Translated by Florence MacIntyre Tyson. Copyright, 1903, by The
Current Literature Publishing Company.
Professor Attilio Cernieri, distinguished Egyptologist, Senator of the
Kingdom, commander of numerous orders, active member of the Lincei,
Corresponding Fellow of an infinite number of Italian and foreign
societies and academies, was having his servant, Pomponio, open two
cases of books arrived the evening before from Padua.
The books were the residue of a library that he had gathered at Padua
when, twenty years before, he had filled the chair of neo-Latin in that
university. Afterward he had traveled much for scientific purposes,
had been called successively to the institute of higher learning in
Florence, to the University of Naples, and finally the Ministry had
solicited his presence in Rome, at the Sapienza, creating a chair
especially for him, and offering him high emoluments.
For some time, during the Professor’s peregrinations, the library,
packed up and left with a colleague, had remained undisturbed at Padua.
Then Cernieri had sent for a part of it when he was in Florence;
another part later on when in Naples. Now having to come to Rome,
with the intention of fixing there his permanent residence, he had
determined to send for the two last cases.
To be sure, these books were not absolutely necessary to a man who,
besides having recently refurnished his own library, had at his
disposition the public and private libraries of the capital.
We live in a century in which everything proceeds by steam, even
science. What is true to-day can readily be false to-morrow; and a
volume runs the risk of being useless over night.
But in spite of its ten years of life, the monograph in which our hero
had demonstrated, with ponderous arguments, relegated to the Finnish
Family a group of roots hitherto believed to be of Celtic origin,
had not grown old. The book, small in weight, but heavy in thought,
had been translated into all the languages of Europe, and the genial
information had placed our professor “at the top of the scientific
pyramid,” to quote the words of an enthusiastic disciple, by the side
of the principal living philologist, the famous Lowenstein of the
University of Upsala. But whether because the top of a pyramid is an
uncomfortable place for two or not, Cernieri and Lowenstein had at
first offered the interesting spectacle of two contestants who are
vigorously striving to throw one another off, until, finally convinced
of the uselessness of their struggles, they had changed rivalry into
friendship.
The two learned men were, of course, two strugglers in the scientific
arena, but instead of struggling with each other, they struggled with
the world at large. If by chance any mortal could be found rash enough
to raise this crest and dare to endeavor to seat himself, too, on the
top of the famous pyramid; had it been possible to penetrate the depths
of the minds of the two “chers confrères,” as they styled themselves in
correspondence, it would probably have been discovered that each placed
a very moderate estimate upon the virtues of the other. Lowenstein had
very little faith in the Finnish roots; and Cernieri believed still
less in the revolution brought about by Lowenstein in the study of the
Hindu-Persian.
But let us leave Lowenstein in peace in distant Norway and turn our
attention entirely to our illustrious compatriot. And, to begin with,
upon the afternoon in which Pomponio is opening the case of books, the
Professor was but forty, though looking much older.
He was slightly stoop-shouldered and his ample forehead was seamed with
premature wrinkles; his near-sighted eyes were hidden behind glasses,
and were generally half-closed, like those of a sleepy pussy-cat. His
hair was thin and gray, his beard straggling, ill-cared for, and nearly
white. When he was young, Cernieri used to shave; but after it had
happened several times that he in his absent-mindedness had shaved but
half his face, and in that unusual condition had entered his classes,
he had thought best to leave well enough alone. For the rest, the
abstraction of professors is proverbial, and need not be dwelt on here,
though upon one occasion he had lost his train by persisting in looking
through the whole station at Bologna for a package he had in his hand.
Absent-minded people are generally very good-natured, but our
professor was an exception to the rule. Ordinarily his lips were
visited but by the scientific smile, made up of the superiority and
commiseration with which a learned man hears of the absurdities
committed by a brother colleague or the world at large. In society,
upon the rare occasions he forced himself to enter it, he preferred
standing aside, avoiding women with horror, for he had not the faintest
idea what to say to them, and the dear creatures themselves were
equally at a loss what to say to him, though five or six years ago,
owing to the scarcity of husbands in this vale of tears, more than one
mother had cast her eyes over him as a convenient parti for one of her
daughters.
So at one time the Countess Pastori had been brave enough to invite him
to dinner, hoping to make him marry her second daughter, who had bad
teeth and weak eyes, and had not found any one who would have her. The
young girl, properly coached, had received the professor with marked
deference, had prepared with her own hand an exquisite peach marmalade,
and had even gone to the length of evincing interest in Finnish roots.
Cernieri, however, did not take the bait; but, at once on guard,
shortened his visit and was careful never to set foot inside the doors
of the Pastori mansion until the little Countess was betrothed to
an importer of salt fish, who joined the cultivation of salmon with
veneration for the titled nobility.
So warned by experience, he became gruffer than before, and more than
ever inaccessible to any ideas of gallantry.
Every man has in the book of his life a secret page that a woman has
made joyous or gloomy; as far as Professor Cernieri was concerned, this
page had remained a blank. At least so his friends said; so would he
have answered himself had he been asked, and he would have spoken in
good faith. Absorbed as he was in research, he forgot things near at
hand. Oh, why must he be made to remember the distant past?
* * * * *
“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Pomponio, who had begun to take the books out
of the box. “Mercy on us, what a dust!” Then added: “Really, it would
be much better if you would let me take them all downstairs, and dust
them there.”
But the Professor vigorously opposed the proposition. He wished it
all to take place in his study, under his own eyes. He wanted, after
they were dusted, himself to put the books in a case ready for their
reception. And Pomponio, resigned to the inevitable, continued taking
them out, dusting them as best he could, and handing them to his
master, who, having glanced at the title, put them in place.
The air was surcharged with dust, which covered the furniture,
penetrated the pores, making both master and servant cough and sneeze
constantly. “There is a spider’s web on this,” said Pomponio as he
lifted a large folio. It proved to be an antique atlas of the world,
printed at Gotha by Justus Perthès; and it so happened that while the
man was dusting it a little square envelope, yellowed with age, dropped
from its leaves and fell upon the floor.
“Gracious, what is that?” said Pomponio. “It looks like a letter.” And
putting down the atlas, he stooped to pick it up.
But the Professor had anticipated him, and, half-dazed, was turning the
letter round and round. Without doubt it _was_ a letter, and one of his
own at that, still sealed, the stamp uncanceled, addressed in his own
writing; the heavy, weighty writing of a man born to be a cavaliere of
many orders; a fellow of many societies. It was a too distinct hand,
giving assurance that the letter should reach its destination if it had
been mailed!
“Alla gentile Signorina Maria Lisa Altavilla, Firenze, Via dei Servi,
No. 25--1 Floor.”
That name appearing so unexpectedly under his eyes carried Professor
Cernieri back twenty years, forcing from the mists of oblivion a
slender, graceful girl, whose lovely countenance was crowned with
an expression of rare sweetness. For her alone had his heart ever
quickened. For her sake alone had he once for one day, for an hour,
thought seriously of taking a wife. And then?--
Pomponio, who was consumed with curiosity, had noiselessly approached
the professor and murmured: “But how in the world did it get hidden in
that book?”
Cernieri turned briskly--“What business have you here? Leave the room.”
“Shall I not go on?”
“No, not now. Go away.”
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing. If I need you, I will ring.”
Pomponio reluctantly retired. He would have given anything to know what
sort of a letter that was which had so disturbed his employer.
When he was gone, the Professor sat down in his great armchair, and,
with trembling fingers, broke the seal that Maria Lisa Altavilla had
never been allowed to do. And this was what he had written in Padua,
October 15, 1875:
“CARA SIGNORINA--I have just received the sad announcement,
and hasten to assure you of my sincere sympathy in your great
grief. Last July, when I had the honor in Venice of being
often with your father and yourself, I was a witness of your
solicitude for that precious, highly esteemed soul.
“Do you remember (I can never forget it) that morning’s trip to
the sea? We had first visited San Lazzaro, where he had been
good enough to listen with interest to my explanation in regard
to the mummy, preserved in the Museum of the Mechitaristi
Fathers; then having crossed to Sant’ Elizabeth on the Lido, we
repaired to the baths lately established there. Your father,
feeling rather tired, remained in the hotel with a friend while
we went to walk on the beach.
