XI

_THE WAR OF THE BRIDGE_

_Fragments of the Pescarese Chronicle_

Towards the middle of August—when in the fields the wheat was

bleaching dry in the sun—Antonio Mengarino, an old peasant full of

probity and wisdom, standing before the Board of the Council when they

were discussing public matters, heard some of the councillors, citizens

of the place, discoursing in low tones about the cholera, which was

spreading through the province; and he listened with close attention to

the proposals for preserving the health and for eliminating the fears

of the people and he leaned forward curiously and incredulously as he

listened.

With him in the Council were two other peasants, Giulio Citrullo of the

Plain, and Achille di Russo of the Hills, to whom the old man would

turn from time to time, winking and grimacing insinuatingly, to warn

them of the deception which he believed was concealed in the words of

the Councillors and the Mayor.

At last, unable to restrain himself longer, he spoke out with the

assurance of a man who knows and sees.

“Stop your idle talk! What if there is a little cholera among us. Let

us keep the secret to ourselves.”

At this unexpected outburst, the Councillors were taken by surprise,

then burst into laughter.

“Go on, Mengarino! What foolishness are you talking!” exclaimed Don

Aiace, the Assessor, slapping the old man on the shoulder, while the

rest, with much shaking of heads and beating of fists upon the table,

talked of the pertinacious ignorance of the country people.

“Well, well, but do you think we are deceived by your talk?” asked

Antonio Mengarino, with a quick gesture, hurt by the laughter which

his words had created, and in the hearts of the three peasants their

instinctive hostility toward and hatred of the upper classes were

revived. Then they were excluded from the secrets of the Council? Then

they were still considered ignoramuses? Oh, those were two galling

thoughts!

“Do as you please. We are going,” said the old man bitterly, putting on

his hat and the three peasants left the hall in silent dignity.

When they were outside the town, in the upland country filled with

vineyards and cornfields, Giulio Citrullo stopped to light his pipe,

and said decisively:

“We will not mind them! We can be on our guard, and know that we shall

have to take precautions. I would not like to be in their places!”

Meanwhile, throughout the farming country, the fear of the disease

had taken possession of all. Over the fruit trees, the vineyards, the

cisterns, and the wells, the farmers, suspicious and threatening, kept

close and indefatigable watch. Through the night frequent shots broke

the silence, and even the dogs barked till dawn. Imprecations against

the Government burst forth with greater violence from day to day. All

the peaceful labours of the farm-hands were undertaken with a sort of

carelessness; from the fields expressions of rebellion rose in songs

and rhymes, improvised by the hands.

Then, the old men recalled instances in the past which confirmed the

suspicions about poisoning. In the year ’54, some vintagers had one day

caught a man hidden in the top of a fig-tree, and when they forced him

to descend, they noticed in his hand a vial, which he had attempted to

conceal. With dire threats they compelled him to swallow the yellowish

ointment which it contained, whereupon shortly he fell writhing in

agony with greenish foam issuing from his mouth and died within a few

minutes. In Spoltore, in the year ’57, Zinicche, a blacksmith, killed

the Chancellor, Don Antonio Rapino, in the square, after which the

mysterious deaths ceased, and the country was saved.

Then stories began to be circulated of recent mysterious happenings.

One woman said that seven cases of poison had come to the City Hall,

sent by the Government to be distributed through the country by mixing

it with the salt. The cases were green, fastened with iron bands and

three locks. The Mayor had been obliged to pay seven thousand ducats

to bury the cases and save the country. Another story went about that

the Government paid the Mayor five ducats for every dead person because

the population was too large, and it was the poor who must die. The

Mayor was now making out a list of those selected. Ha! He would get

rich, this great signore! And so the excitement grew. The peasants

would not buy anything in the market of Pescara; the figs were left to

rot on the trees; the grapes were left among the vine-leaves; even the

nightly depredations in the orchards and vineyards did not occur, for

the robbers feared to eat poisoned fruit. The salt, which was the only

provision obtained from the city stores, was given to dogs and cats

before being used, to make sure that it was harmless.

One day the news came that in Naples the people were dying in large

numbers and hearing the name of Naples, of that great, far-distant

kingdom where “Gianni Without Fear” made his fortune, the imaginations

of the people were inflamed. The vintage time came, but the merchants

of Lombardy bought the home grapes, and took them to the north to make

artificial wines. The luxury of new wine was scarce; the vintagers

who trampled out the juice of the grapes in the vats to the songs of

maidens, had little to do.

