"A te questo rosario"—
"A te questo rosario"—
Some monk—one of the few left in the damp and decadent spot—dirty, tattered, with broken sandals, would pass through the court mumbling his prayers in dialect. Sometimes the soldier at the window, the friar on the staircase, amused themselves talking to the children. Thecarabinierewould turn sharp to Anania and ask news of his mother.
"What's she doing?"
"She's spinning."
"What else does she do?"
"She goes to the fountain for water."
"Tell her to come here. I want to speak to her."
"Yes, Sir," answered the little innocent.
He gave the message to Olì. Though he had once seen her talking to the soldier, she was angry and boxed his ears. She told him not to go back to the courtyard; but of course he disobeyed as he could not live without either Zuanne or the wax-candlemaker's children.
Except on Sunday, and on the Feast of the Martyrs in spring, sad solitude reigned in the great sunshiny court, in the ruined arcades which smelt of wax, under the big walnut tree, which to Anania seemed taller than the Gennargentu, in the Basilica where the pictures and stucco ornaments were perishing of neglect. Yet in his after life the boy remembered with nostalgic sweetness that deserted spot; and the oats which in spring used to come up between the stones, and the rusty leaves of the walnut tree falling in autumn like the feathers of a dying bird. Zuanne who was devoured with longing to play in the courtyard, and who was bored when Anania deserted him, was jealous of the candlemaker's children, and did his best to keep his friend away from them.
"I want you to-morrow," he said to the younger boy, while they roasted chestnuts in the ashes; "I've got a hare's nest to show you. She has such a lot of little ones and they're as small as your fingers! They're quite naked, with long ears. Eh! their ears are as long as the devil's!" he ended, drawing on his invention. Anania went in search of the leverets, and of course didn't find them. Zuanne swore he had seen them, that they must have run away, that it showed Anania's folly in not having looked for them sooner.
"You waste all your time withthem," he said scornfully; "well, they can make wax hares for you! I'd have caught the whole nestful of the real ones, if I hadn't been waiting to show them to you. Well, now we'll look for a crow's nest."
The little goatherd did all he could to amuse Anania, but the young child found the autumn mists cold on the mountains, and he stayed among the houses. In those days he saw little of his mother and treasured up few remembrances of her. She was always out. She worked by the day in fields or houses. She dug potatoes and came home late, worn out, livid with cold, famished. Anania's father had not been to Fonni for a long time; the boy had no recollection of ever having seen him.
It was the bandit's widow who to a certain extent mothered the poor little love-child, and of her he retained pleasant memories. The widow had rocked him and hushed him to sleep with the melancholy wail of strange dirges. She washed his head, she cut his nails, she blew his nose violently. Every evening she sat spinning by the fire and telling the heroic deeds of her bandit. The children listened greedily; but Olì no longer cared for the stories and often went away to lie down on her bed in the garret. Anania's sleeping place was at her feet. Often when he went up he found his mother already asleep, but cold as ice; and he tried to warm her feet with his own little hot ones. More than once he heard her sob in the silence of the night, but he was too much in awe of her to ask her why.
He consulted Zuanne on the subject, and the little goatherd thought it his duty to impart certain information to his friend.
"You ought to know," he said, "that you're a bastard; your father isn't married to your mother. There are lots of people like that, you know," he added consolingly.
"Why didn't he marry her?"
"Because he had a wife already. He'll marry her when that one dies."
"When will that one die?"
"When God wills. Your father used to come and see us, so I know him."
"What's he like?" asked Anania, frowning under an impulse of hatred towards this unknown father who didn't come to see him. This was probably what his mother cried about at night.
"Well," said Zuanne, cudgelling his memory, "he's tall and very handsome with eyes like fireflies. He has a soldier's coat."
"Where is he?"
"At Nuoro, Nuoro is a great city which can be seen from the Gennargentu. I know the Monsignore at Nuoro, because he christened me."
"Have you been there? To Nuoro?"
"Of course I have," said Zuanne, lying.
"I don't believe it. You haven't been there. I remember you haven't been there!"
"I was there before you was born, that's how it was!"
After this Anania went willingly with Zuanne even when it was cold. He kept asking questions about his father and about Nuoro and the road to that city. At night he dreamed of the road, and saw a city with so many, many churches, with such big, big houses, and mountains higher than even the Gennargentu.
One day late in November Olì went to Nuoro for the feast of Le Grazie. When she came back she had a quarrel with Aunt Grathia. Indeed latterly she had been quarrelling with every one and slapping the children. Anania heard her crying the whole night through, and though she had beaten him yesterday he was full of pity. He would have liked to say—
"Never mind, mother dear. Zuanne says if he was like me that he'd go to Nuoro the moment he was grown up and find his father and make him come to see us. But I am ready to go before I'm grown up. Let me go, dear mother!" But he dared not utter a word.