“The day was deliciously balmy, the sun’s rays tempered
behind little clouds, so that you closed your red silk
umbrella. The wavelets lapped the shore softly at our feet
where our footprints marked the sand. You confided to me that
for several years your father’s Health seemed to grow worse;
how the various doctors, who had been called in, had suggested
this remedy and that without being at all able to arrest the
course of the disease, which was overwhelming you with terror.
You told me of the tender affection that led him to hide his
suffering from you; he who had never before concealed anything.
Growing more confidential, you told me of your happy home life,
of the full accord of your mutual thoughts and feelings, of
your deep love each for the other, cemented by sorrow; for,
from a large family, there now remained but you two in the
world. Then, overcome by emotion, you ceased speaking, your
eyes full of tears.
“What words struggled for utterance on my part! I can not
express all that was in my heart. I am naturally timid, and I
will acknowledge a great horror of anything that will distract
me from my studies or interfere with my habits; but I feel sure
I made you understand, Signorina, how deeply I sympathized with
you. I know I told you I was at your service whenever you might
choose to call upon me. ‘Thanks,’ you murmured gently while
your hand trembled in mine. Then you insisted upon going back
to your father.
“We spoke no word as we went, but it seemed to me that our
souls understood one another. In a day or two you had quitted
Venice without my having the opportunity of seeing you again
alone.
“Now, Signorina, the greatest of sorrows has come to you. Now
is the time for you to test the true value of your friends.
“I would wish to come myself to Florence, but I am forced to
leave in a few hours for London, in order to be present at the
Congress of Orientalists, which opens there on the 19th inst.
“From England I may possibly start on a long journey out of
Europe. My movements will depend upon you; one word from you
will take me back to Italy. In any event, I shall be in London
all October, and I beg you will let me have a line from you,
Poste Restante. Think that I, too, and for a much longer period
than you, have been alone in the world. Believe me always,
Yours sincerely,
ATTILIO CERNIERI.”
Twice the Professor read the four pages through, forcing himself to
recall the day, the hour, the place in which he had written it; seeking
to explain to himself how he could have forgotten to post it, as well
as that the absolute silence of Maria Lisa Altavilla had not aroused
some suspicion in his mind; why he had never written again to make
sure. And this is what he remembered.
The mortuary notice had arrived one morning as he was in the midst of
packing, and his thoughts had turned persistently to the young girl he
had known three months before in Venice, and who had shown such perfect
confidence in him. All day he had debated within himself whether he
should merely send her his condolences or if he ought to say something
more in regard to the sentiments with which she had inspired him, in
which perhaps she shared. She was not an ordinary girl, this Maria
Lisa. She seemed created to be the companion of a scholar.
Had she not been her father’s secretary and could she not be his? To
learn two or three languages so that she might help him; to take notes
for him; to keep his work in order; to correct printer’s proofs, and
when he was leaving for a congress or scientific mission, to pack his
trunks and accompany him to the station; perhaps sometimes go along to
look after the nuisance of tickets, to treat with hotel proprietors,
cabmen, et cetera. Viewed in this light, matrimony did not seem such
a terrible abyss; but a tranquil port, in which to take shelter from
storms. And that evening, at the same time with other letters, he had
written that one to Maria Lisa; had written with an expansion and an
abandon that had filled him with wonder; even now he was amazed, as he
felt once again the unaccustomed sweetness of the thing.
Once again he was in his little room in his apartment at Padua; on the
table an oil lamp was burning; spread out before him lay the atlas
of Menke at the page that told of “Egyptus ante Cambysii tempus.” He
had been consulting it before answering his friend Morrison of the
University of Edinburgh, who was insisting that they should together
visit the ruins of Thebes in Upper Egypt, and he leaving his decision
until after the Congress had, on the chance of the journey, corrected
and amplified the itinerary to take in Ithaca, Apollonapolis, Syene,
and then Cernieri remembered his landlady had knocked at his door
to tell him the carriage was there and that she had already put his
luggage, his plaid, and his umbrella in. He had shut the atlas and put
it back upon the shelf hurriedly, hurriedly he had pushed the letters
already stamped into his pocket; hurriedly had rushed down and thrown
himself into the cab.
By what strange fate had one of the letters been shut in the atlas?
By what carelessness, in putting the rest in the mail-box, had he not
noticed that one was missing, the most important of all, was an enigma
the learned professor was unable to solve? He was ready to swear that
never for an instant had the thought occurred to him that he had not
posted the letter; indeed, he remembered, how for a number of days he
was dumbfounded at his own rashness.
Why had he not considered the matter more fully? Why, with one of those
words which can not be taken back, had he run the risk of sacrificing
that greatest of blessings--independence? Why had he played all his
future on one card? He was a man of honor; had he received a favorable
reply from Maria Lisa, nothing would have induced him to draw back. If
she said no, then he had invited a needless repulse.
Dio buono, what madness had taken possession of him? It was more than
likely that a girl, who was not beautiful and hadn’t a penny of dot,
would remain single for two or three years at least and then he could
have sought opportunities of seeing her and knowing her better, and of
weighing the pros and cons.
So during the first week in London, while the temptation was increasing
for the journey to the Orient with Morrison and a young “docente” from
Heidelberg, who had offered himself as a companion, he was upset and
nervous, and trembled at every distribution of letters, not knowing
what he wished or feared. Then as time passed and he read his two
theses, and became absorbed in the work of the Congress and drawn
within the circle of illustrious scholars, who were greeting him as
a new luminary in the world of science, the image of the poor absent
orphan faded gradually away and a secret hope sprang up in his heart
that he had regained his liberty through the continued silence of Maria
Lisa without the humiliation of a refusal.
He could always remember he had done his duty; it was not his fault if
his offer had not been accepted.
So one day, early in November, he could exclaim with Julius Cæsar:
“Alea jacta est.”
A rapid flight through Europe brought him with his companions to
Brindisi, whence they embarked for Alexandria. Two years were passed
in Upper Egypt and Abyssinia in the study of hieroglyphics and ruins,
and in sending learned treatises to the principal European Reviews.
Magazines, journals, letters from men of science, elections to
academies poured in from Italy, from France, from Germany; some silly
letters even came from his landlady in Padua. From Florence, from Maria
Lisa Altavilla not a word. Then when he got home, he almost forgot all
about her. Only two years had passed, but they were worth a century
to him, and preceding events assumed to his eyes a vague, nebulous
distance. So when he had heard that three months before Maria Lisa had
married a “Pretore residente” in an out-of-the-way corner of Sicily,
he had not troubled himself more than he could help about it. He had
to choose from the various offers of the Ministry, he had to write an
article for the “Edinburgh Review” on Assyrian Antiquities; finally, he
had to finish a weighty thesis on those Finnish and Celtic roots, for
whose sake he had resolved to devote himself entirely to philology at
the expense of everything else.
Maria Lisa was so small in comparison and matrimony might have been
such a nuisance. Only some time afterward, as he was on the point of
accepting a Chair in Florence, he was assailed with scruples.
Suppose through the changing of her husband’s jurisdiction the lady
were now in Tuscany? How ought he to act? To seem indifferent and
pretend not to recognize her, or to reproach her with the rudeness with
which she had treated him?
Alas! the professor was soon relieved of all doubts.
La Maria Lisa Altavilla? the daughter of the Chevalier Altavilla? Who
had married the pretore Carlucci? Poor thing! she had died in Sicily of
malarial fever before she had been married more than ten months.
Dead! Attilio Cernieri felt penetrated through with pity and regret.
Dead, so young; she, who might have been his wife! Then he would now be
alone with his life all wrecked about him! Ah! it was indeed a thousand
times better that Maria Lisa had not answered him! Better not to have
gotten into habits that would now have to be broken! Better not to
have grown accustomed to having a woman by his side. Those who know
declare it is difficult to do without them then.
In a word, Cernieri had not been slow to comfort himself. And then,
too, Time had fulfilled her part, spreading a thick veil over the
fleeting episode; covering even the name of Maria Lisa with oblivion.
Now the old letter found within the pages of the ancient atlas had
brought it all back. Before the middle-aged man, grown old in study,
hardened with egotism, rose an enchanting picture of youth, clothed in
shining colors, full of intangible sweetness. Pressing the poor, little
yellow sheet between his hands, he beheld once more Maria Lisa’s sweet
face. As she sadly gazed at him she seemed to say: “Why in my hour
of need did you not send me a word of sympathy? Chance acquaintances
pitied my grief; thou, who hadst let me believe didst love me, alone
remained mute and insensible. I called upon thee too. Ah! wretched
indeed is she who trusts in a man!”