But when the work of the vineyards was ended, and the fruit of the

trees was gone, the fears and suspicions of the people grew less,

for now there was little chance for the Government to scatter the

poison. Heavy, beneficent rains fell upon the country, drenching the

soil and preparing it for the ploughing and the sowing, and together

with the favour of the soft autumnal sun and the moon in its first

quarter, had its beneficent influence upon seeds. One morning through

all the country the report was spread that at Villareale, near the

oak groves of Don Settimio, over the shore of the river, three women

had died after having eaten soup made from dough bought in the city.

The indignation of every person in the country was aroused, and with

greater vehemence after the quiet of the transient security.

“Aha! That is well! The ‘great Signore’ does not wish to renounce the

ducats!... But they cannot harm us now, for there is no more fruit to

eat, and we do not go to Pescara. The ‘great Signore’ is playing his

cards very badly. He wishes to see us die! But he has mistaken the

time, poor Signore!

“Where can he put the poison? In the dough? In the salt?... But we

shall not eat any more dough, and we have our salt first tried by the

dogs and cats. Ha, rascally Signore! What have you done? Your day will

come, too....”

Thus, everywhere the grumbling rose, mixed with mocking and contumely

against the men of the Commune and the Government.

In Pescara, one after another, three, four, five persons were taken

with the disease. Evening was approaching, and over the houses hung a

funereal dread, which seemed to be mingled with the dampness arising

from the river. Through the streets the people ran frantically towards

the City Hall, where the Mayor, the Councillors, and the gendarmes,

overwhelmed with the miserable confusion, ran up and down the stairs,

all talking loudly, giving contrary orders, not knowing what action to

take, where to go, nor what to do.

The strange occurrence and the excitement which followed it, caused

many of the people to grow slightly ill. Feeling a strange sensation in

their stomachs, they would begin to tremble, and with chattering teeth

would look into one another’s faces; then, with rapid strides, would

hasten to lock themselves in their homes, leaving their evening meals

untouched.

Then, late in the night, when the first tumult of the panic had

subsided, the police lighted fires of sulphur and tar at the corners of

the streets. The red flames lighted up the walls and the windows, and

the unpleasant odour of manure pervaded the air of the frightened city,

and in the light of the distant moon, it looked as though the tar men

were merrily smearing the keels of vessels. Thus did the Asiatic Plague

make an entrance into Pescara.

The disease, creeping along the river, spread through the little

seashore hamlets,—through those groups of small, low houses where the

sailors live, and where old men are engaged in small industries.

Most of those seized with the disease died, because no amount of

reasoning and assurance, or experiments, could persuade them to take

the medicine. Anisafine, the hunchback who sold water mixed with spirit

of anise to the soldiers, when he saw the glass of the physician,

closed his lips tightly and shook his head in refusal of the potion.

The doctor tried to coax him with persuasive words and first drank half

the liquid, then the assistants each took a sip. Anisafine continued to

shake his head.

“But don’t you see,” exclaimed the doctor, “we have been drinking? But

you....”

Anisafine began to laugh sceptically, “Ha! ha! ha! You took the

counter-poison,” he said, and soon after he was dead.

Cianchine, simple-minded butcher, did the same thing. The doctor, as

a last resort, poured the medicine between the man’s teeth. Cianchine

spit it out wrathfully, overwhelmed with horror. Then he began to abuse

those present, and died raging, held by two amazed gendarmes.

The public kitchens, instituted by charitably-disposed people, were

at first thought by the peasants to be laboratories for the mixing of

poisons. The beggars would starve rather than eat meat cooked in those

boilers. Costantino di Corropoli, the cynic, went about scattering his

doubts through his circle. He would wander around the kitchens, saying

aloud with an indescribable gesture, “You can’t entrap me!”

The woman Catalana di Gissi was the first to conquer her fears.

Hesitating a little, she entered and ate a small mouthful, waiting

to notice the effect of the food and then took a few sips of wine,

whereupon, feeling restored and fortified, she smiled with astonishment

and pleasure. All the beggars were waiting for her to come out and when

they saw her unharmed, they rushed in to eat and drink.

The kitchens are inside an old open theatre in the neighbourhood of

Portanova. The kettles in which the food is prepared are placed where

the orchestra used to sit. The steam from them rises and fills the

old stage; through the smoke you see the scenery behind on the stage,

representing a feudal castle in the light of the full moon. Here at

noon-time gathers around a rustic table the tribe of the beggars.