It was still night when Olì rose, went to the kitchen, came back, went down a second time, returned with a bundle.
"Get up!" she bade the child.
She helped him to dress; then put a chain round his neck from which hung a little bag of green brocade strongly sewn.[9]
"What's in it?" asked the child, fingering the little packet.
"It's aricetta, a receipt which will bring you good fortune. An old monk I met on the road gave it to me. Mind you always wear it on your chest, next your skin. Don't ever lose it."
"What was the monk like? Had he a long beard? Had he a stick?"
"Yes, a beard and a stick."
"Was ithe?"
"Who?"
"The Lord Jesus."
"Perhaps!" said Olì. "Well, promise you'll never lose the little bag. Swear it."
"I swear on my conscience," said Anania, much impressed. "Is the chain strong?"
"Very strong."
Olì took the bundle, clasped the child's hand in hers, and led him to the kitchen. There she gave him a bowl of coffee and a piece of bread. Then she threw an old sack over his shoulders and they went out.
It was dawn.
The cold was intense. Fog filled the valley and hid the immense cloister of mountains. Here and there a snow-dad summit emerged like a silvery cloud. Monte Spada, a huge block of bronze, now and then appeared for a moment through the moving veil of vapour. Anania and his mother crossed the deserted street and stepped out into the mist. They began to descend the high road which went down lower and lower into a distance full of mystery. Anania's little heart beat; for the grey, damp road, watched over by the outermost houses of Fonni, whose scaled roofs seemed black wings plucked of their feathers, this road which continuously descended towards an unknown, cloud-filled abyss—was the road to Nuoro.
Mother and son walked fast. The boy often had to run, but he did not tire. He was used to running, and the lower they descended the more excited he felt, hot and eager as a bird. More than once he asked—
"Where are we going, mother?"
Once she answered, "To pick chestnuts." Another time, "Into the country." Another, "You will see." Anania danced, ran, stumbled, rolled. Now and then he felt his chest for the charm. The fog was lifting. High up the sky appeared, a watery blue, furrowed, as it were, by long streaks of white lead. The mountains showed livid through the mist. At last a ray of pale sunshine illuminated the little church of Gonare, which on the top of a pyramidal mountain stood up against a background of leaden cloud.
"Is that where we're going?" asked Anania, pointing to a wood of chestnut trees. Drops hung from the leaves and from the bursting thorny fruit. A little bird cried in the silence of the hour and the place.
"Further on," said Olì.
Anania resumed his delightful running. Never in any excursion had he pushed so far. The continued descent, the changed nature, the grass slopes, the moss-grown walls, the spinnies of hazel, the red berries on the thorn trees, the little chirruping birds, all seemed to him new and glorious.
The fog vanished. A triumphant sun cleared the mountains. The clouds over Monte Gonare had become a beautiful golden pink. The little church was so distinct against them that it seemed near.
"But where the devil is this place?" asked little Anania, opening his hands with a gesture of great contempt.
"We are getting near. Are you tired?"
"I? Tired?" he said, starting to run again.
He began, however, to feel a little pain in his knees. He did not run so fast. He walked by Olì's side and chattered. But the woman, the bundle on her head, her face white, circles round her eyes, hardly heeded him and made absent answers.
"Shall we come back to-night? Why didn't you let me tell Zuanne? Is the wood far off? Is it at Mamojada?"
"Yes, at Mamojada."
"When is thefestaat Mamojada? Is it true that Zuanne has been at Nuoro? This is the road to Nuoro, I know that. And it takes ten hours to walk to Nuoro. Have you been to Nuoro? When is thefestaat Nuoro?"
"It's over. It was the other day. Would you like to go to Nuoro?" asked Olì, rousing herself.
"Of course, I should. And then—then——"
"You know your father is at Nuoro?" said Olì, guessing his thought. "Would you like to be with him?"
Anania considered. Then he wrinkled his brows, and answered, "Yes."
What was he thinking when he said that? His mother did not ask. She only said—
"Shall I take you to him?"
"Yes," said the child.
Towards noon they halted beside a garden. A woman, with her petticoats sewn between her legs like pantaloons, was hoeing vigorously. A white cat sometimes followed the woman, sometimes darted after a green lizard which now appeared now vanished among the stones of the wall. Ever afterwards Anania remembered these details. The day had become warm, the sky blue. The mountains were grey as if dried by the sun; the dark woods flecked with light. The sun had warmed the grass and waked sparkles in the streamlets.
Olì sat on the ground, opened her bundle, took out some bread, and called Anania who had climbed on the wall to watch the woman and the cat. Just then the post-carriage, which was coming down from Fonni, appeared at the turn of the road. It was driven by a big, red-haired man with a moustache and puffy cheeks which made him seem perpetually laughing.