Cernieri seemed to hear Maria Lisa’s voice pronounce the words.
And she had died without hearing his vindication, without knowing the
truth. It is indeed, “Sorrow’s crown of sorrow,” to be faded with the
irrevocable, to be tormented with wrongs that can not be repaired, with
misunderstandings that can not be removed.
But the letter, which the grave professor continued to hold unfolded
before him, told, not only that Maria Lisa was dead, believing him
worse than he deserved, but also that in his life there had been a
moment of poetry, of abandon, and of love, and that that moment had
remained barren. Never again could life bring him such another. Never
again would his heart quicken for a woman’s sake. Never again could
flow from his pen words which might seem to us cold and conventional,
but to him seemed burning with ardor and love. And he asked himself:
“Suppose the letter had gone, had arrived at its destination and Maria
Lisa had answered: ‘I understand what thou wishest; I consent. I love
thee and am willing to be thine. Come.’” Then certainly, he should
not have undertaken his great journey to Egypt and Assyria. Would
not have deciphered hieroglyphics or interpreted the language of the
ruins. Perhaps, though, he would have had sons of his own. Perhaps
domestic cares might have retarded his fame, his activity might have
been clogged and honors and decorations might not have fallen so
abundantly upon his head. He might not even have made his luminous
discovery about the Finnish roots. Perchance another would now occupy
his enviable position on the very top of the scientific pyramid by the
side of Lowenstein of the University of Upsala. If all that might have
happened, a man like Professor Attilio Cernieri ought to rejoice that
it had not. And still--and still!--A persistent, hungry doubt would not
allow him to quiet his soul with this philosophic consolation. Would it
not have been better to have sacrificed a little glory to have had a
little love?
The Professor Attilio Cernieri lacked courage to tear or destroy the
letter. He placed it in his desk, recalled Pomponio, and desired him to
resume his interrupted labor.
But that evening in his study, the temptation to again behold those
words of twenty years ago overcame him anew. And afterward there did
not pass a day in which he did not take the poor little worn sheet from
its envelope and read it over and over.
Then he would look at the envelope, at the stamp, upon which the Post
had impressed no mark and murmur once more:
“If the letter had only gone!”
CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA
BY GIOVANNI VERGA
[Illustration]
_Giovanni Verga was born at Catania, Sicily, in 1840. He was
at first a romanticist, carrying on the traditions of Manzoni.
Between 1874 and 1880, he produced two masterpieces, dealing
with the life of the Sicilian peasant, in which he found his
true bent, abandoning his earlier romanticism. With his fellow
townsman, Capuana, he now stands at the head of the Italian
“veristi,” or naturalists, often compared with Zola. His style
is singularly vigorous and sincere, especially in describing
the customs and analyzing the souls of the Sicilian peasants.
But his plots are often confusing and long drawn out; he has
attempted drama, but with little success. Yet, strangely
enough, his short story, “Cavalleria Rusticana,” which he
afterward developed into a novel, has been made into one of
the most popular, dramatic, concentrated one-act operas of the
world--the “Cavalleria Rusticana” of the composer Mascagni._
[Illustration]
CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA
BY GIOVANNI VERGA
Translated by Frederic Taber Cooper. Copyright, 1907, by P. F.
Collier & Son.
After Turridu Macca, Mistress Nunzia’s son, came home from soldiering,
he used to strut every Sunday, peacock-like, in the public square,
wearing his rifleman’s uniform, and his red cap that looked just like
that of the fortune-teller waiting for custom behind the stand with
the cage of canaries. The girls all rivaled each other in making eyes
at him as they went their way to mass, with their noses down in the
folds of their shawls; and the young lads buzzed about him like so many
flies. Besides, he had brought back a pipe, with the king on horseback
on the bowl, as natural as life; and he struck his matches on the back
of his trousers, raising up one leg as if he were going to give a kick.
But for all that, Master Angelo’s daughter Lola had not once shown
herself, either at mass or on her balcony, since her betrothal to a man
from Licodia, who was a carter by trade, and had four Sortino mules
in his stable. No sooner had Turridu heard the news than, holy great
devil! but he wanted to rip him inside out, that was what he wanted to
do to him, that fellow from Licodia. However, he did nothing to him at
all, but contented himself with going and singing every scornful song
he knew beneath the fair one’s window.
“Has Mistress Nunzia’s Turridu nothing at all to do,” the neighbors
asked, “but pass his nights in singing, like a lonely sparrow?”
At last he came face to face with Lola, on her way back from praying
to Our Lady of Peril; and at sight of him she turned neither white nor
red, as though he were no concern of hers.
“It is a blessing to have sight of you!” said he.
“Oh, friend Turridu, I was told that you came back around the first of
the month.”
“And I too was told many other things besides!” he answered. “So it is
true that you are going to marry Alfio the carter?”
“If such is the will of God!” answered Lola, drawing together beneath
her chin the two corners of her kerchief.
“You do the will of God by taking or leaving as it pays you best! And
it was the will of God that I should come home from so far away to hear
such fine news, Mistress Lola!”
The poor fellow still tried to make a show of indifference, but his
voice had grown husky; and he walked on ahead of the girl with a
swagger that kept the tassel of his cap dancing back and forth upon his
shoulders. It really hurt the girl to see him with such a long face,
but she had not the heart to deceive him with fair words.
“Listen, friend Turridu,” she said at length, “you must let me go on
to join the other girls. What would folks be saying if we were seen
together?”
“That is true,” replied Turridu; “now that you are to marry Alfio,
who has four mules in his stable, it won’t do to set people talking.
My mother, on the other hand, poor woman, had to sell our one bay
mule, and that little bit of vineyard down yonder on the high-road,
during the time that I was soldiering. The time is gone when the Lady
Bertha span; and you no longer give a thought to the time when we used
to talk together from window to courtyard, and when you gave me this
handkerchief just before I went away, into which God knows how many
tears I wept at going so far that the very name of our land seemed
forgotten. But now good-by, Mistress Lola, let us square accounts and
put an end to our friendship.”
Mistress Lola and the carter were married; and on the following Sunday
she showed herself on her balcony, with her hands spread out upon her
waist, to show off the big rings of gold that her husband had given her.
Turridu kept passing and repassing through the narrow little street,
with his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, pretending
indifference and ogling the girls; but inwardly he was eating his
heart out to think that Lola’s husband had all that gold, and that she
pretended not even to notice him as he passed by.
“I’d like to take her from under his very eyes, the dirty dog!” he
muttered.
Across from Alfio’s house lived Master Cola, the vine-grower, who was
rich as a porker, so they said, and had an unmarried daughter. Turridu
said so much, and did so much, that Master Cola took him into his
employ; then he began to haunt the house and make pretty speeches to
the girl.
“Why don’t you go and say all these fine things to Mistress Lola?”
Santa answered him.
“Mistress Lola is a big lady! Mistress Lola is wife of one of the
crowned heads now!”
“I suppose I am not good enough for the crowned heads.”
“You are worth a hundred such as Lola; and I know one fellow who would
never so much as look at Mistress Lola or her patron saint when you are
around. For she isn’t fit even to carry your shoes for you, indeed she
isn’t!”
“When the fox found that he couldn’t reach the grapes--”
“He said, ‘how lovely you are, you sweet little grape!’”
“Oh! come, hands off, friend Turridu.”
“Are you afraid I am going to eat you?”
“No, I am not afraid of you nor of him you serve.”
“Ah! your mother was from Licodia, we all know that. Your blood boils
quickly! Oh! I could eat you up with my eyes!”
“Then eat me up with your eyes, and leave no crumbs; but meanwhile pick
up that bundle of twigs for me.”
“For your sake I would pick up the whole house, that I would!”
To hide her blushes, she threw at him the fagot she happened to have in
her hands, but for a wonder missed him.
“Cut it short! Talking doesn’t bind fagots.”
“If I was rich, I should be looking for a wife just like you, Santa!”
“I shall not marry a crowned head, as Mistress Lola did; but I shall
have my dower, as well as she, when the Lord sends me the right man.”
“We know that you are rich, yes, we know that!”
“If you know so much, then stop talking, for my father will soon be
here, and I don’t care to have him catch me in the courtyard.”
