longer have any blood in my veins, inspiration in my brain, or love in
my bosom, and that I should no longer be capable of being an artist. But
still we must recognize the fact that society is not what it must have
been in this island at the beginning of your enterprise. Even if it has
taken some steps toward intellectual discoveries, it is certain that the
impulses of the heart have lost their energy."
"And you call that progress?" exclaimed the Capuchin, sorrowfully.
"No, far from it," Michel replied; "but how can those who are born
during this state of society breathe any other air than that in which
they were born, or entertain other ideas than those which have been
forced into them? Must we not yield to the evidence, and bend our necks
to the yoke of reality? Did not you yourself, my excellent uncle, when
you passed from the exciting life of a free adventurer to the inflexible
discipline of the cloister, did not you find that society was not what
you thought, and that it was no longer possible to effect anything by
violence?"
"Alas! that is true!" replied the monk. "During the ten years that I
passed in the mountains, I did not know what revolutions were taking
place in the manners of civilized mankind. When the _Destatore_ had sent
me into the cities with his agents, to try to make satisfactory terms
with the nobles whom he had known as loyal patriots, and with the rich
and well-educated middle class citizens whom he had known as ardent
liberals, I was forced to the conviction that those people were no
longer the same, that they had brought up their children with other
ideas, that they no longer cared to risk their fortunes and their lives
in those hazardous undertakings in which only faith and enthusiasm can
perform miracles. Yes, yes, the world had progressed--backward,
according to my idea. People no longer talked of anything but making
money, of fighting monopolies, of establishing competition, of founding
new industries. They all deemed themselves rich already, they were in
such haste to become so, and the government could purchase whomsoever it
pleased, by the promise of the most trifling privilege. Yes, they had
but to promise, to hold out hopes of fortune, and the most ardent
patriots pounced upon those hopes, saying: 'industry will give us back
our liberty!'
"The common people also believed it, and every employer could bring his
employés to the feet of the new masters, the poor creatures imagining
that their arms were about to bring them in millions. It was a sort of
fever, a universal mania. I sought men, I found only machines. I talked
of the fatherland and honor, they replied by discussing sulphur and silk
weaving. I went away disheartened, but uncertain, not daring to censure
too severely what I had seen, and saying to myself that it was not for
me, ignorant and uncivilized as I was, to pass judgment upon the new
resources which these mysterious discoveries were going to create for my
country.
"But since then, great heaven! I have seen the result of these fine
promises so far as the common people are concerned! I have seen some
shrewd fellows restore their own fortunes by ruining their friends and
paying court to the ruling powers. I have seen many families of petty
tradespeople attain great wealth; but I have seen honorable men
persecuted more and more; I have seen, especially, and I see now every
day, more beggars and more poor wretches without bread, without homes,
without education, without a future. And I ask myself what good you have
done with your new ideas, your progress, your theories of equality! You
despise the past, you spit upon the old abuses, and you have killed the
future by creating new abuses more monstrous than the old. The best
among you, the young men, are on the alert for the revolutionary
doctrines of nations more advanced than ours. You consider yourselves
highly enlightened, very strong, when you can say: 'No more nobles, no
more priests, no more convents, no more of anything connected with the
past!' And you do not see that you no longer have the poesy, the faith
and the pride which gave life to the past.
"Let us see!" added the Capuchin, folding his arms over his heaving
breast, and eyeing Michel with a half fatherly, half bullying, air: "you
are a very young man, a child! You consider yourself very clever,
because you know what people say and think in society at this moment.
You look at this stupid monk, who passes the day breaking rock in order
to set out an extra row of peppers or tomatoes on the lava next year,
and you say:
"'That's a strange way for a man to pass his life! And yet this man was
neither lazy nor dull. He might have been a lawyer or a tradesman, and
have earned money like other men. He might have married, had children,
and taught them to hold their own in society. He preferred to bury
himself alive in a convent and beg! It is because he is under the
influence of the past, and has always been the dupe of the old chimeras
and old superstitions of his country!'
