As was perhaps to be expected, considering the precautions taken, the
friends of Ferdinando Pagliuca gave no sign during the night. The
carabineers, when they are actually present anywhere, impose respect,
though their existence is forgotten as soon as they are obliged to move
on.
Orsino lay down upon a dusty mattress in the room he had chosen. He had
been down to the court again, where San Giacinto ate his supper from the
soldier's improvised kitchen, by the light of a fire of brush and scraps
of broken wood, which one of the men replenished from time to time. But
Orsino was not hungry, and presently he had gone upstairs again. About
the middle of the night, San Giacinto, carrying a lantern, opened his
door, and found him reading by the light of a solitary candle.
'Has all been quiet on this side?' asked the big man.
'All quiet,' answered Orsino.
San Giacinto nodded, shut the door, and went off, knowing that the young
man would rather be alone. An hour later, Orsino's book dropped from his
hand, and he dozed a little, in a broken way. Outside, the waning moon
had risen high above the shoulders of Etna, not a breath was stirring,
and only the distant roar of the water came steadily up from the other
side of the old monastery. Orsino dreamed strange, shapeless dreams of
vast desolateness and empty darkness, in which he had no perception by
sight, and heard only the unbroken rush of water far away. Then, in the
extreme blackness of nothing, a dead face appeared, with wide and
sightless eyes that stared at him, and he woke and turned upon his side
with a shudder, to doze again and dream again, and wake again. It was a
horrible night.
Towards morning the dream changed. In the darkness, together with the
sub-bass of the torrent, a voice came to him, in a low, long-drawn
lamentation. It was Vittoria's voice, and yet unlike hers. He could hear
the words:
'Me l'hanno ammazzato! Me l'hanno ammazzato!'
It was Vittoria d'Oriani wailing over her brother's body. Orsino heard
the words and the voice distinctly. She was outside his door. She had
dragged the corpse up from the church in the dark, all the long, winding
way, to bring it to him and reproach him, and to weep over it. He
refused to allow himself to awake, as one sometimes can in a dream, for
he knew, somehow, that he was not altogether dreaming. There was an
element of reality in the two sounds of the river and the voice,
interfering with each other, and the voice came irregularly, always
repeating the same words, but the river roared on without a break. Then
there was a sound of moaning without words, and then the words began
again, always the same.
Orsino started and sat up, wide awake. He was sure that he was awake
now, for he could see that the light outside the window was gray. The
dawn was beginning to drink the moonlight out of the air. He heard the
voice distinctly.
'Me l'hanno ammazzato!' it moaned, but much less loudly than he had
heard it in his dream. 'They have killed him for me,' is the meaning of
the words.
Orsino sprang from the bed, and opened the door, which was opposite the
window. The long corridor was dark and quiet, and he turned back and
opened the casement, and looked out.
The words were half spoken again, but suddenly ceased as he threw the
window open. In the dim gray dawn he saw a muffled figure crouching on
the stones by the gate, slowly swaying forwards and backwards. The wail
began again, very soft and low, and as though the woman half feared to
be heard and yet could not control herself.
Orsino watched her intently for a few moments, and then understood. It
was some woman who had loved Ferdinando Pagliuca, and who came in the
simple old way to mourn at the door of the house wherein he lay dead.
Her head was covered with a black shawl, and her skirts were black, too,
but her hands were clasped about her knees, and visible, and looked
white in the dawn.
The young man drew back softly from the window, and sat down upon the
edge of the bed. He, of all men, had no right to silence the woman. She
did no harm, wailing for the dead man out there in the cold dawn. She
was not the only one who was to mourn him on that day. In a few hours
his sister would know, his mother, his brothers, and all the world
besides, though the rest of the world mattered little enough to Orsino.
But this woman's grief was a sort of foretaste of Vittoria's. She was
but a peasant woman, perhaps, or at most a girl of the small farmers'
class, but she had loved him, and would hate for ever the man who had
killed him. How much more should the slayer be hated by the dead man's
own flesh and blood!