The father began to make a wry face, but the girl pretended not to
notice, for the tassel of the rifleman’s hat had set her heart-strings
quivering and was forever dancing before her eyes. After the father had
put Turridu out of the door, the daughter opened her window to him,
and would stand chatting with him all the evening, until the whole
neighborhood could talk of nothing else.
“I am crazy about you,” Turridu would say; “I am losing my sleep and my
appetite.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“I wish I was the son of Victor Emanuel, so that I could marry you!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“By our Lady, I could eat you up, like a piece of cake!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“On my honor!”
“Oh, mother mine!”
Lola, listening night after night, hidden behind a pot of sweet basil,
turning first pale and then red, one day called down to Turridu: “How
is it, friend Turridu, that old friends no longer greet each other?”
“Alas!” sighed Turridu, “blessed is he who may greet you!”
“If you care to give me greeting, you know where my home is,” answered
Lola.
Turridu came back to greet her so often that Santa took notice of it,
and closed her window in his face. The neighbors pointed him out with a
smile or a nod of the head when he passed by in his rifleman’s uniform.
Lola’s husband was away, making a circuit of the village fairs with his
mules.
“On Sunday I mean to go to confession, for last night I dreamt of black
grapes,” said Lola.
“Wait a while! wait a while!” begged Turridu.
“No, now that Easter is so near, my husband would want to know why I
have not been to confession.”
“Ahah!” murmured Master Cola’s Santa, waiting for her turn on her knees
before the confessional where Lola was washing herself clean of her
sins. “On my soul, it is not to Rome I would send you to do penance!”
Friend Alfio came home with his mules and a pretty penny of profit, and
brought his wife a present of a fine new dress for the holidays.
“You do well to bring her presents,” his neighbor Santa said to him,
“for while you are away your wife has been trimming up the honor of
your house!”
Master Alfio was one of those carters who wear the cap well down
over one ear, and to hear his wife talked of in this fashion made
him change color as though he had been stabbed. “Holy big devil!” he
exclaimed, “if you have not seen aright, I won’t leave you eyes to weep
with, you and your whole family!”
“I have forgotten how to weep!” answered Santa; “I did not weep even
when I saw with these very eyes Mistress Nunzia’s son, Turridu, go in
at night to your wife’s house.”
“Then it is well,” replied Alfio; “many thanks to you.”
Now that the husband was home again, Turridu no longer wasted his days
in the little street, but drowned his sorrow at the tavern with his
friends; and on Easter eve they had on the table a big dish of sausage.
When Master Alfio came in, just from the way he fastened his eyes upon
him, Turridu understood what business he had come on, and laid his fork
down upon his plate.
“How can I serve you, friend Alfio?” he asked.
“Nothing important; friend Turridu, it is some time since I have seen
you, and I wanted to talk with you of the matter that you know about.”
Turridu had at once offered him a glass, but Alfio put it aside with
his hand. Then Turridu arose and said to him: “Here I am, friend Alfio.”
The carter threw an arm around his neck.
“If you will come to-morrow morning down among the prickly pears of
Canziria, we can talk of this affair, friend Turridu.”
“Wait for me on the high-road at sunrise, and we will go together.”
With these words they exchanged the kiss of challenge. Turridu seized
the carter’s ear between his teeth, and thus solemnly bound himself not
to fail him.
The friends had all silently withdrawn from the dish of sausage, and
accompanied Turridu all the way to his home. Mistress Nunzia, poor
woman, was accustomed to wait for him late every night.
“Mother,” said Turridu, “do you remember when I went away to be a
soldier, and you thought that I was never coming back! Give me a kiss,
such as you gave me then, for to-morrow I am going on a long journey!”
Before daybreak he took his clasp-knife, which he had hidden under the
straw at the time he went away as a conscript, and started with it for
the prickly pears of Canziria.
“Holy Mother, where are you going in such a rage?” sobbed Lola in
terror as her husband started to leave the house.
“I am not going far,” answered Alfio, “but it will be far better for
you if I never come back.”
Lola, in her night-gown, prayed at the foot of her bed, and pressed to
her lips the rosary which Fra Bernadino had brought her from the Holy
Land, and recited all the Ave Marias that there were beads for.
“Friend Alfio,” began Turridu after he had walked quite a bit of the
way beside his companion, who remained silent, with his cap drawn over
his eyes, “as true as God himself, I know that I am in the wrong,
and I ought to let you kill me. But before I came here, I saw my old
mother, who rose early to see me start, on the pretext that she had to
tend the chickens; but her heart must have told her the truth. And as
true as God himself, I am going to kill you like a dog, sooner than
have the poor old woman weeping for me.”
“So much the better,” replied Master Alfio, stripping off his jacket,
“strike your hardest, and so will I.”
They were both worthy foes. Turridu received the first thrust, and was
quick enough to catch it on his arm. When he paid it back, he gave good
measure, and aimed for the groin.
“Ah, friend Turridu, you have really made up your mind to kill me?”
“Yes, I told you so; ever since I saw my old mother going out to feed
the chickens, her face floats all the time before my eyes.”
“Then open your eyes wide,” Alfio called to him, “for I am going to
square accounts with you.”
And as he stood on guard, crouching ever, so as to hold his left hand
upon his wound which was aching, and with his elbow almost touching the
ground, he suddenly caught up a handful of dust and threw it into his
opponent’s eyes.
“Oh!” howled Turridu, “I am done for!”
He sought to save himself by making desperate leaps backward; but Alfio
overtook him with another blow in the stomach and a third in the throat.
“And the third is for the honor of my house, that you made free with.
Now, perhaps, your mother will forget to feed her chickens.”
Turridu stumbled about for a moment, here and there among the prickly
pears, and then fell like a log. The blood gurgled in a crimson foam
out of his throat, and he had no chance even to gasp out, “Oh, mother
mine!”
THE SILVER CRUICIFIX
BY ANTONIO FOGAZZARO
[Illustration]
_Fogazzaro is the author of the most discussed of modern
Italian novels, “The Saint.”_
_This poet, novelist, orator, and senator was born at Vicenza
in 1842. He studied law at Turin, and by a collection of lyrics
in 1876 established his reputation as a poet, drawing from the
spirit of the past, as opposed to D’Annunzio, who draws from
the future._
_Though thoroughly modern in his prose, in his novel, “Piccolo
Mondo Antico,” he makes a link with the romantic school of
Manzoni, many considering this story a companion piece to the
latter’s “I Promessi Sposi.”_
_Though frank in tone and tendency, Fogazzaro’s writings
always aim at the highest morality. His most striking quality,
perhaps, is love of the beautiful in nature._
_Between 1887 and 1894 he published two volumes of short
stories, from which “The Silver Crucifix” has been selected as,
on the whole, the best representative._
[Illustration]
THE SILVER CRUCIFIX
BY ANTONIO FOGAZZARO
Translated by Lionel Strachey. Copyright, 1907, by P. F.
Collier & Son.
“Your coffee, milady,” said the maid.
The Countess did not reply. But although the curtains were closed,
her handsome young face could be dimly discerned on the white pillow.
The maid, standing tray in hand at the foot of the bed, repeated more
loudly:
“Your coffee, milady.”
The Countess sat up, while she yawned, with eyes still unopened, “Let
in some light.”
Her maid went to the window without putting down the tray, and, in
turning the handle of the shutters, managed to knock over the empty cup
on its saucer.
“Keep quiet!” whispered the mistress in a tone of irritation. “What
is the matter with you this morning? Don’t you see you are waking the
baby?”
And as a matter of fact the infant was now awake and crying in its
crib. The lady turned toward the child’s bed, and peremptorily called
out “Hush!”
This silenced her offspring at once, excepting for a few faint moans.
“Now, then, I will have my coffee,” commanded the Countess. “Have you
seen your master yet? Why, you are trembling all over! What is the
matter with you?”
What, indeed, ailed the girl? Cup, saucer, sugar-bowl and coffee-pot
were rattling on the tray. “What is it?” repeated the Countess.
If the maid’s face showed signs of alarm, no less was the mistress
disturbed by doubts and fears.
“Nothing,” replied the servant, still trembling.
The Countess hereupon seized her by the arm, shook it roughly, and
exclaimed:
“Tell me!”
Meanwhile the pretty little head of a child of four was peering over
the edge of the crib.