"Very good! now, do you know what I think as I look at you? I say to
myself: 'Here is a young man who has come much in contact with the minds
of other men, who has very quickly thrown off the fetters of his class,
who does not choose to share the sufferings of his native country, the
labors of his kinsmen. He will succeed; he is a handsome youth, keener
and more logical in his ideas and his words at eighteen than I was at
thirty. He knows a multitude of things which had seemed useless to me
and which I did not even suspect, until the leisure of the cloister
enabled me to educate myself a little. He stands there, smiling at my
enthusiasm, and, mounted on his sound sense, his premature experience,
his knowledge of men, and his profound study of the science of personal
interest, looks upon me in his mind as a teacher looks upon his pupil.
He is the mature man; and I, an old brigand and old monk, am the
fearless youth, the blind and artless child! Strange transposition! He
represents the new generation, all for gold and glory; and I the dust of
ruins, the silence of the tomb!'
"Very good! but let the tocsin sound, let the volcano rumble, let the
people roar, let that black point which we see in the roadstead, and
which is the ship of State, bristle with guns to destroy the city at the
first breath of aspiration toward liberty; let the brigands come down
from the mountains, let the flames soar aloft to the clouds; and in that
last convulsion of the dying fatherland, the young artist will take his
brushes, he will go and take his seat upon a hill, out of all danger,
and he will paint a picture, saying to himself: 'What an unfortunate
people, and what a magnificent spectacle! I must hasten to put it on
canvas! in an instant this people will have ceased to exist, its last
hour is striking!'
"Whereas the old monk will take his gun, which is not yet rusty; he will
turn his sleeves back to the shoulder, and without stopping to ask
himself what will be the result of it all, he will rush into the
scrimmage and will fight for his countrymen until his crushed and
trampled body no longer resembles a human being. And I would rather die
so, boy, than survive, as you will do, the destruction of my race!"
"My father! my father! do not believe it," cried Michel, conquered and
carried off his feet by the Capuchin's exaltation. "I am not a coward!
and if my Sicilian blood flowed sluggishly on foreign soil, it is
quickened by the fiery breath which your breast exhales. Do not crush me
beneath that terrible malediction! Take me in your arms and set me on
fire with your flames. With you I feel really alive, and this new life
intoxicates and enraptures me!"
"Good! here is an honest impulse at last!" said the monk, embracing him.
"I like this better than the fine theories concerning art which you have
persuaded your father to respect blindly."
"Forgive me, uncle," rejoined Michel, with a smile, "I do not surrender
on that point. I will maintain with my last breath the dignity and
importance of art. You said just now that in the midst of civil war I
would coolly go and sit down in a corner, to paint episodes of the
conflict instead of fighting. I would fight, I beg you to believe, and I
would fight hard if the object were to drive out the enemy. I would
gladly lay down my life; glory would come to me more quickly so than I
shall attain it by studying painting, and I love glory: in that respect
I fear that I am incorrigible. But if I were in truth doomed to survive
the downfall of my people after fighting in vain for their triumph, it
is probable that I should collect my painful reminiscences and paint
many pictures, to reproduce and perpetuate the memory of those bloody
catastrophes. The more excited and desperate I was, the better and more
striking my work would be. It would speak to men's hearts; it would
arouse admiration for our heroism, pity for our misfortunes, and I
assure you that it might prove that I had served our cause better with
my brush than I had done with my gun."
"Very good! very good!" rejoined the monk, with an ingenuous outburst of
sympathy. "That is well said and well thought. We have a brother here
who is a sculptor, and I consider that his work is no less useful to the
cause of religion than mine is to the convent when I break up this lava.
But that brother has faith, and he can carve the features of the Blessed
Madonna without lowering the idea that we form of her. You will paint
fine pictures, Michel; but only on the condition that you have taken
part in the battle with heart and hand, and have been a zealous actor,
not an unmoved spectator of events."
