THE FESTA OF CORPUS DOMINI
When old Teresa set out the big bowl of coffee and milk and the long
rolls of bread and small pats of butter before the guest on that
bright, sunny morning she wished him _buona festa_.
It was Corpus Domini. The procession was the great day of the year in
Santa Lucia, as in every other village, or little borgo, throughout
the Apennines.
The _sindaco_, old Marco Simonetti, who was a _libero pensiero_,
yearned to have it suppressed. He would have forbidden banners, music,
colours, lights, public services, masses and vespers. But the
villagers were not of the same mind. They loved the gay processions
which gave the girls an opportunity of showing off their finery, and
they attended the mass said by their dear old Don Mario. Most houses
had open doors and a full table that day, and at nightfall there were
dancing and illuminations in the little piazza.
Already the old church bells were jangling, for since dawn Gaspardo,
the hunchback who acted as sacristan, had been tugging the ropes,
announcing to Santa Lucia the one day of its year.
Ambrose sat in the small, bare room where the flies buzzed noisily in
the sunshine, awaiting his host’s appearance. Don Mario did not break
his fast, of course, till after he had said mass.
The Englishman sat in a low chair with folded arms, his face turned to
the little garden where, through the open door, showed the wealth of
roses, magnolias and lemons, the lilies and stocks and sweet-smelling
carnations, while the little pergola was well-shaded by a leafy
vine--a vine that was cool and restful.
Santa Lucia was waiting in eager expectation. The people knew how very
peacefully and piously the _festa_ began. Then how good-natured and
gay it quickly became, for they, ignorant peasants as they were,
mingled the sacred with the profane in a strange jumble. With
devoutness they would one moment sing “O salutaris” as they followed
the Host, and the next would hum waltz music or sing snatches of comic
songs as they jumped around in the dance.
In the gloomy old church, now gay with lights and decorations, many
men and women had assembled. All was hushed. Those who spoke
whispered.
They were awaiting the revered old _curato_--the director of their
_festa_.
But they waited, and waited so long that everyone began to wonder.
Gaspardo, in his frayed black gown, came into the presbytery and
whispered with Teresa. Then he ascended the stairs to the _Signor
Reverendo’s_ room.
A minute later Teresa approached their English guest, saying with
great concern:
“_Scusi tanto, signore_, but the _padrone_ is out. It is very strange
that he does not return, when he knows to-day is the _festa_.”
“Oh, I suppose he has gone out for a walk, and is detained,” replied
the Englishman. “I am in no hurry; I will wait till his return.”
And rising he went forth into the piazza where many people had
assembled in the bright sunshine, and where he received their
good-natured greetings because he was the _curato’s_ friend.
A drum and some battered brass instruments were piled beneath a tree,
and a stall had been set up for the sale of sweetmeats to the
children. All were dressed in their best. Most of the young men had
their jackets slung on one shoulder and their shirts well ruffled
above the trouser-band. Some wore jays’ wings in their broad-brimmed
hats set askew; others were in their everyday clothes, well brushed,
with polished boots. The girls were in bright colours, many of them
with freshly plucked flowers in their hair, a gay, laughing,
chattering throng, full of anticipation of the day’s merriment.
Santa Lucia was in _festa_. On that one day in the whole year she
forgot her troubles, the oppression of the Government and the
landowner, the brutality of the _fattore_, or agent, and the black
starvation which was so often endured through the dark months of
winter.
Gradually the crowd in the piazza was increasing. The little church
was now filled to overflowing, and everyone waited--waited for the
coming of Don Mario, without whom the religious festival could not
proceed.
A man, a carter, approached John Ambrose, doffed his hat politely, and
inquired if the _Signor Reverendo_ were indisposed.
“Oh, no,” replied the elderly Englishman in excellent Italian. “Not at
all. He went out this morning for an early walk, and has not yet
returned. He will, no doubt, be here in a few minutes.”
The carter explained this to a group of men standing near, and quickly
the rumour spread that the _curato_ was absent--mysteriously absent.
The first feeling was one of distinct antagonism. Don Mario knew that
it was Corpus Domini, and at least he should be present. It was his
duty. The Government paid him to be there, to fast, to say mass, and
to conduct the procession and the subsequent _festa_. It was really
too bad to keep half the village waiting in the church while he
leisurely took his morning stroll.
An hour passed, but the _curato_ did not come--another hour--and yet
another--even until the noon-day sun rose high in the cloudless
heavens, the people waited, wondering--and still wondering.
Then wonder gave place to anxiety. Something must surely have
happened, they whispered among themselves. What could have occurred?
Don Mario would never wilfully desert them like that.
The whole piazza was agog. The _festa_ was forgotten in the intense
anxiety as to what had befallen their beloved _curato_.
Old Mr. Ambrose held counsel with Teresa and Gaspardo.
“The _padrone_ must have gone out very early,” declared the old crone.
“I was up soon after four, but I heard nothing. He must have gone out
before then.”
“Something has happened to him,” the hunchback declared huskily. “He
is always so very particular that Corpus Domini should be kept well,
and that the people shall be satisfied. He gives ten lire to the man
who keeps the sweet-stall, so that the children shall have sweets
distributed. I cannot understand.”
“Well, what shall we do?” asked Ambrose, himself alarmed at his
friend’s non-appearance.
His secret fear was that Don Mario had descended the hill during his
walk, and had perhaps fallen into the hands of a couple of carabineers
awaiting him. Scotland Yard might have suspicion of him, and if so,
they would request the _Pubblica Sicurezza_ in Rome to effect his
arrest. And yet, as he reflected, he suddenly recollected that the
Italian Government never gave up their subjects for offences committed
abroad.