“It’s a case,” said the maid, half in tears, “it’s a case of cholera.”
Pale as death, the lady started up, and instinctively looked at her
listening son. She jumped out of bed; by a single gesture she imposed
silence on the girl, while motioning her to go into the next room. Then
she darted to her child’s crib.
The little fellow had begun to cry again, but his mother kissed and
petted him, played and laughed with him until he forgot his woes, and
stopped weeping. She pulled on her dressing-gown in great haste, and
joined the servant, shutting the door behind her.
“Oh, my God, my God!” lamented the girl between her sobs, while the
other woman too began to shed tears.
“Hush, for Heaven’s sake! On no account must baby be frightened! What
about this case--where is it?”
“Here, milady! Rosa, the steward’s wife. She was taken ill at
midnight.”
“Heavens! And now--?”
“She is dead. She died half an hour ago.”
The baby was shrilly clamoring for his mother.
“Go,” said the Countess; “go in and play with him. Keep him happy; do
anything you like. Be quiet, darling!” she exclaimed. “I shall be back
in a moment.” Upon which she rushed to the Count’s room.
The lady was blindly, insanely afraid of the cholera; nothing but her
passion for her child could have been more intense than this feeling.
At the first rumors of the epidemic she and her husband had fled the
city, escaping to their splendid country seat--her marriage portion--in
the hope that the disease would not spread thither. The place had been
spared in 1836, and had even remained untouched in 1886. And now there
it was, in the farmyard attached to the villa.
Disheveled and untidy, she flew into her husband’s room. Before
speaking she gave two violent tugs at the bell rope.
“Have you heard?” she said, with flaming eyes.
The Count, who was phlegmatically shaving his beard, turned round,
inquiring, with the soapy brush in his hand: “What?”
“Don’t you know about Rosa?”
“Oh, yes, I know,” was his calm response.
If, in the first place, the Count had cherished some vague illusion
that his wife was ignorant of Rosa’s death, it now also seemed proper
to reassure her by his cool demeanor. Instead, however, her ladyship’s
eyes shot fire, and her features were savage with anger.
“What!” she shouted, “you know, and you can think of nothing better to
do than shave? What sort of man are you--what sort of father--what sort
of husband?”
“Good Lord!” cried the Count, throwing up his arms.
But before the poor man, soaped up to the eyes, and wrapped round
with a towel, could add another word, in came the valet. Her ladyship
commanded that not a peasant from the farmyard should be admitted to
the house, and that no one should go thence to the farmyard. After this
she gave orders for the coachman to be ready within an hour; he must
harness to the landau the horses which his lordship would select.
“What are you going to do?” asked the latter, who had recovered himself
meanwhile. “Nothing rash, I must insist.”
“_Rash_--how dare you say that? I am willing to be obedient to you in
everything, but when it comes to a question of life and death--my son’s
life, you understand--then I will listen to no parley from any one. I
wish to leave here at once. Order the horses, please.”
The Count grew annoyed. How could matters have come to such a pass as
this? Was there any propriety in running away after such a fashion? And
then, what about business affairs? In two days, or one day, or maybe in
twelve hours, he would be ready to start. But not before--no. His wife,
however, interrupted him violently: “Propriety, indeed, and business!
For shame!”
“And clothes?” objected the husband. “We must certainly take some with
us. You see, we shall really need more time.”
The Countess made some contemptuous answer. She would see to it, she
assured him, that the trunks were packed in an hour.
“But where do you expect to go?” persisted the Count.
“To the railway station, first of all, and then wherever you like. Now
order the horses.”
“I have had enough of this!” cried the other. “I’ll give such orders as
I choose! I’ll let the business affairs go, and everything else! Your
clothes, too! The sorrels,” he added, enraged, to the domestic who was
standing by impassively.
The Countess dressed and did her hair with the utmost speed, at moments
clasping her hands in silent prayer, distributing commands, summoning
servants from various parts of the house by frantic pulls at the bell.
There was running up and down stairs, banging of doors, shouting,
laughing, calling out of names, suppressed swearing. All the windows
facing the fatal farmyard were immediately closed. Thus the cries of
the unfortunate children who had lost their mother were shut out;
besides a disagreeable odor of chlorin had penetrated into the villa,
and even into the Countess’s room, smothering the delicate Viennese
perfume she habitually used.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed angrily, “now they are doing their best to
ruin everything! Pack up quickly, and get those trunks locked! This
frightful smell is enough to kill one! Don’t they know that chlorin
has no effect? They ought to burn the things. The steward will be
dismissed if any thieving goes on.”
“Some things are being burnt already, milady,” observed one of the
maids. “The doctor is having sheets, coverlid, and mattress burnt.”
“That’s not enough!” snapped the Countess.
Here the Count, shaved and dressed, entered his wife’s apartment. He
began talking to her aside.
“What shall we do with these servants? We can’t take all of them with
us.”
“Anything you please. Send them away. Nothing will be safe in the house
if they remain. I don’t want them to get the cholera, and then fumigate
the rooms with that vile chlorin, and perhaps burn up some of my best
gowns. They have no respect whatever for their masters’ property, and--”
Furious at having yielded, the Count now broke in with:
“A pretty state of things! A shame, I tell you, a scandal, to sneak off
like this!”
“That’s it!” retorted the woman. “That’s just how you men always are!
To appear strong and courageous is more important to you than the life
and safety of your family. You are afraid of becoming unpopular. Well,
if you want to keep up your reputation, why don’t you send for the
mayor, and present him with a hundred lire for the cholera patients of
the place?”
He thereupon suggested that he would stay at the villa alone, and that
she should go with the child. Only he had not enough stability to carry
out his own idea.
During this conversation the trunks were being filled. The little boy’s
playthings, his most expensive apparel, prayer-books, bathing-suits,
jewelry, crested note-paper, furs, underlinen, many superfluous and few
necessary articles were thrown in helter-skelter, and the lids closed
down by sheer force. Then the Countess, followed by her spouse--who
made a great show of activity, but really accomplished nothing--hurried
through the whole house, opening drawers and cupboards, taking a last
look into them, and locking them up with their own hands. The Count
stated his opinion that it might be advisable to partake of some
refreshment before commencing the journey.
“Yes, yes!” ironically said his consort, “we’ll take some refreshment!
I’ll show you what to take!”
And she drew up her husband and all the servants, including those who
were going home for a holiday, and dosed each one with ten drops of
laudanum. Her son she regaled with some chocolates.
At last the landau stood before the door. Prior to actually departing,
her ladyship, who was extremely pious, withdrew to the seclusion
of her bedchamber for a final prayer. Kneeling at a chair, in her
tight-fitting costume of white flannel, her black, eight-button gloves
reaching to the elbows, and her gold and platinum bracelets, she raised
her eyes devoutly to heaven--under the overshadowing plume of her black
velvet hat--and murmured a feverish supplication. Not a word did she
say to God about the poor wretches who had lost their mother; nor did
she ask that the cholera might spare the humble workers chained to
the rich soil which had given her this house, her jewels, clothes,
Viennese perfume, her education, her dignity, her husband and child,
her accommodating God. Neither did she ask anything for her own person.
She, who already saw herself and her family smitten down with the dread
disease on the journey, offered up no prayers excepting for her son.
In fact, her lips simply muttered Paters and Aves and Glorias, while
her mind was altogether with the child, thinking of the fearful fate
which might befall him, of the danger to his health in this precipitate
journey, of his possible loss of appetite, sleep, spirits, or color.
Oh, if he could but be kept unconscious of any peril or pain assailing
others!
Rapidly she crossed herself, donned a long, gray cloak, and shut a
window that had remained open. Before the strong morning breeze clouds
were chasing across the sky, the grass was bending on the lawn, and the
tall poplars were swaying in the avenue leading to the villa. But the
Countess, though brought up on family traditions, had no thought for
reminiscences of her youth belonging to this country estate. She merely
closed the window and went downstairs.
The mayor was conversing with his lordship by the carriage door.
“Have you just come from there?” she asked the official, and, being
informed that he had come from his home, she upbraided him for not
having kept off the epidemic. He excused himself with polite smiles, to
which the lady confusedly replied: “Never mind, then; never mind,” as
she hastened her child into the vehicle.
“Did you give him the money?” she whispered to her husband as soon as
she was seated beside him. He made a sign in the affirmative.