"Now we are altogether in accord, my father; there is no genius in art
without conviction and without emotion: but as there is nothing more for
us to dispute about, if you are content with me at last, pray tell me
what is going on, and wherein you expect my assistance. Are we on the
eve of some important undertaking?"
Fra Angelo was so excited that he had lost all notion of his
surroundings. Suddenly his gleaming eyes filled with tears, his heaving
breast fell with a deep sigh, his hands, which quivered as if they were
feeling for pistols in his belt, fell back upon the cord around his
waist and touched his chaplet.
"Alas! no," he said, glancing about with startled eyes, like a man
suddenly aroused from sleep, "we are on the eve of nothing, and it may
be that I shall die in my cell without ever renewing the priming of my
gun. It was all a dream which you shared with me for an instant; but do
not regret it, young man, it was a noble dream, and that instant, which
did me inestimable good, may have made you a better man. The result of
it has been that I know you and esteem you. Now we are friends for life
and death. Let us not despair of anything. Look at Ætna! it is peaceful
and radiant; it is hardly smoking, and does not make a sound. To-morrow,
perhaps, it may belch forth its burning lava again and utterly destroy
the ground on which we stand. It is the emblem and the image of the
Sicilian people, and the hour for _Vespers_ may strike in the midst of
dancing or of slumber. But the sun is sinking, and I have no more time
to waste before telling you what I have to tell that concerns you. It is
a matter entirely personal to you, of which I desired to speak with you,
and it is a very serious matter. You cannot extricate yourself from it
without my assistance and that of certain other persons who, like
myself, are prepared to risk their liberty, their honor, and their
lives, to save you."
"Is it possible, uncle?" cried Michel; "can I not take the risk alone?
must you be involved in the mysterious perils which surround me without
my knowledge? Is it not my father alone who is in danger, and cannot I
save him?"
"Your father is in danger, too, but in less danger than you. Do not
question me, but believe me. As I have told you, I detest unnecessary
violence, but I shrink from nothing which is right and necessary. I must
assist you, and I will assist you. You and your father can do nothing
without the Capuchin of Ætna and the remnant of the _Destatore's_ band.
We are all ready. You will forgive me if, before assuming such grave
risks, I desired to ascertain how far you were deserving of the devotion
of which you are to reap the benefits. If you had proved to be an
egotist simply, I would have assisted you to escape; but, if you are
worthy of the name of Sicilian, we will assist you to triumph over
destiny."
"And you will not explain ----"
"I will explain nothing that it is not necessary for you to know. I am
not allowed to do otherwise; and you must remember one thing, namely,
that by seeking to find out more than I am able to tell you, you will
simply increase our risks and add to the complications of your own
situation. Come, do me the favor to rely upon your uncle, and to
overcome the vain and restless curiosity of childhood. Try to become a
man between now and this evening, for this evening it may be necessary
to act."
"I will ask but one thing of you, uncle, and that is to provide for my
father's safety and my sister's before thinking of me."
"That is all done, my boy; at the first signal your father will seek
refuge in the mountains, and your sister with the lady who gave a ball
last night. Ah! the bell is ringing for service. I am going to ask the
superior's permission to go out with my nephew on some family business.
Wait for me at the door of our chapel."
"And suppose he should refuse you?"
"He would compel me to disobey him, which would grieve me deeply, I
confess, not because of the penance to-morrow, but because I do not like
to fail in my duty. The old soldier looks upon his orders as the supreme
law."
Five minutes later, Fra Angelo joined Michel again at the door of the
church.
"Granted," he said, "but I am commanded, in order to pay my debt to God,
to perform an act of faith and say a short prayer before the altar of
the Virgin. As I am excused from attending the evening services, the
least I can do is to ask pardon from my greatest superior. Come and pray
with me, young man; it can do you no harm, and will give you strength."
