Orso found Colomba in a state of considerable anxiety because of his
prolonged absence. But as soon as she saw him she recovered her usual
serene, though sad, expression. During the evening meal the conversation
turned on trivial subjects, and Orso, emboldened by his sister’s
apparent calm, related his encounter with the bandits, and even ventured
on a joke or two concerning the moral and religious education that was
being imparted to little Chilina, thanks to the care of her uncle and of
his worthy colleague Signor Castriconi.
“Brandolaccio is an upright man,” said Colomba; “but as to Castriconi, I
have heard he is quite unprincipled.”
“I think,” said Orso, “that he is as good as Brandolaccio, and
Brandolaccio is as good as he. Both of them are at open war with
society. Their first crime leads them on to fresh ones, every day, and
yet they are very likely not half so guilty as many people who don’t
live in the _maquis_.”
A flash of joy shone in his sister’s eyes. “Yes,” he continued, “these
wretches have a code of honour of their own. It is a cruel prejudice,
not a mean instinct of greed, that has forced them into the life they
are leading.”
There was a silence.
“Brother,” said Colomba, as she poured out his coffee, “perhaps you have
heard that Carlo-Battista Pietri died last night. Yes, he died of the
marsh-fever.”
“Who is Pietri?”
“A man belonging to this village, the husband of Maddalena, who took the
pocket-book out of our father’s hand as he was dying. His widow has been
here to ask me to join the watchers, and sing something. You ought to
come, too. They are our neighbours, and in a small place like this we
can not do otherwise than pay them this civility.”
“Confound these wakes, Colomba! I don’t at all like my sister to perform
in public in this way.”
“Orso,” replied Colomba, “every country pays honour to its dead after
its own fashion. The _ballata_ has come down to us from our forefathers,
and we must respect it as an ancient custom. Maddalena does not possess
the ‘gift,’ and old Fiordispina, the best _voceratrice_ in the country,
is ill. They must have somebody for the _ballata_.”
“Do you believe Carlo-Battista won’t find his way safely into the next
world unless somebody sings bad poetry over his bier? Go if you choose,
Colomba--I’ll go with you, if you think I ought. But don’t improvise! It
really is not fitting at your age, and--sister, I beg you not to do it!”
“Brother, I have promised. It is the custom here, as you know, and, I
tell you again, there is nobody but me to improvise.”
“An idiotic custom it is!”
“It costs me a great deal to sing in this way. It brings back all our
own sorrows to me. I shall be ill after it, to-morrow. But I must do it.
Give me leave to do it. Brother, remember that when we were at Ajaccio,
you told me to improvise to amuse that young English lady who makes a
mock of our old customs. So why should I not do it to-day for these poor
people, who will be grateful to me, and whom it will help to bear their
grief?”
“Well, well, as you will. I’ll go bail you’ve composed your _ballata_
already, and don’t want to waste it.”
“No, brother, I couldn’t compose it beforehand. I stand before the dead
person, and I think about those he has left behind him. The tears spring
into my eyes, and then I sing whatever comes into my head.”
All this was said so simply that it was quite impossible to suspect
Signorina Colomba of the smallest poetic vanity. Orso let himself be
persuaded, and went with his sister to Pietri’s house. The dead man lay
on a table in the largest room, with his face uncovered. All the doors
and windows stood open, and several tapers were burning round the table.
At the head stood the widow, and behind her a great many women, who
filled all one side of the room. On the other side were the men, in
rows, bareheaded, with their eyes fixed on the corpse, all in the
deepest silence. Each new arrival went up to the table, kissed the dead
face, bowed his or her head to the widow and her son, and joined the
circle, without uttering a word. Nevertheless, from time to time one
of the persons present would break the solemn silence with a few words,
addressed to the dead man.
“Why has thou left thy good wife?” said one old crone. “Did she not take
good care of thee? What didst thou lack? Why not have waited another
month? Thy daughter-in-law would have borne thee a grandson!” A tall
young fellow, Pietri’s son, pressed his father’s cold hand and cried:
“Oh! why hast thou not died of the _mala morte_?[*] Then we could have
avenged thee!”
[*] _La mala morte_, a violent death.
These were the first words to fall on Orso’s ear as he entered the room.
At the sight of him the circle parted, and a low murmur of curiosity
betrayed the expectation roused in the gathering by the _voceratrice’s_
presence. Colomba embraced the widow, took one of her hands, and stood
for some moments wrapped in meditation, with her eyelids dropped. Then
she threw back her _mezzaro_, gazed fixedly at the corpse, and bending
over it, her face almost as waxen as that of the dead man, she began
thus:
“Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul! . . . To live is to
suffer! Thou goest to a place . . . where there is neither sun nor cold.
. . . No longer dost thou need thy pruning-hook . . . nor thy heavy
pick. . . . There is no more work for thee! . . . Henceforward all thy
days are Sundays! . . . Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul!