The light grew less gray by quick degrees, and there were heavy
footsteps in the corridor. Then came a knock at the door, and a trooper
appeared in his forage cap.
'We have made the coffee, signore,' he said, on the threshold.
He held out a bright tin pannikin from which the steam rose in fragrant
clouds. The physical impression of the aromatic smell was the first
pleasant sensation which Orsino had experienced since he had pulled the
trigger of his rifle on the previous afternoon. If we could but look at
things as they are, we should see that there is neither love nor hate,
neither joy nor grief, nor hope nor fear, that will not at last efface
itself for a moment before hunger and thirst; so effectually can this
dying body mask and screen the undying essence.
Orsino drank the hot coffee with keen physical delight, though the
woman's wailing came up to his ears through the open window, and though
he had known a moment earlier that the stealing dawn was the beginning
of a day which might end in a broken heart.
But the trooper heard the voice, and went to the window and looked out,
while Orsino drank.
'Ho, there!' he cried roughly. 'Will you go or not?' He turned to
Orsino. 'She has been there since two o'clock,' he explained. 'We heard
her through the closed gate.'
'Let her alone,' said Orsino authoritatively. 'She is only a woman, and
can do no harm; and she has a right to her mourning, God knows.'
'There will be a hundred before the sun has been up an hour, signore,'
answered the soldier. 'The people will collect about her, for they will
come out of curiosity, from many miles away. It will be better to get
rid of them as fast as they come.'
'You might let that poor woman in,' suggested Orsino. 'After all, I have
killed her lover--she has a right to see his body.'
'As you wish, signore,' answered the trooper, taking the empty pannikin.
Orsino got up and looked out again, as the man went away. The girl had
risen to her feet, and stood looking up to the window. Her shawl had
fallen back upon her shoulders, and disclosed a young and dishevelled
but beautiful head, of the Greek type, though the eyes were somewhat
long and almond-shaped. There was no colour in the olive-pale cheeks,
and little in the parted lips; and the hand that gathered the shawl to
the bosom was singularly white. The regular features were set in a
tragic mask of grief, such as one very rarely sees in the modern world.
When she saw Orsino, she suddenly raised both hands to him, like a
suppliant of old.
'They have killed him!' she cried. 'They have killed my bridegroom! Let
me see him! let me kiss him! Are they Christians, and will not let me
see him?'
'You shall see him,' answered Orsino. 'I will let you in myself.'
'God will render it to you, signore. And God will render also to his
murderer a bad death.'
She sat down upon the stones, thinking, perhaps, that it would be long
before the gate was opened; and she began her low moan again.
'They have killed him! They have murdered him!'
But Orsino had already left the window and the room. He had understood
clearly from her words and face that she was no light creature, for whom
Ferdinando had conceived a passing fancy. He had meant to marry her,
perhaps within a few days. There was in her face the high stamp of
innocence, and her voice rang fearless and true. Ferdinando had never
been like his brothers. He had meant to marry this girl, doubtless a
small farmer's daughter, from her dress; and he would have lived happily
with her, sinking, perhaps, to a lower social level, but morally rising
far higher than his scheming brothers. Orsino had guessed from his dead
face, and from what he had heard, that Ferdinando had been the best of
the family; and in a semi-barbarous country like the interior of Sicily,
the young Roman did not blame him overmuch for having tried to resist
the new owners of his father's house when they came to take possession.
San Giacinto and the sergeant objected on principle to admitting the
girl, but Orsino insisted, and at last opened the gate himself. She had
covered her head and face again, and followed him swiftly and
noiselessly across the court to the door of the church. As though by
instinct she turned directly to her lover's body, where it lay before
the side altar, and with a low wail like a wounded animal, she fell
beside it, with clasped hands. Orsino left her there alone, closing the
door softly, and came out into the court, where it was almost broad
daylight. The men had drunk their coffee and were grooming their black
chargers tethered to rusty rings in the wall. The old stables were
between the court and the rampart. The two foot-carabineers were
despatched to Santa Vittoria to get a coffin for the dead man and a
priest to come and bury him.