Michel followed his uncle to the foot of the altar. The setting sun made
the stained-glass windows glow as with fire, and strewed with sapphires
and rubies the flagged floor on which the Capuchin knelt. Michel knelt
beside him, and watched him as he prayed with simple fervor. A
flame-colored pane, whose reflection fell upon his shaven head, made it
appear luminous and, as it were, aflame. The young painter was seized
with respect and enthusiastic admiration as he looked upon that noble,
strong and ingenuous face, which humbled itself in all sincerity in
prayer; and he, too, moved to the depths of his heart, prayed for his
country, his family and himself, with a simple faith and candor which he
had not known since his childhood.
XXIII
THE DESTATORE
"May I venture to ask you where we are going, uncle?" queried Michel,
when they had taken a dark and narrow path which led among the old
olive-trees on the mountain.
"Certainly," replied Fra Angelo; "we are going to call upon the last
real brigand in Sicily."
"There are some left then?"
"A few, although sadly deteriorated. They are still ready to fight for
their country, and they keep alive the last spark of the sacred flame.
However, I ought to tell you that they are a sort of cross between the
gallant fellows of long ago, who scrupulously refrained from taking a
hair from the head of a good patriot, and the cutthroats of the present
day, who kill and rob everyone they meet. These men discriminate when
they can; but, as their business has become very bad, and as the police
are more to be feared than in my time, they cannot always choose; so
that I do not hold them up as beyond reproach; but, such as they are,
they still have certain virtues which we should seek in vain elsewhere:
fidelity to their oaths, remembrance of past services, the revolutionary
spirit, love of country; in a word, all that remains of the chivalrous
spirit of our old bands still casts a faint gleam in the hearts of a few
poor fellows, who live by themselves, a half-sedentary, half-wandering
life. That is to say, they are settled in villages or in the open
country; they have their families there, and in some cases are supposed
to be peaceable husbandmen, submissive to the law, and having no quarrel
with the _campiere_.[2] If any of them are suspected, or, perhaps,
involved in some trouble, they are more wary, do not go to see their
wives or children except at night, or else remove their homes to some
almost inaccessible location. But the man whom we are going to see is
still free from any direct persecution. He lives openly in a neighboring
village, and can go where he pleases. You will not regret having made
his acquaintance, and I give you leave to study his character, for he is
a very interesting and remarkable person."
"Should I be too inquisitive if I asked you to tell me a little
something about him beforehand?"
"Certainly you ought to be told about him, and I will tell you. But it
is a momentous secret to place in your keeping, Michel, and it makes it
necessary for me to tell you another story. Do you know that I am going
to place in your hands the fate of a man whom the police are hunting
with all the energy and skill of which they are capable, and whose
features and true name they have never succeeded in finding out in the
six or seven years that have passed since he took up the _Destatore's_
work? Tell me, my boy, have you never heard of the _Piccinino_ and his
band since you have been in Sicily?"
"It seems to me that I have. Yes, yes, uncle, my sister Mila has some
fantastic stories about this Piccinino, who is the principal subject of
conversation among the young silk-weavers of Catania. He is a
redoubtable brigand, they say, who kidnaps women and kills men at the
very gates of the city. I have never believed these fables."
"There is some truth at the bottom of all the popular legends," rejoined
the monk. "The Piccinino exists and plies his trade. There are two men
in him--the man whom the _campieri_ pursue in vain, and the man whom no
one dreams of suspecting. The man who leads hazardous expeditions and
assembles, at a mysterious signal, all the _nottoloni_[3] of any
consequence, scattered all over the island, to employ them in more or
less worthy enterprises; and the man who lives not far from this place,
in a pretty country house, free from all molestation, and with the
reputation of an intelligent, peaceably disposed man, opposed to bloody
strife and advanced opinions. Well, within an hour you will be in that
man's presence, you will know his true name, you will know his features,
and you will share with only two other persons outside of the band which
he commands the responsibility of his secret. You see that I treat you
as a man, my child, but one cannot realize the danger of another person
until he has himself been exposed to it. Henceforth you will have to pay
with your life for the slightest indiscretion, and, in addition, to
commit something more than a dastardly act, a horrible crime, of which
you will soon know the extent."