“I should like to thank her ladyship, too,” began the obsequious mayor,
“for the generosity with which--”
“Oh, it was nothing--nothing!” interrupted the Count, scarcely knowing
what he said.
Established in the carriage, the Countess made a rapid survey of bags
and boxes, coats and shawls, umbrellas and parasols. Her husband in the
mean time turned round to see if all the luggage was in its place in
the barouche, which had been fastened on behind to the landau. “But,”
he suddenly remarked, “what is the matter with that little boy?”
“Yes, who is that crying?” excitedly called out the Countess, leaning
far out of the carriage.
“All ready!” exclaimed the peasant who had been assisting the servants
with the luggage, and to whose side clung a small, ragged urchin.
“Stop, can’t you?” his father bade him, sharply, then repeating the
words, “All ready!”
The Count, with his eye on the boy, plunged into one of his pockets.
“Don’t give way, my boy; you shall have a soldo all to yourself.”
“Mother is ill,” whined the lad sorrowfully; “mother has the cholera.”
Up jumped the Countess. Her face livid and contorted, she brought down
her folded sunshade across the coachman’s back:
“Drive on!” she shrieked; “drive on--quick!”
The menial whipped up the horses. They began to prance, and then went
off at a gallop. The mayor barely had time to leap out of the way, and
his lordship to fling out a handful of coppers, which scattered on
the ground at the peasant’s feet. He stood motionless--while the boy
continued weeping--and stared after the flashing wheels of the carriage
that rolled swiftly away, whirling up the dust.
“Damn those rich pigs!” he said.
Pretending not to hear, the mayor discreetly departed.
The peasant, a man of middle age and stature, pale, meagre,
evil-looking, and as rugged as his offspring, made the youngster pick
up the coins. Then they went home together.
They inhabited, in the yard belonging to one of the Countess’s
farmhouses, a tumble-down, unplastered brick hovel, situated between a
dunghill and a pigsty. Before the door gaped a dark ditch, from which
issued an indescribable stench, and which was bridged by a single rough
plank. Upon entering, one found one’s self in a dingy, unpaved sort
of cavern. There was no flooring, either wood or stone, but there was
an irregular brick fireplace, and in front of it the ground had been
depressed by poor wretches kneeling to cook their mess of cornmeal. A
wooden stair--three steps missing--conducted to the room, foul with
dirt and rubbish, where father, mother, and son were wont to pass the
night in a single bed. Standing by this article of furniture, one might
look down into the kitchen below through the broken boards. The bed
occupied the only spot not soaked by the rain that dripped from the
roof.
Crouching on the floor, her head leaning against the edge of the
bed, sat the peasant’s cholera-stricken wife. Although but thirty,
she looked old; at twenty she had been a blooming girl, and even now
preserved remnants of mild beauty. At the first glance her husband
understood; he swallowed an imprecation. The child, frightened by his
mother’s discolored face, kept in the doorway.
“For Christ’s sake, send him away,” she moaned feebly. “I have the
cholera; send him away. Go to your aunt’s, dear. Take him away, and
send me the priest.”
“I’ll go,” said the man to her; and to the boy, motioning toward the
farmyard gate, “You go to your aunt’s.”
From the porch of the yard he fetched an armful of straw, carried it
into the kitchen, and went upstairs to his wife, who by exerting all
her strength had contrived to get on the bed.
“Listen,” said the man, in accents of unusual tenderness; “I am sorry,
but if you die in the bed it will have to be burnt. You understand,
don’t you? I have brought some straw into the kitchen--a nice lot.”
Too weak to answer, she made a mute signal of assent, and then a
faint effort to rise from her couch. But the man took her up in his
arms. By a gesture she begged him to reach first for a small silver
crucifix hanging on the wall; she pressed it fervidly to her lips
while her husband carried her down to the kitchen. Here he made her as
comfortable as he could on the straw, before going for the priest.
And now she, too, this poor creature lying alone like a beast in a
cage on the already infected straw--she, too, before departing to an
unknown world, began to pray. She prayed for the salvation of her
soul, convinced that she was guilty of many sins, and tormented by her
inability to remember them.
When the timid doctor, sent by the mayor, arrived, he asked in great
fright whether there was any rum or marsala in the house. There was
neither; so he recommended hot bricks for her stomach, put up a notice
of quarantine, and left her. The priest, who knew no fear, carelessly
reeled off what he termed “the usual things,” obscuring the divine
message with words of his own. Nevertheless, though benighted and
ignorant, the dying woman derived comfort and serenity therefrom.
His task done, the priest went. Meanwhile the husband had put a few
more handfuls of straw under her back, and lit the fire to heat the
bricks. His wife went on praying--less for her child than for the man
whom she had pardoned so often, and who was embarked on the road to
perdition. Finally, kissing the cross, her mind turned to its giver.
She had received it sixteen years back, at her confirmation, from the
Countess, the mistress of the splendid manor where it was a joy to live
and of the wretched hovel where it was a joy to die. At that time the
Countess was a young girl, and had presented the silver crucifix to
the laborer’s daughter at the suggestion of her mother, then mistress
of the estate, a kind, gentle lady, long dead, but unforgotten by her
humble tenants.
The dying woman acknowledged having thought ill of the new mistress, of
having complained sometimes, so that _her_ husband had cursed because,
despite repeated petition, neither roof, nor flooring, nor staircase
had ever been repaired, and because the window frames had not been
filled with linen panes. Feeling truly penitent, in her heart she
implored forgiveness of his lordship and her ladyship; and she besought
the Holy Virgin to bless them both.
At the moment when her husband placed the scorching bricks on her
stomach, a spasm ran through her body, and she gave up the ghost. The
man flung some straw over her blackening face, wrenched the little
cross out of her hand, stuffed it into his pocket with a scowl at its
small value, mumbling some customary pious sentiment the while.
But he did not say, for he did not know, and we do not know, how much
good this poor woman’s crucifix had done, invoked and kissed by her
on so many occasions. Still less can we tell how much benefit may yet
spring from that charitable thought of an old lady, descending to an
innocent child, and afterward reascending as a prayer from a pure heart
to the Throne of Infinite Mercy.
The same evening the servants at the villa, who had been given leave of
absence during the journey of the Count and Countess, got drunk in the
drawing-room on rum and marsala.
THE LITTLE SARDINIAN DRUMMER
BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS
[Illustration]
_Edmondo de Amicis, Italian publicist with a military training,
born in 1846, is principally known as the author of “Il Cuore”
(“The Heart of a Boy”), a simple classic intended for children,
and which has had an incredible influence on school life in
Italy. It pretends to be a child’s own day to day record of his
school year._
_His style has not crystallised into originality--it suggests
on one page Washington Irving, with gentle, smooth, playful
humor, broad tolerance, and on the next it suggests the
word-painters like Théophile Gautier, with their keen observation
and warm, rich coloring._
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE SARDINIAN DRUMMER
BY EDMONDO DE AMICIS
Translated by Clou. E. Hard. Copyright, 1898, by The Current
Literature Publishing Company.
On the 24th of July, 1848, the first day of the battle of Custoza,
sixty soldiers belonging to one of our regiments of infantry, ordered
to garrison a lonely house on a height near by, were suddenly attacked
by two companies of Austrians, who, assaulting them on several sides,
scarcely gave them time to take refuge within the house, and hastily
barricade the door, leaving their dead and wounded on the field.
The door being well secured, our soldiers hastened to the windows on
the ground floor, as well as to those on the upper floor, and opened
a deadly fire on the besiegers, who replied vigorously as they slowly
approached in the form of a semicircle.
The sixty Italian soldiers were commanded by two subaltern officers,
and by a tall, silent, grim old captain, with white hair and whiskers.
With them was a little Sardinian drummer, a boy scarcely more than
fourteen years old, but who did not look even twelve, with his dark,
olive skin, and black, deep-set eyes that flashed fire.
From a room on the upper story the captain directed the defense, every
order sounding like a pistol shot, his iron countenance showing not the
slightest emotion.
The little drummer, pale, but with his feet firmly planted on the
table, and holding fast to the walls, stretched out his head and neck
to look from the window, and saw through the smoke the Austrians
steadily advancing over the fields.
The house was near the top of a very steep hillside, so that but one
small high window in the upper story looked out over the crest. The
Austrians did not threaten that side, nor was there anybody on the
hilltop. The fire was directed against the front and the two sides.