From the church came every now and then the piteous echo of the girl's
lamentations. Then there was a knocking at the gate, and someone called
from without. One of the troopers looked out through the narrow slit in
the stone, made just wide enough to let the barrel of a gun pass. Half a
dozen peasants were outside, and the soldiers could see two more coming
down the drive towards the house. He asked what they wanted.
'We wish to speak with the master,' said one, and two or three repeated
the words.
They were the men who had brought the tools on the previous evening,
with a number of others, the small tenants of the little estate. San
Giacinto went and spoke with them, assuring them that he would be a
better landlord than they had ever had, if they would treat him well,
but that if he met with any treachery, he would send every man of them
to the galleys for life. It was his way of making acquaintance, and they
seemed to understand it.
While he was speaking a number of men and women appeared in the drive,
headed by the two soldiers who had gone to the village. Close behind
them, swaying with the walk of the woman who carried the load upon her
head, a white deal coffin caught the morning light. Then more people,
and always more, came in sight, up the drive. Amongst them walked a
young priest in his short white 'cotta' over his shabby cassock, and
beside him came a big boy bearing a silver basin with holy water, and
the little broom for sprinkling it. The two trudged along in a
business-like way, and all the people were talking loudly. It seemed to
San Giacinto that half the population of the village must have turned
out. He stepped back and called to the troopers to keep the gate, and
prevent the crowd from entering. Then he waited outside. The people
became silent as they came near, and he looked at them, scrutinising
their faces. Some of the men had their guns slung over their shoulders,
but many were only labourers and had none.
Many scowling glances were turned on San Giacinto as the crowd came up
to the gate, and he began to anticipate trouble of some sort. The
troopers had their rifles in their hands as they formed up behind him.
The tenants of Camaldoli mixed with the crowd, evidently not wishing to
identify themselves with their new landlord.
'What do you want?' asked San Giacinto, in a harsh, commanding voice.
The priest came close to him, and bowed and smiled, as though the
occasion of meeting were a pleasant one. Then he stood aside a little,
and a strapping woman who carried the coffin on her head marched in
under the gate between the soldiers, who made way for her. And behind
her came her husband, a crooked little carpenter, carrying a leathern
bag from which protruded the worn and blackened handle of a big hammer.
The third comer was stopped by the sergeant. He was a ghastly pale old
man, with a three-days' beard on his pointed chin, and he was dressed in
dingy black.
'Who are you?' asked the sergeant sharply.
'I am one without whom people are not buried,' answered the old man, in
a cracked voice. 'You have a carpenter and a priest, but there is a
third--I am he, the servant of the dead, who give no orders.'
The sergeant understood that the man was the parish undertaker, and let
him pass also. Meanwhile San Giacinto repeated his question.
'What do you all want?' he asked in a thundering tone, for he was
annoyed.
'If it please you, Signor Marchese,' said the priest, 'these, my
parishioners, desire the body of Don Ferdinando Corleone, in order to
bury it in holy ground, for he was beloved of many. Pray do not be
angry, Excellency, for they come in peace, having heard that Don
Ferdinando had been killed by an accident. Grant their request, which is
a proper one, and they shall depart quickly. I answer for them.'
As he spoke the last words in a tone which all could hear, he turned to
the crowd, as though for their assent.
'He answers for us,' said many of them, in a breath. 'Good, Don Niccola!
You answer for us. We are Christians. We wish to bury Don Ferdinando
properly.'
'I have not the slightest objection,' said San Giacinto. 'On the
contrary, I respect your wish, and I only regret that I have not the
means of doing more honour to your friend. You must attend to that. Be
kind enough to wait here while the priest blesses the body.'