The thought was a gratifying one. And yet if Don Mario were a free
agent he would hear the _festa_ bells of his own church still ringing,
and they would surely recall him to duty, even if he had forgotten.
Gaspardo, the crooked, sun-tanned old fellow who had never been beyond
the confines of the commune, urged that a party of men be sent forth
to search the adjacent woods, for, as he put it, “an accident may have
befallen our dear _curato_, and he may be lying somewhere insensible.”
Ambrose was silent. He knew not what to do. Perhaps if the party went
forth they would ascertain that Don Mario was already on his way to
Rome, handcuffed between two carabineers. If so, might it not be his
own turn next?
He knew well that Scotland Yard had discovered the friendship between
Richard Goodrick and Don Mario, who lodged in Denbigh Street. They had
searched, and failed to find the priest. Perhaps they had now been
successful, and had preferred some charge against him. Who could tell?
“But this absence of your master is not exactly unusual, is it?” he
asked of the hunchback.
“Oh, he has been absent often--for weeks and weeks at his own home
away in the north,” was the sacristan’s reply. “But we always have a
deputy, generally young Don Lippo, who comes from the Abruzzi. He has
never before left us without a word.”
“Except once, Gaspardo,” interrupted the old _donna di casa_. “You
remember about three winters ago, when he suddenly disappeared just
like this, and six days later we had a letter from him bearing a
foreign stamp. It was English, old Faello said. So he had evidently
gone to England.”
“Bah! they say so, but I don’t believe it. The _padrone_ goes to see
his brother somewhere in Novara. He never goes abroad. That is only
gossip,” said the hunchback.
“But he goes strolling about o’ nights, Gaspardo,” declared the old
woman. “You know he does. You know what they’ve been saying of late
about his midnight walks.”
“The _sindaco_ and his friends say that--because they must say
something against everybody. I know all about it. They’ve been busy
hinting that he has a clandestine love-affair--he, at his age! Oh!
really it is too funny!”
“Yes, they say he goes down the hill in the night to meet somebody of
the opposite sex,” snapped the old crone. At this John Ambrose pricked
up his ears.
“How long has this rumour been current?” he inquired of the old man.
“Oh! about three months, I think, _signore_. Of course, it is only
spread in order to prejudice him. They have never been able to say who
the woman really is--and if they could, they certainly would.”
“But the fact remains that the _padrone_ does go out very often at
nights--on wet nights also, they say. Well, where does he go?” asked
Teresa.
“How can I tell, woman? If he has been watched, as you say, then the
watchers must know,” replied the hunchback quickly.
“But they are saying all sorts of things out in the piazza,” declared
Teresa. “The only way is to tell them to search the woods--if the
signor Inglese agrees.”
John Ambrose had no other course than to agree. He recognised that the
attitude of the village, deprived of their _festa_, was becoming
threatening. A quarter of an hour ago, while in the piazza, he saw the
black looks of the disappointed men. A lad started to strum upon a
mandoline, and was roughly cuffed for playing music.
The little flags waved in the summer breeze, but there was no music,
no gaiety, no laughter. The village had become sulky in its bitter
disappointment.
At two o’clock a large party of men assembled, and under the
leadership of a tall, swarthy giant, Vincenzio Canterelli, who kept a
_trattoria_ and wine-shop, and was known to all in Cencio, went down
the hillside to search the woods.
Ambrose, standing beside the low wall of the piazza and looking over
the sunlit valley below, watched the party with their dogs break up
into smaller parties and go forth in different directions in search of
the missing priest.
Most of the men of Santa Lucia descended to the plain to assist,
leaving the women to chatter, gossip, and form all sorts of wild
theories as to the _curato’s_ absence.
The Englishman overheard some strange rumours during that long,
anxious afternoon--rumours which caused him to ponder deeply. That Don
Mario was in the habit of taking nocturnal rambles was evidently
common knowledge, and though a love affair was hinted at, yet there
seemed no tangible evidence of his ever being seen in conversation
with any woman.
The long, hot hours dragged by, but the men did not return. From the
piazza the women watched the tiny groups moving like insects over the
green country deep below. And as the time passed, and the sun sank
slowly over the Maremma and the distant sea, the anxiety increased.
Something had certainly happened to Don Mario. A dark shadow had
fallen upon the village of Santa Lucia.
Evening fell, but no one had the heart, or even dared to light those
little lamps hung around the piazza. The drum and the brass
instruments still stood piled against the tree. The sweetmeat stall
had been removed. The day was over--it had passed for the first time
for ten centuries without the feast of Corpus Domini.
Men were arriving home jaded and fagged after a fruitless search. For
a great many miles around the whole of the country-side had been
examined with scrupulous care--the quarries, the precipitous rocks,
the woods and streams had all been patrolled to no purpose.
Night was closing in and Don Mario was still missing. He had
mysteriously and absolutely disappeared.
It was late; indeed, the moon had risen before the last search-party
came up through the narrow mediæval gateway, which led, steep down,
to the road to Rome.
They were shouting, and quickly the village became aroused. The people
rushed from the piazza to the old gateway.
Then they saw, by the flickering lamps, that a dozen men were carrying
gently something upon boards.
“We have found him!” the men were shouting excitedly. “We have found
him!” cried Vincenzio. “But----”
And the outburst of the anxious villagers drowned the rest of the
man’s sentence, as they turned with their burden up the narrow lane
towards the small white presbytery.
John Ambrose dashed towards them, a lantern in his hand.
He held it high as he looked upon his friend’s white, upturned face,
then uttering a cry, he let the lamp drop from his nerveless fingers
upon the grass-grown stones.