My brother bent over me, felt my forehead again uneasily, emitted a
sigh.
"Do not worry, Tullio. Be quiet."
And he went and wrung out a linen in cold water, and applied it to my
burning head.
The procession of rapid and clear visions continued. I saw again the
baby's agony with terrible intensity. He was agonizing in his cradle.
His face was ashen, so pallid that the milk crusts above the eyebrows
appeared yellow. The lower lip, depressed, was invisible. From time to
time he raised his eyelids, that were lightly tinted with violet, and
one would have thought that the irides were adherent because they
followed the ascending movement and lost themselves beneath, leaving a
view only of the opaque whites. From time to time the choking death
rattle was interrupted. At one time the doctor said, as if to make a
supreme attempt:
"Quick! Quick! Let us take the cradle near the open window. Room!
room! The little one needs air. Make room."
My brother and I carried the cradle, which seemed like a coffin. But,
in the daylight, the spectacle was still more frightful, beneath that
cold, white light reflected by the snow.
My mother cried:
"He is dying! Look, look: he is dying! Feel: his pulse has stopped!"
And the doctor said:
"No, no. He breathes. As long as there is a sigh, there is some hope."
And between the livid lips of the dying child he introduced a spoonful
of ether. After a few seconds, the child opened his eyes, turned up his
pupils, and gave a feeble wail. A slight change took place in his
color. His nostrils quivered.
The doctor said:
"Don't you see? He breathes. We must hope, even to the end."
He agitated the air above the cradle with a fan; then with his finger he
depressed the baby's chin in order to unclose his lips, to open the
mouth. The tongue, clove to the palate, fell down like a clapper; and I
caught a glimpse of the thread-like mucus that stretched between the
palate and the tongue, the whitish matter accumulated in the throat. A
convulsive movement raised towards the face the little hands, that had
become violet, particularly at the palms, at the folds of the phalanges,
and at the nails--hands already cadaverous, and which my mother touched
each moment. The little finger of the right hand was always kept apart,
away from the other fingers, and trembled lightly. Nothing could be
more lamentable.
Federico tried to persuade my mother to leave the room. But, bent over
Raymond's face, almost touching it, she watched the slightest
indications. One of her tears fell on the adored one's head. Quickly
she dried it with her handkerchief; but she perceived that, on the head,
the fontanels were sunk, depressed.
"Look, doctor!" she cried with fright.
And my eyes fixed themselves on that soft head, dotted with milk crusts,
yellowish, like a piece of wax in the midst of which a hollow had been
made. All the sutures were visible. The bluish temporal vein was lost
beneath the crusts.
"Look, look!"
The vital energy, reawakened for a moment by the artificial means of
ether, subsided. The death rattle began to acquire a characteristic
sonorousness; the little hands fell along the sides, inert; the chin
retracted more; the fontanels became deeper, and no longer pulsated.
All at once, the dying child seemed to make an effort. Quickly the
doctor raised the head. And there came from the little, violet mouth a
small quantity of a whitish liquid. But in the effort made in vomiting
the skin of the forehead was stretched, and through the epidermis the
brown spots of an effusion could be seen appearing. My mother uttered a
cry.
"Come, come, go with me," repeated my brother, trying to lead her away.
"No, no, no!"
The doctor administered another spoonful of ether. And the agony was
prolonged, the torture was prolonged. The little hands rose up again;
the fingers stirred vaguely; between the half-closed pupils the irides
appeared, then disappeared by a retrograde movement, like two little
faded flowers, like two little corollas that closed with a flaccid
curling up.
Evening fell, and the Innocent was still in agony. On the window-panes
shone a light like the glimmer of approaching dawn, due to the whiteness
of the snow conflicting with the shadows.
"He is dead, he is dead!" cried my mother, who no longer heard the death
rattle, and who saw a livid spot appear around the nose.
"No, no! He is breathing."
