too, Anania, now eight years old, was confirmed. Signor

Carboni was his godfather. The confirmation was a great event not only

for the boy but for the whole place. Monsignore Demartis, the beautiful

and imposing bishop, convened everybody to the Cathedral and publicly

bestowed the Chrism on a hundred children. Through the open doors, which

seemed enormous to Anania, spring, with its sunshine and fragrance,

penetrated into the church. It was crowded with women in their purple

dresses, with fine ladies, and wondering children. Signor Carboni,

stout, florid, with blue eyes and reddish hair, wore a velvet waist-coat

crossed by a huge gold chain. He was greeted, saluted, sought after by

all the most conspicuous persons, by the peasants both male and female,

by the fine ladies and the crowding children. Anania was proud and happy

to have such a godfather. True, Signor Carboni was standing sponsor for

seventeen others, but that did not detract from the importance of this

singular honour done to each of the eighteen.

After the ceremony the eighteen children with their respective parents

adjourned to their godfather's house, and Anania was able to admire

Margherita's drawing-room of which he had heard marvels. It was a great

room with red walls and huge eighteenth century chairs; cabinets adorned

with wax flowers under glass shades, with marble dishes of fruit, and

plates with slices of cheese and sausage, all of marble. Liqueurs,

coffee, cakes and pastry were handed round, and the lovely Signora

Carboni who had deep dimples in her cheeks, black hair drawn very tight

on her temples, and a pretty muslin gown with flounces and little spots

of pink and blue, was most amiable with everybody and kissed all the

eighteen god-children, giving each of them a present.

Anania long remembered these details. He remembered too, how ardently

and how vainly he had wished that Margherita would come and look at his

new clothes, which were of yellow fustian, and as stiff as the skin of

the devil. And he remembered that Signora Cecita Carboni had kissed him,

and with her jewelled hand had tapped lightly on his little head

(cropped horrible close) and said to the miller:

"Ah, gossip, why have you shorn him like this? He seems quite bald!"

"Never mind, gossip," replied Big Anania, carrying on the agreeable jest

of this lady who was not exactly his fellow sponsor, "this chicken's

feathers were as thick as a wood----"

"Well," interrupted the lady, "have you done your duty?"

"Yes, yes."

"I'm so glad. Believe me, it's only legitimate sons who are the support

of their father in his old age."

Then Signor Carboni came over, and said, looking at his godson.

"What demon eyes this young highlander has! Well, youngster, what are

you hiding them for? Laughing at me, eh? you little devil!"

Anania was laughing for joy at being publicly addressed by his godfather

and favourably regarded by Signora Carboni.

"What are you going to do with yourself, little devil?"

Anania hung his head, then looked up with the bright eyes which Aunt

Tatàna's ministrations had quite cured of their weakness. Then he tried

to hide behind his parent.

"Well, answer your godfather!" said the miller, shaking him. "What do

you intend to do with yourself?"

"Will you be a miller?" suggested the lady.

He shook his head vigorously.

"You don't like that? A farmer perhaps?"

Still no.

"Well, perhaps you want to become a scholar," said his father,

diplomatically.

"Yes."

"Bravo!" said Signor Carboni. "You intend to be a scholar. A priest, I

suppose?"

"No."

"A lawyer?" prompted the miller.

"Yes."

"The deuce! I said he had bright eyes! So you intend to be a lawyer,

little mouse?"

"Ah, my boy, we're too poor," said the miller with a sigh.

"If the child has the wish. Providence will assist him," said the

_padrone_.

"----will assist him," repeated the Signora like an echo. These words

decided Anania's destiny, and he never forgot them.

The olive press was shut down for the year and the miller turned into a

farmer.

Fierce sunshine was making the grass yellow. Bees and wasps buzzed round

Aunt Tatàna's little house; the elder tree in the courtyard wore the

wondrous lace of its tiny flowers.

The company which used to meet at the mill now assembled in the

courtyard; Uncle Pera with his cudgel, Efès and Nanna generally drunk,

the handsome shoemaker, Bustianeddu and his father, as well as other

persons from the neighbourhood. Maestro Pane had set up a workshop in a

cellar opposite the courtyard. All day long was a coming and going of

people, who laughed, talked, quarrelled, and swore.