Before the hour strikes, there is a swarming of multi-coloured rags

in the pit, and there arises the grumbling of hoarse voices. Some new

figures appear among the well-known ones; noteworthy among whom is a

certain woman called Liberata Lotta di Montenerodomo, stupendous as

the mythological Minerva, with a regular and austere brow and with her

hair strained tightly over her head and adhering to it like a helmet.

She holds in her hands a grass-green vase, and stands aside, taciturn,

waiting to be asked to partake.

However, the great epic account of this chronicle of the cholera is the

War of the Bridge.

An old feud exists between Pescara and Castellammare Adriatico, which

districts lie on either side of the river.

The opposing factions were assiduously engaged in pillage and

reprisals, the one doing all that lay in its power to hinder the

prosperity of the other, and as the important factor in the prosperity

of a country is its commerce, and as Pescara possessed many industries

and great wealth, the people of Castellammare had long sought with much

astuteness and all manner of allurements to draw the merchants away

from the rival town.

An old wooden bridge, built on big tarred boats chained together and

fastened to the piers, spans the river. The cables and the ropes,

which stretch from almost the height of the piers to the low parapets,

cross each other in the air, looking like some barbaric instrument. The

uneven boards creak under the weight of the wagons, and when the ranks

of the soldiers pass over, the whole of the great structure shakes and

vibrates from one end to the other, resounding like a drum. It was from

this bridge that the popular legends of Saint Cetteo, the Liberator,

originated, and the saint yearly stops in the centre with great

Catholic pomp to receive the salutes which the sailors send him from

the anchored boats.

Thus, between the panorama of Montecorno and the sea, the humble

structure looms up like a monument of the country, and possessing

the sacredness of all monuments, gives to strangers the impression of

a people who live in primeval simplicity. As the hatred between the

Pescarese and the Castellammarese meets on this bridge, the boards

of which are worn under the daily heavy traffic, and as the trade of

the city spreads to the province of Teramo, with what joy would the

opposing faction cut the cables and push out to sea to be wrecked the

seven supporting boats.

A good opportunity having presented itself, the leader of the enemy,

with a great display of his rural forces, prevented the Pescarese from

passing over the wide road which stretches out from the bridge far

across the country, uniting numberless villages. It was his intention

to blockade the rival city by a siege, in order to shut away from it

all internal and external traffic in order to draw to the market of

his own city the sailors and buyers who were accustomed to trade on

the right shore of the river, and having thus stagnated the business

of Pescara, and having cut off from the town all source of revenue,

to rise up in triumph. He offered to the owners of the Pescarese boats

twenty francs for every hundred pounds of fish, on condition that all

boats should land and load their cargoes on his shore, and with the

stipulation that the price should last up to the day of the Nativity

of Christ. But as the price of fish usually rose shortly before

the Nativity to fifteen ducats for every hundred pounds, the profit

to himself was evident, and the cunning of his scheme was clearly

revealed. The owners refused such an offer, preferring to allow their

nets to remain idle.

Then the wily fellow spread the report of a great mortality in Pescara.

Professing friendship for the province of Teramo he succeeded in

rousing both that province and Chieti against the peaceful city, from

which the plague had really disappeared entirely. He waylaid and kept

prisoners some honest passers-by who were exercising their legitimate

right to pass along this road on their way to a more distant part

of the country. He stationed a group of loafers on the border line

who kept watch from dawn to sunset, shouting out warnings to anyone

who approached. All this caused violent rebellion on the part of the

Pescarese against such unjust and arbitrary measures. The great class

of rough, ugly labourers were lounging about in idleness, and merchants

sustained severe losses from the enforced dulness of trade. The cholera

had left the city and seemed to have disappeared also from the seashore

towns, where only a few decrepit old men had died. All the citizens,

rugged and full of health and spirits, would have rejoiced to take up

their customary labours.

Then the tribunes rose to action: Francesco Pomarice, Antonio

Sorrentino, Pietro D’Amico; and in the streets the people, divided

into groups, listened to their words, applauding, proposing, and

uttering cries. A great tumult was brewing. As an illustration, some

recounted the heart-rending tale of Moretto di Claudia, who had been

taken by force, by men paid to do the deed, and being imprisoned in the

Lazzaretto, was kept for five consecutive days without other food than

bread, at the end of which time he succeeded in escaping from a window,

swam across the river, and came to his people dripping with water, out

of breath, and overcome with exultation and joy at his escape.

The Mayor, seeing the storm gathering, endeavoured to arbitrate with

the Great Enemy of Castellammare. The Mayor is a little fellow, a

knighted Doctor of Law, carefully dressed, curly haired, his shoulders

covered with dandruff, his small roving eyes accustomed to pleasant

simulation. The Great Enemy is a degenerate, a nephew of the good

Gargantuasso, a big fellow, puffing, exploding, devouring. The meeting

of the two took place on neutral ground, with the Prefects of Teramo

and of Chieti as witnesses.