A candle had been lit; one of the women held it, and the little yellow
flame flickered at the foot of the cradle. Abruptly my mother uncovered
the little body to feel it.
"He is cold, cold all over!"
The limbs were stretched out; the feet were becoming violet. Nothing
could be more lamentable than that poor little morsel of dead flesh,
lying in front of that darkening window, beneath the light of that
candle.
But, once more, an indescribable sound, that was neither a wail, nor a
cry, nor death rattle, left that little and almost bluish mouth,
together with a little whitish froth. And my mother, as if insane, threw
herself on the little corpse.
Once more I saw all that, with my eyes closed. And when I opened my
eyes, I saw it again, with unbelievable intensity.
"Remove that candle!" I cried to Federico, raising myself on my couch,
terrified by the mobility of the little pale flame. "Remove that
candle!"
Federico took it and placed it behind a folding screen. Then he returned
to my bedside, made me lie down again, changed the cloth on my forehead.
At moments, in the silence, I heard sighs.
*LI.*
The following day, although I was in a state of extreme feebleness and
prostration, I wished to be present at the religious benediction, at the
funeral procession, at the entire ceremony.
The corpse was already enclosed in its little white coffin with a glass
lid. A crown of white chrysanthemums was on its forehead; a white
chrysanthemum was in its joined hands; but nothing could match the waxy
whiteness of those diminutive hands, the nails of which alone were
violet.
There were present Federico, Giovanni di Scordio, I, and several
servants. The four tapers burned and wept. The priest entered, attired
in the white stole, followed by assistants who bore the aspergill and
the cross. We all knelt. The priest sprinkled the bier with holy
water, saying:
"_Sit nomen Domini._"
Then he recited the psalm:
"_Laudate, pueri, Dominum..._"
Federico and Giovanni di Scordio rose, and took the coffin. Pietro
opened the doors in front of them. I followed. Behind me came the
priest, the assistants, four servants, with lighted wax tapers. Passing
through the silent corridors, we arrived at the chapel, while the priest
recited the psalm:
"_Beati immaculati..._"
While the bier was being borne into the chapel, the priest murmured:
"_Hic accipiet benedictionem a Domino._"
Federico and the old man placed the bier on the little catafalque, in
the middle of the chapel. We all knelt. The priest recited other
psalms. Then he uttered an invocation that the soul of the Innocent be
called to heaven. Then he again sprinkled the bier with holy water.
Then he went out, followed by his assistants.
We all arose. Everything was ready for the burial. Giovanni di Scordio
took the light coffin in his arms, and his eyes were fixed on the glass
lid. Federico descended first into the vault, and the old man descended
behind him, bearing the coffin. I descended last, with a servant.
Nobody spoke.
The sepulchral chamber was large, all of gray stone. In the walls were
hollowed out niches, some already closed by stone blocks, the others
gaping, deep, full of darkness, waiting for their prey. From an arch
hung three lamps fed with olive oil, and they burned quietly in the
humid and heavy air, with small, thin flames that were never
extinguished.
"Here," said my brother.
And he pointed to an open niche, situated beneath another niche already
closed by a stone slab. On that stone was engraved the name of
Constance, from the gilt letters of whose name came confused flashes of
light.
Then, to permit us to contemplate once more the dead child, Giovanni di
Scordio extended the arms that bore the coffin. And we gave him a last
look. Through the crystal lid that little, livid face, those little
joined hands, that little robe, and those chrysanthemums, and all those
white things appeared infinitely distant, intangible, as if the
transparent lid of the coffin in the arms of that grand old man
permitted a glimpse through some cleft of a supernatural mystery,
terrible yet full of a sad charm.
No one spoke. It seemed as if no one breathed.
The old man turned toward the mortuary niche, bent over, laid the coffin
on the ground, and pushed it slowly toward the end. Then he knelt down,
and remained several minutes motionless.
In the depths the coffin stood out with a vague whiteness. In the
lamplight the hoary head of the old man seemed luminous, thus bent on
the border of the Shadow.