"All these warnings are unnecessary, uncle; it is enough for me to know
that it would be an abuse of confidence."
"I believe it, and yet I am not so sure of your prudence that I do not
feel that I must tell you everything which may increase it. Your father,
Princess Agatha, perhaps your sister, and myself beyond any
question--all of us--will have sacrificed life and honor for you, if you
are false to the oath I require of you. Swear, therefore, upon all that
you hold most sacred--upon the Holy Gospel--never to betray, even on the
scaffold, the true name of the Piccinino."
"I swear it, uncle. Are you satisfied?"
"Yes."
"And will the Piccinino have the same confidence in my oath that you
have?"
"Yes, although confidence is not a failing of his. But when I told him
of your visit, I gave him guarantees which could not fail to satisfy
him."
"Very good! Now tell me what the relations are to be between this man
and myself?"
"Patience, boy! I promised you another story, and here it is:
"The _Destatore_ having become addicted to wine in his last years----"
"So the _Destatore_ is dead, is he, uncle? You did not tell me of his
death."
"I will tell you about it, although it is a very painful subject to me!
I told you of an abominable crime that he committed. He surprised and
carried off a girl,--a mere child,--who was walking with a nurse in this
neighborhood, and set her free again in two hours. But, alas! two hours
too late! No one witnessed his infamous act, but that very evening he
boasted of it to me and sneered at my indignation. I was beside myself
with horror and wrath, so that I cursed him, consigned him to the
furies, and abandoned him to enter this convent, where I soon took the
vows. I loved that man. I had been for many years under his influence;
and when I saw him ruining and degrading himself, I feared that I might
be led to follow his example. I determined to place between him and
myself an insurmountable barrier. I became a monk; that was one of the
most potent reasons for my decision.
"My desertion affected him more deeply than I expected. He came secretly
to Bel Passo and resorted to every expedient--prayers and threats--to
induce me to return. He was eloquent, because he had an ardent and
sincere heart, despite his vagaries. I was inexorable, however, and I
did my utmost to convert him. I am not eloquent; I was even less so at
that time; but I felt so intensely all that I said to him--and faith had
taken so strong a hold upon my heart--that my arguments made a profound
impression upon him. I induced him to repair his crime as far as
possible by marrying the innocent victim of his violence. I went to her
by night and obtained her consent to look once more upon the detested
brigand's features. They were married that night, secretly but legally,
in the chapel before the altar where you prayed just now with me. And
when he saw that beautiful, pale-cheeked, terrified maiden, the Prince
of Castro-Reale was seized with remorse, and began to love her who was
destined always to abhor him! He entreated her to fly with him, and,
irritated by her refusal, thought of abducting her. But I had given that
child my word, and she displayed a strength of character and a pride far
beyond her years. She told him that she would never see him again; and
clinging to my gown and our prior's--a worthy man who carried all his
secrets with him to the grave--she cried: 'You swore that you would not
leave me alone with that man a minute, and would take me back to the
door of my home as soon as the marriage ceremony was finished. Do not
desert me, or I will beat out my brains on the steps of your church!'
"She would have done as she said, the noble-hearted girl! But I had
sworn! I took her home in safety, and she never saw the _Destatore_
again.
"As for him, his suffering was beyond words. Resistance inflamed his
passion, and, for the first time in his life, he who had seduced and
abandoned so many women learned what love is. But he also learned what
remorse is, and from that day his mind was diseased. I hoped that he
would be truly converted. I had no thought of making a monk of him like
myself, but I wanted him to take up his old work, to renounce useless
crimes, debauchery and folly. I tried to convince him that, if he should
become once more the avenger of his country and the soul of our hope of
deliverance, his young wife would forgive him and consent to share his
painful but glorious destiny. Doubtless I myself would have thrown my
frock to the dogs and followed him.