The firing was infernal--a close, heavy hailstorm of balls rained
upon the walls and through the broken roof, tearing out the ceiling,
shattering the beams, doors, furniture, filling the air with fragments,
plastering, and clouds of lime and dust, utensils and broken glass
whizzing, clattering over their heads, rebounding from the walls with a
noise and clash that made the hair stand on end.
Now and then a soldier stationed at the windows fell inward, and was
pushed one side; others staggered from room to room, stanching their
wounds with their hands. In the kitchen lay one soldier, pierced
through the forehead. The enemy was closing in. At last the captain,
until then impassible, began to show signs of uneasiness, and hurriedly
left the room, followed by a sergeant. In a few moments the sergeant
came rushing back, called the drummer, telling him to follow.
The boy raced up the stairs after him, and entered a dilapidated
garret, in which he saw the captain with pencil and paper in hand,
leaning on the window sill, and lying on the ground at his feet was a
rope belonging to the well.
The captain folded the paper, and, fixing on the boy those cold, gray
eyes before which every soldier trembled, said abruptly:
“Drummer!”
The little drummer’s hand went up to his cap.
The captain said:
“Thou art brave.”
The boy’s eyes flashed.
“Yes, captain,” he answered.
“Look down yonder,” said the captain, taking him to the window, “on the
ground, near the house of Villafranca, where those bayonets glisten.
There is our regiment, motionless. Take this paper, grasp this rope,
let yourself down from the window, cross the hill like lightning, rush
through the fields, reach our men, and give this paper to the first
officer you see. Take off your belt and knapsack.”
The drummer took off his belt and knapsack, and hid the paper in his
breast pocket; the sergeant threw out the rope, holding fast one end;
the captain helped the boy jump through the window, his back toward the
fields.
“Be careful,” said he, “the salvation of this detachment depends on thy
valor and thy legs.”
“Trust me, captain,” said the drummer, sliding down.
“Crouch low when you drop,” again said the captain, taking hold of the
rope, too.
“Have no fear.”
“God speed thee!”
In a few moments the boy was on the ground, the sergeant drew up the
rope, and disappeared, while the captain hastened to the little window,
and saw the drummer racing down the hill. He now hoped he would escape
unseen, but five or six little clouds of dust rising from the ground
warned him that the boy had been discovered by the Austrians, who were
firing down from the top of the hill. Those little clouds were the
earth torn up by the balls. But the drummer continued running at full
speed. After a while the captain exclaimed in consternation: “Dead!”
but scarcely was the word out of his mouth when he saw the little
drummer rise.
“Ah, it was but a fall!” said he, and breathed again.
The drummer again ran on, but he limped.
“He has sprained his foot,” said the captain.
A little cloud of dust rose here and there around the boy, but always
farther from him.
He was beyond their reach. The captain uttered a cry of triumph; but
his eyes followed him, tremblingly, for it was a question of minutes.
If he did not soon reach the regiment with the note, asking for
immediate succor, all his soldiers would be killed, or he would be
obliged to surrender, and become a prisoner of war with them.
The boy ran for a while rapidly, then he stopped to limp; again he ran
on, but every few minutes he stopped to limp.
“Perhaps a ball has bruised his foot,” thought the captain, and he
tremblingly noted all his movements, and in his excitement he talked to
the drummer as if he could hear him. Every moment his eyes measured the
distance between the boy and the bayonets that glistened below on the
plain, in the midst of the golden wheat fields.
Meantime he heard the whistling and the crash of the balls in the rooms
below, the voice of command, the shouts of rage of the officers and
sergeants; the sharp cries of the wounded, and the noise of broken
furniture and crumbling plaster.
“Courage! Valor!” he cried, his eyes following the drummer in the
distance. “Forward! Run! Malediction! He stops! Ah, he is up again,
forward!”
An officer out of breath comes to tell him that the enemy, without
ceasing the fire, wave a white handkerchief, demanding their surrender.
“Let no one answer!” shouts the captain, without taking his eyes from
the boy, who was now in the valley, but who no longer ran, and who
seemed hopeless of reaching the regiment.
“Forward! Run!” cried the captain with teeth and fists clenched. “Bleed
to death, die, unfortunate boy, but reach your destination!” Then he
uttered a horrible oath. “Ah, the infamous idler has sat down!”
In fact, up to that moment the boy’s head, that could be seen above the
wheat, now disappeared as if he had fallen. After a moment his head was
again seen, then he was lost behind the wheat field, and the captain
saw him no more.
Then he hastened down. The balls rained, the rooms were full of
wounded, some of whom rolled over like drunken men, catching at the
furniture: the walls and floors were covered with blood. Dead bodies
lay across the threshold; the lieutenant’s arm was broken by a ball.
Smoke and powder filled the rooms.
“Courage!” shouted the captain. “Stand to your post! Succor is coming!
Courage a little longer!”
The Austrians had approached closer. Their disfigured faces could be
seen through the smoke. Through the crash of balls could be heard the
savage cries insulting them, demanding their surrender, and threatening
to cut their throats. A soldier, terrified, withdrew from the window,
and the sergeants again pushed him forward.
The fire of the besieged slackened. Discouragement showed on every
face; resistance was no longer possible. The moment came when the
Austrians redoubled their efforts, and a voice thundered, at first in
German, then in Italian:
“Surrender!”
“No!” shouted the captain from a window. The fire became more deadly,
more furious on both sides. Other soldiers fell. There were more than
one window without defenders. The fatal moment was imminent. The
captain’s voice died away in his throat as he exclaimed:
“They do not come! They do not come!”
And he ran furiously from side to side, brandishing his sabre
convulsively, ready to die. Then a sergeant, rushing down from the
garret, shouted with stentorian voice:
“They come!”
“Ah, they come!” joyfully shouted the captain.
On hearing that cry all--the well, the wounded, sergeants and
officers--crowded to the windows and again the fierceness of the
defense was redoubled. In a short while there was noticed among the
enemy a species of vacillation and a beginning of disorder. Suddenly
the captain gathered a few soldiers together on the lower floor to
resist with fixed bayonets the impetuous attack on the outside. Then
he went upstairs. Scarcely had he mounted when he heard the sound
of hurried footsteps, accompanied by a formidable “Hurrah!” and the
pointed hats of the Italian carbineers appeared through the smoke, a
squadron at double-quick, a brilliant flash of swords whirled through
the air above their heads, their shoulders, their backs; then out
charged the little detachment, with fixed bayonets, led by the captain.
The enemy wavered, rallied, and at last began to retreat. The field was
evacuated, the house was saved, and shortly after two battalions of
Italian infantry and two cannon occupied the height.
The captain and the surviving soldiers were incorporated with their
regiment, fought again, and the captain was slightly wounded in the
hand by a spent ball during the last bayonet charge. The victory on
that day was won by the Italians.
But the following day the battle continued. The Italians were
conquered, in spite of their heroic resistance, by superior numbers,
and on the morning of the 26th they were in full retreat toward the
Mincio.
The captain, though wounded, marched at the head of his company, weary
and silent, arriving at sunset at Goito on the Mincio. He immediately
sought his lieutenant, who, with his arm broken, had been picked up by
the ambulance, and who must have arrived before he did. They pointed
out to him a church in which the field hospital had been installed. He
went there, the church was filled with the wounded lying in two rows
of cots, and mattresses laid on the floor. Two physicians and several
practitioners were busily coming and going, and nothing was heard but
groans and stifled cries.
Scarcely had the captain entered when he stopped and glanced around in
search of his subordinate.
At that moment he heard, near by, his name called faintly:
“Captain!”
He turned. It was the little drummer. He was stretched upon a wooden
cot, covered up to the neck with a coarse old red and white check
window curtain, his arms lying outside, pale and thin, but with his
eyes burning like two coals of fire.
“What! is it thou?” asked the captain in a surprised, abrupt manner.
“Bravo! thou hast fulfilled thy duty.”
“I did all that was possible,” replied the drummer.
“Art thou wounded?” asked the captain, glancing around at the beds, in
search of his lieutenant.
“What could you expect?” replied the boy, who was eager to speak of
the honor of being wounded for the first time, otherwise he would not
have dared to open his lips before his captain.