But towards sunset one of the guards went into Pescara to bring a

message to one of the councillors of the Commune; he went in with

another of the loafers to drink, after which he strolled about the

streets. When the tribunes saw him, they immediately gave chase. With

cries and shouts, he was driven towards the banks of the river as far

as Lazzaretto. The water glared in the light of the setting sun, and

the belligerent reddening of the air intoxicated the people.

Then from the willow trees on the opposite shore a crowd of

Castellammarese poured out, with vehement gestures and angry protests

against the outrage. With a fury equalling their own, the Pescarese

answered their gibes. The guard, who had been imprisoned, was pounding

the door of his prison with fists and feet, crying out:

“Open to me! Open to me!”

“You go to sleep in there and don’t worry!” the men called to him

scornfully, while someone cruelly added:

“Ah, if you knew how many have been killed down there! Don’t you smell

the blood? Doesn’t it make you sick?”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Towards Bandiera the gleam of gun-barrels could be seen. The little

Mayor, at the head of a band of soldiers, was coming to liberate the

guard that the wrath of the Great Enemy might not be incurred.

Suddenly the irritated rabble broke out in an angry uproar. Loud

cries rose against the cowardly liberator of the Castellammarese. From

Lazzaretto to the city sounded the clamour of hisses and contumely. To

the delight of the people the shouting lasted until their voices grew

hoarse. After the first outburst the revolt began to turn in other

directions. The shops were all closed, the citizens gathered in the

street, rich and poor mingling together familiarly, all possessed of

the same wild desire to speak, to shout, to gesticulate, to express in

a thousand different ways the feelings which burned within them.

Every few minutes another tribune would arrive with fresh news. Groups

dissolved to form new groups, varying according to differences of

opinion.

The free spirit of the day affected everyone; every breath of air

seemed to intoxicate like a draught of wine, the hilarity of the

Pescarese revived, and they continued their rebellion ironically for

pure enjoyment, for spite, and for the love of novelty. The stratagems

of the Great Enemy were increased. Any agreement was broken to further

the skilful schemes which were suggested, and the weakness of the

little Mayor favoured this method of procedure.

On the morning of All Souls’ Day at about seven o’clock, when the first

ceremonies were being performed in the churches, the tribunes started

to make a tour of the city, followed by a crowd which grew larger at

every step, and became more and more clamorous. When all the people

had gathered, Antonio Sorrentino addressed them in a stirring harangue.

Then the procession proceeded in an orderly way towards the City Hall.

The streets in the shadows were still bluish from smoke; the houses

were bathed in sunlight.

At the sight of the City Hall an immense cry broke out. From every

mouth vituperations were hurled; every fist rose threateningly. The

shouts vibrated at intervals as though produced by an instrument,

and above the confused mass of heads the vermilion flags waved as if

agitated by a heavy popular breath. No one appeared upon the balcony

of the City Hall. The sun was gradually descending from the roof to

the meridian sand, black with figures and lines, upon which vibrated

the indicating shadow. From the Torretta of the D’Annunzio to the

bell-tower of the Abbey, flocks of doves were flying against the azure

sky.

The shouts increased. A number of the more zealous ones took by assault

the stairs of the building. The little Mayor, pallid and timid, yielded

to the wish of the people. He left his seat in the City Hall, resigned

his office, and passed down the street between two gendarmes, followed

by the whole Board of Councillors. He then left the city and withdrew

to the hall of Spoltore.

The doors of the City Hall were closed and for a time Anarchy ruled

the city. In order to prevent an open battle, which seemed imminent,

between the Castellammarese and the Pescarese, the soldiers stationed

themselves at the extreme left end of the bridge. Having torn down the

flags, the crowd set out for the road to Chieti, where the Prefect, who

had been summoned by a Royal Commissary, was expected. All their plans

seemed to be ferocious. However, in the soft warmth of the sunlight,

their ire was soon decreased.

Through the wide street poured forth from the church the women of the

place, dressed in various coloured gowns, and covered with jewelry

consisting mostly of silver filigree and gold necklaces. The appearance

of these happy and joyful faces quieted and soothed the turbulent

spirits of the mob. Jests and laughter broke forth spontaneously,

and the short period of waiting was almost gay. Towards noon the

carriage of the Prefect came in sight. The people formed themselves

in a semicircle to stop its passage. Antonio Sorrentino again gave a

harangue, not without a certain flowery eloquence. The crowd, in the

pauses of the speech, asked in various ways for justice and relief from

the abuses, and that no measure should be taken which would involve

killing.