. . . Thy son rules in thy house. . . . I have seen the oak fall, . . .
dried up by the _libeccio_. . . . I thought it was dead indeed, . . .
but when I passed it again, its root . . . had thrown up a sapling.
. . . The sapling grew into an oak . . . of mighty shade. . . . Under its
great branches, Maddele, rest thee well! . . . And think of the oak that
is no more!”
Here Maddalena began to sob aloud, and two or three men who, on
occasion, would have shot at a Christian as coolly as at a partridge,
brushed big tears off their sunburnt faces.
For some minutes Colomba continued in this strain, addressing herself
sometimes to the corpse, sometimes to the family, and sometimes, by a
personification frequently employed in the _ballata_, making the dead
man himself speak words of consolation or counsel to his kinsfolk. As
she proceeded, her face assumed a sublime expression, a delicate pink
tinge crept over her features, heightening the brilliancy of her white
teeth and the lustre of her flashing eyes. She was like a Pythoness on
her tripod. Save for a sigh here and there, or a strangled sob, not the
slightest noise rose from the assembly that crowded about her. Orso,
though less easily affected than most people by this wild kind of
poetry, was soon overcome by the general emotion. Hidden in a dark
corner of the room, he wept as heartily as Pietri’s own son.
Suddenly a slight stir was perceptible among the audience. The circle
opened, and several strangers entered. The respect shown them, and the
eagerness with which room was made for them, proved them to be people
of importance, whose advent was a great honour to the household.
Nevertheless, out of respect for the _ballata_, nobody said a word to
them. The man who had entered first seemed about forty years of age.
From his black coat, his red rosette, his confident air, and look of
authority, he was at once guessed to be the prefect. Behind him came
a bent old man with a bilious-looking complexion, whose furtive and
anxious glance was only partially concealed by his green spectacles. He
wore a black coat, too large for him, and which, though still quite new,
had evidently been made several years previously. He always kept close
beside the prefect and looked as though he would fain hide himself
under his shadow. Last of all, behind him, came two tall young men,
with sunburnt faces, their cheeks hidden by heavy whiskers, proud and
arrogant-looking, and showing symptoms of an impertinent curiosity.
Orso had had time to forget the faces of his village neighbours; but
the sight of the old man in green spectacles instantly called up old
memories in his mind. His presence in attendance on the prefect sufficed
to insure his recognition. This was Barricini, the lawyer, mayor of
Pietranera, who had come, with his two sons, to show the prefect what a
_ballata_ was. It would be difficult exactly to describe what happened
within Orso’s soul at that moment, but the presence of his father’s foe
filled him with a sort of horror, and more than ever he felt inclined to
yield to the suspicions with which he had been battling for so long.
As to Colomba, when she saw the man against whom she had sworn a deadly
hatred, her mobile countenance assumed a most threatening aspect. She
turned pale, her voice grew hoarse, the line she had begun to declaim
died on her lips. But soon, taking up her _ballata_ afresh, she
proceeded with still greater vehemence.
“When the hawk bemoans himself . . . beside his harried nest, . . . the
starlings flutter round him . . . insulting his distress.”
A smothered laugh was heard. The two young men who had just come in
doubtless considered the metaphor too bold.
“The falcon will rouse himself. . . . He will spread his wings. . . . He
will wash his beak in blood! . . . Now, to thee, Carlo-Battista, let
thy friends . . . bid an eternal farewell! . . . Long enough have their
tears flowed! . . . Only the poor orphan girl will not weep for thee!
. . . Wherefore should she moan? . . . Thou has fallen asleep, full of
years, . . in the midst of thine own kin . . . ready to appear . . .
in the presence of the Almighty. . . . The orphan weeps for her father
. . . overtaken by vile murderers, . . struck from behind. . . . For her
father, whose blood lies red . . . beneath the heaped-up green leaves.
. . . But she has gathered up this blood, . . this innocent and noble
blood! . . . She has poured it out over Pietranera . . . that it may
become a deadly poison. . . . And the mark shall be on Pietranera
. . . until the blood of the guilty . . . shall have wiped out the blood
of the innocent man!”
As Colomba pronounced the last words, she dropped into a chair, drew her
_mezzaro_ over her face, and was heard sobbing beneath it. The weeping
women crowded round the _improvisatrice_; several of the men were
casting savage glances at the mayor and his sons; some of the elders
began to protest against the scandal to which their presence had given
rise. The dead man’s son pushed his way through the throng, and was
about to beg the mayor to clear out with all possible speed. But this
functionary had not waited for the suggestion. He was on his way to the
door, and his two sons were already in the street. The prefect said a
few words of condolence to young Pietri, and followed them out, almost
immediately. Orso went to his sister’s side, took her arm, and drew her
out of the room.
“Go with them,” said young Pietri to some of his friends. “Take care no
harm comes to them!”
Hastily two or three young men slipped their stilettos up the left
sleeves of their jackets and escorted Orso and his sister to their own
door.