“I ran as long as I could with my head down, but, though I crouched,
the Austrians saw me immediately. I would have arrived twenty minutes
earlier had they not wounded me. Fortunately I met a captain of the
general’s staff, to whom I gave the note. But it was with great
effort I got along after that. I was dying with thirst. I was afraid
I could not arrive in time. I cried with rage, thinking that every
minute’s delay sent one of ours to the other world. But at last I did
all I could. I am content. But look, captain, and excuse me, you are
bleeding!”
In fact, from the palm of the badly bandaged hand the blood was flowing.
“Do you wish me to tighten the bandage, captain? Let me have it for a
moment.”
The captain gave him his left hand, and stretched out his right hand to
help tie the knot; but scarcely had the little fellow risen from the
pillow when he turned pale, and had to lie back again.
“Enough! enough!” said the captain, looking at him, and withdrawing
his bandaged hand, which the drummer wished to retain. “Take care
of yourself instead of thinking of others, for slight wounds, if
neglected, may have grave consequences.”
The little drummer shook his head.
“But thou,” said the captain, looking attentively at him, “thou must
have lost much blood to be so weak.”
“Lost much blood?” repeated the boy, smiling. “Something more than
blood. Look!” and he threw down the coverlet The captain recoiled in
horror.
The boy had but one leg; the left leg had been amputated above the
knee. The stump was wrapped in bloody cloths.
Just then a small, fat army physician in shirt-sleeves passed.
“Ah, captain,” said he rapidly, pointing out the little drummer;
“there is an unfortunate case. That leg could have been easily saved
had he not forced it so much, caused inflammation; it was necessary to
amputate it. But he is brave, I assure you. He shed not a tear, nor
uttered a plaint. I was proud, while operating, to think he was an
Italian boy, my word of honor. Faith, he comes of good stock.”
And he went on his way.
The captain wrinkled his bushy white eyebrows, and looked fixedly at
the little drummer while covering him up with the coverlet. Then,
slowly, almost unconsciously, yet still looking at him, his hand went
to his képi, which he took off.
“Captain!” exclaimed the astonished boy. “What, captain, for me?”
Then that rough soldier, who had never spoken a gentle word to an
inferior, replied in a soft and exceedingly affectionate voice:
“I am but a captain, thou art a hero.”
Then he threw his arms about the little drummer and kissed him with all
his heart.
LULU’S TRIUMPH
BY MATILDA SERAO
[Illustration]
_Matilda Serao was born in 1856 at Patras, Greece. She is
Italy’s foremost woman writer, adopting a career very unusual
with her countrywomen. Up to her thirtieth year she contributed
sketches to periodicals._
_In her early work she distinctly shows the influence of French
realists like Zola. Few writers know Balzac as she does. Later
she developed a liking for the psychological problem novel,
and later still, in “Christ’s Country,” she seems to have
joined that neomystic school represented in Italy by Fogazzaro,
especially in his “Saint.” Her style is slovenly, and, though
not strong-minded, more like that of a man. But her stories are
told with great spirit. The heroine of one of her very latest
stories is an American, but she does not at all sympathise with
the American reader’s “absurd wish for happy endings.” “Lulu’s
Triumph” combines the singular merits of a “happy ending”
according to the American idea, with a sad ending according to
the author’s._
[Illustration]
LULU’S TRIUMPH
BY MATILDA SERAO
Translated by Elise Lathrop. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier
& Son.
I
Sofia did not raise her eyes from her work, and her slim fingers fairly
flew over the delicate lace. But Lulu wandered about the room, moving
the ornaments on the shelves or opening a drawer to gaze absently into
it. It was clear that she wished either to do or to say something, but
was abashed by her elder sister’s grave manner. She hummed a few bars
of a song, recited a verse, but Sofia appeared not to hear. Then Lulu,
who was not blessed with too much patience, decided to put the question
boldly, and, planting herself in front of her sister, she asked:
“Sofia, do you know what Mademoiselle Jeannette told me?”
“Assuredly nothing very interesting.”
“Now that is an answer dry and cold enough to give one a chill even in
summer! Where do you get your ice, oh, my glacial sister?”
“Lulu, you are a veritable baby!”
“Now, that is just where you mistake, idol of my heart. I am not a
baby, for I am going to be married.”
“What?”
“And that is just what Jeannette told me.”
“What nonsense! I do not understand a word of what you are saying.”
“Very good, I will now tell you all, as they say in plays. It will be a
narrative--but will Your Seriousness lend me your whole attention?”
“Yes, yes, but be quick.”
“The day of the races at the Field of Mars is the time and place. You
were not there; you preferred your everlasting books.”
“If you wander so from the subject I will not listen to you any longer.”
“You must listen to me; this secret is suffocating me, killing me.”
“Are you beginning again?”
“I will stop, I will stop. Well, then, at the races we sat in the front
row on the grand stand. Paolo Lovato came and presented a handsome
young man to us, Roberto Montefranco. After the usual greetings and
vague compliments, they found places directly behind us; we exchanged
a few words until the signal for the start of the horses was heard.
You remember that I favored Gorgon, without foreseeing how ungrateful
she was to be to me--one must resign one’s self to ingratitude even
with beasts. A cloud of dust quite hid the horses. ‘Gorgon wins!’ I
cried. ‘No,’ said Montefranco, smilingly, ‘Lord Lavello.’ I was vexed
at his contradiction; but he continued smiling and contradicting me;
we ended by making a wager. Finally, after half an hour of palpitation
and anxiety, I learned that Gorgon had played me false, that I had
lost and Montefranco had won; only fancy! I tell him that I will pay at
once; he bows and replies that there is plenty of time. I meet him on
the Chiaja, throw him an interrogative glance, and he contents himself
with bowing and smiling in a mysterious manner. It is the same at the
theatre, everywhere. I live in the greatest curiosity. Roberto is
handsome, twenty-six years old, and this morning Montefranco _père_, my
future father-in-law, had a two hours’ conference with mama.”
“Oh!”
“Signs of attention on the part of my audience? Well, I knew about his
visit from Jeannette. So the marriage is arranged. One momentous detail
remains to be settled; when shall I go to the mayor’s office, and shall
I wear a gray or a tan colored gown? Shall I wear a hat with streamers
or without?”
“How you run on!”
“Run? Why, of course; there are no obstacles. Roberto and I will love
each other madly, our parents are content--”
“And you would marry a man that way?”
“What does ‘that way’ mean? It is such an elastic word.”
“Without knowing him, without loving him?”
“But I do know him, I have seen him at the races and when out walking.
I adore him! Day before yesterday I refused to take luncheon because
I had not seen him, and instead drank three cups of coffee, trying to
commit suicide.”
“And he?”
“He wishes to marry me, therefore he loves me!” replied Lulu,
triumphantly. But seeing Sofia’s face pale, she repented of this
imprudent remark, and bending over her sister, asked affectionately:
“Have I said anything wrong?”
“No, dear, no; you are right. When one loves one marries. It is
difficult to awaken love,” and she sighed softly.
“Awaken love, awaken love!” repeated Lulu, in an irritated manner. “It
is very easy, Sofia; but when one has a serious brow, like you, sad
eyes, and unsmiling lips; when one goes and sits in a corner thinking,
while every one else is dancing and jesting; when one reads instead of
laughing, and instead of living, dreams; and when one cultivates an old
and lackadaisical manner, though still young, then it is difficult to
be loved.”
Sofia lowered her head and made no reply. Her lips quivered slightly,
as though she were suppressing a sob.
“Have I hurt you again?” asked Lulu. “It is because I should like to
see you beloved, surrounded with affection, to see you a bride--. How
nice it would be if we were to be married on the same day!”
“That is foolish; I shall be an old maid.”
“No, miss, I forbid it, you wicked creature. If Roberto is a nice
fellow he absolutely must have a bachelor brother; I wish it!”
At this moment their mother entered the room in walking dress.
“Are you going out, mama?” asked Lulu.
“Yes, dear, I am going to the notary’s.”
“Oh! to the notary’s. That is a serious business.”
“You will soon learn, Miss Tease. Sofia, come with me for a moment.”
“And has Sofia, too, some dark dealings with the notary?”
“Lulu, when will you learn to be serious?”
“Very soon, mama; you will see.”
She opened the door for her mother and sister to pass out, made two low
courtesies, murmuring: “Madame, Mademoiselle!” When they had left the
room she called to them from the threshold, with a burst of laughter:
“Talk, talk away! I will pretend that I know nothing about it.”