The two large skeletons of horses, still animated, however, shook their

bells from time to time, showing the rebels their white gums as if in

a grimace of derision. A delegate of the police, looking like an old

singer of some comic opera, who still wore around his face a druid

beard, from the height of the back seat was emphasising the words of

the tribune’s speech with grave gestures of his hand. As the speaker

in his enthusiasm went on with impetuous eloquence, he became too

audacious, and the Prefect, rising from his seat, took advantage of the

moment to interrupt. He ventured several irrelevant and timid remarks,

which were drowned by the cries of the people.

“To Pescara! To Pescara!”

The carriage, pushed along by the press of the crowd, entered the city

and the City Hall being closed, it stopped before the Delegation. Ten

men, named by the people, together with the Prefect, formed a temporary

parliament. The crowd filled the street and every now and then an

impatient murmur arose.

The houses, heated by the sun, radiated a delightful warmth, and an

indescribable mildness emanated from the sky and sea, from the floating

vegetation alongside the water-troughs, from the roses, from the

windows, from the white walls of the houses, from the very air of the

place itself. This place is renowned as the home of the most beautiful

women of Pescara, from generation to generation its fame for its

beauties has been perpetuated.

The home of Don Ussorio is the abode of flourishing children and

pretty girls; the house is all covered with little loggias, which are

overflowing with carnations growing in rough vases ornamented with

bas-reliefs.

Gradually the impatient crowd grew quiet. From one end of the street

to the other the speakers were subsiding. Domenico di Matteo, a sort

of rustic Rodomonte, was making loud jests upon the asininity and

avidity of the doctors who cause their patients to die in order to get

a larger fee from the Commune. He was telling of some marvellous cures

he had effected on himself. Once he had a terrible pain on his chest,

and was about to die. The physician had forbidden him to drink water,

and he was burning with thirst. One night, when everyone was asleep

he got up quietly, felt about for a water tank, and having found it,

stuck his head in it and drank like a pack horse until the tank was

empty. Next morning he had entirely recovered. Another time, he and

a companion, having been ill for a long time with intermittent fever,

and having taken large quantities of quinine without avail, decided to

make an experiment. Across the river from them was a vineyard filled

with grapes, hanging ripe and delicious in the sun. Going to the shore,

they undressed themselves, plunged into the water, and swam through

the current to the other shore, and after having eaten as many grapes

as they could, swam back again. The intermittent fever disappeared.

Another time he was ill with blood poisoning, and spent more than

fifteen ducats for doctors and medicine in vain. As he watched his

mother doing the washing, a happy thought struck him. One after another

he swallowed five glasses of lime-water, and was cured.

From the balconies, from the windows, from the loggias, a number of

beautiful women leaned out, one after another. The men in the street

raised their eyes towards these fair apparitions, walking along

with heads bent backward. As the dinner hour was passed, they felt a

certain dizziness in their heads and their stomachs, and an awakening

faintness. Brief talks between street and windows took place, the

young men making gestures and little speeches to the belles, the

belles answering with motions of their hands or shakes of their heads,

or sometimes by laughing aloud. Their fresh laughter poured out on

the men below like strings of crystals, increasing their admiration.

The heat given out by the walls of the houses mingled with the heat

of the bodies of the crowd. The whitish reflection dazzled the eyes;

something enervating and stupefying seemed to descend upon the restless

mob. Suddenly upon the loggia appeared the woman Ciccarina, the belle

of the belles, the rose of the roses, the adorable object whom all

desired. With a common impulse, every look was turned towards her. She

acknowledged this homage with triumphant smiles, laughing, radiant,

like a Venetian Dogess before her people. The sunlight fell on her full

flushed face, reminding one of the pulp of a succulent fruit. Her loose

hair, so bright that it seemed to dart golden flames, encircled her

forehead, temples and neck. The fascination of a Venus emanated from

her whole person. She simply stood there, between two cages of black

birds, smiling in great unconcern, not at all troubled by the longing

and admiration shown in the eyes of all the men watching her.

The black birds, singing a sort of rustic madrigal, fluttered their

wings towards her. Ciccarina, smiling, withdrew from the loggia. The

crowd remained in the street, dazzled by the vision, and a little dizzy

from hunger. Then one of the speakers, leaning out from the window of

the Delegation, announced in a shrill voice:

“Citizens! The matter will be settled within three hours!”