The priest and the boy with the holy water passed in, and the gate
closed upon the crowd. While they had been talking, the carpenter and
his wife had entered the court. Basili's man led them to the door of the
church and opened it. The woman marched in with her swinging stride,
and one hand on her hips, while the other steadied the deal coffin.
'Where is he?' she asked in a loud, good-natured voice, for the church
seemed very dark after the morning light outside.
She was answered by a low cry from the steps of the side altar, where
the unhappy girl lay half across her lover's body, looking round towards
the door, in a new horror.
The woman uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then slowly swung her
burden round so that she could see her husband.
'Help me, Ciccio,' she said, in a matter-of-fact way. 'They are always
inconvenient things.'
The man held up his hands and took the foot, while his wife raised her
hands also and shifted the weight towards him little by little, until
she got hold of the head. The loose lid rattled as they set the thing
down on the floor. Then the woman took the rolled towel on which she had
carried the weight, from her head, undid it, wiped her brow with it, and
looked at the girl in some perplexity.
'It is the apothecary's Concetta,' she said, suddenly recognising the
white features in the gloom. 'Oh, poor child! poor child!' she cried,
going forward quickly, while her husband took the lid from the coffin
and began to fumble in his leathern bag for his nails.
As the woman approached the step, Concetta threw her arms wildly over
her head, stiffened her limbs straight out, and rolled over and over
upon the damp pavement, in one of those strange fainting fits which
sometimes seize women in moments of intense grief. The carpenter's wife
tried to lift her, and to bend her arms, so as to get hold of her; but
the girl was as rigid as though she were in a cataleptic trance.
'Poor child! Poor Concetta!' exclaimed the carpenter's wife, softly.
Then, bending her broad back, she raised the girl up by main strength,
getting first one arm round her and then the other, till she got her
weight up and could carry her. Her crooked little husband paid no
attention to her. Women were women's business at such times. The big
woman got the girl out into the morning sunshine in the court, meeting
the eccentric undertaker and the priest, who were talking together
outside. San Giacinto came forward instantly, followed by Orsino, who
had been wandering about the rampart over the river when the crowd had
come. San Giacinto took the unconscious girl's body from the woman, with
ease.
'Come,' he said, carrying her before him on his arms. 'Get some water.'
He entered the room where the men had slept on some straw and laid
Concetta down, her arms still stiffened above her head. One of the
troopers brought water in a pannikin. San Giacinto dashed the cold drops
upon the white face, and the features quivered nervously.
'Take care of her,' he said to the woman. 'Who is she?'
'She is Concetta, the daughter of Don Atanasio, the apothecary. She was
to marry Don Ferdinando next week. But now that they have killed him,
she will marry someone else.'
'Poor girl!' exclaimed San Giacinto compassionately, and he turned and
went out.
Orsino was standing by the door, looking in, and he had heard what the
woman had said. It confirmed what he had guessed from the girl's own
words. He wondered how it was possible that the action of one second
could really cause such terrible trouble in the world.
From the open door of the church came the sound of the regular blows of
a hammer. The work had been quickly done and the carpenter was nailing
down the lid of the coffin. The priest, who had stayed in the early
sunshine for warmth, hung a shabby little stole round his neck, and took
the holy water basin and the little broom from the boy, and entered the
church to bless the body before it was taken away.
As it was not advisable to let in the crowd, the six soldiers lifted the
coffin and bore it out of the gate. Then the peasants laid it on a bier
which had been brought after them and covered it with a rusty black
pall. The priest walked before it, and began to recite the psalms for
the dead. The women covered their heads, and some of the men uncovered
theirs, and a few joined in the priest's monotonous recitations. A
quarter of an hour later, San Giacinto, watching from the gate, saw the
last of the people disappear up the drive. But the carpenter's wife had
stayed with Concetta.
'It is a bad business,' said the old giant to himself, as he turned and
went in.