Olì tried to hide, but the big man had seen her.
"Where are you going, little woman?"
"Where I choose," she answered in a low voice.
Anania still on the wall, peeped into the coach. It was empty, and he cried, "Take me in it, Uncle Batusta, take me!"
"But where are you going? Come!" said the big man, drawing up.
"If you must know, we're going to Nuoro," said Olì eating as she spoke; "it would be a charity to give us a lift. We're as tired as donkeys!"
"Listen," said the big man, "go on to the other side of Mamojada, I have to stop there. After that I'll pick you up."
He kept his promise. Presently the wayfarers were sitting beside him on the box seat. He began to gossip with Olì. Anania was tired, but he felt acute pleasure in his position between his mother and this big man with the long whip, in the fresh fields and blue sky framed by the hood of the vehicle, in the swift trot of the horses. The greater mountains had now all disappeared; and the child thought of how Zuanne would envy him this long journey into a new district. "What a lot I shall tell him when I go home," he thought; "I'll say to him, 'I have ridden in a coach and you haven't.'"
"Why the devil are you going to Nuoro?" the big man was asking Olì.
"If you wish to know," she answered him, "I'm going to service. I've arranged with a good mistress. It's hopeless living at Fonni. The widow of Zuanne Atonzu has turned me out."
"That's not true," thought Anania. Why did his mother lie? Why didn't she say the truth that she was going to Nuoro to find her boy's father? Well, she probably had her reasons for lying. Anania did not bother himself, especially as he was sleepy.
He leaned against his mother and shut his eyes.
"Who's at theCantonieranow?" asked Olì suddenly. "Is my father there still?"
"No, he's gone."
She sighed heavily. The vehicle stopped for a moment then rolled on. Anania was asleep.
At Nuoro, he became aware of delusions. Was this the city of his dreams? Well, yes, the houses were bigger than the houses at Fonni, but not at all so big as he had expected. The mountains, sombre against the violet sky, were small, quite ridiculous. The streets, however, seemed wide; and the children in them were very impressive, for in speech and in garments they were quite unlike the children of Fonni.
Till evening, mother and son wandered about Nuoro. At last they went into a church. Many people were there, the altar flamed with candles, sweet singing was blended with a sound still sweeter which came the boy knew not whence. Ah! that was something really beautiful! Anania thought of Zuanne and the pleasure of describing his adventures.
Olì whispered in his ear—
"Don't move till I come back. I'm going to find the friend at whose house we shall sleep."
He remained alone at the bottom of the church. It was alarming, but he encouraged himself looking at the people, the candles, the flowers, the saints. Also he had the charm hidden on his breast. That was a comfort. Suddenly he remembered his father. Where was he? Why ever didn't they go and find him?
Olì soon returned. She waited till the service was over, then took her boy's hand and led him out by a side door. They walked down several streets. At last they got beyond the houses. It was late, it was cold; Anania was hungry and thirsty. He felt sad, and thought of Aunt Grathia's hearth, of the roast chestnuts, and of Zuanne's chatter. They were in a lane bordered by hedges; the mountains, which seemed so small to the child, were visible.
"Look here," said Olì, and her voice shook, "did you notice the last house with the big open door?"
"Yes."
"Your father's in there. You want to see him, don't you? Turn back and go in at the big door. You'll find another door straight before you. It will be open. Go in by that door, and look about you. It's a press where they make oil. A tall man with his sleeves turned up and his head bare is walking behind the horse. That is your father."
"Aren't you coming too?" asked the boy.
Olì shuddered. "I'll come presently. You must go in first. When you see him, say, 'I am the son of Olì Derios!' Do you understand? Come along!"
They turned back. Anania felt his mother's hand shake and he heard her teeth chatter. They stopped at the big door; she bent down, arranged the charm round the child's neck and kissed him. "Go on," she said, giving him a push.
Anania entered. He saw the other door, faintly illuminated, and went on. He found himself in a black, black place, lighted only by a red furnace upon which a cauldron was seething. A black horse went round and round, turning a large, heavy, very oily wheel in a sort of round vat. A tall man, bareheaded, with his sleeves turned up and all his clothes stained black with oil, followed the horse, stirring the crushed olives in the vat with a wooden pole. Two other men moved backwards and forwards, pushing a screw fixed in a press, from which flowed the black and steaming oil. Before the fire sat a boy with a red cap.
It was this boy who first saw the stranger child.
"Get out!" he shouted.
Anania, frightened, but encouraged by the thought of his amulet, did not speak. He gazed about him, bewildered, and expecting his mother to come in. The man with the pole looked at him with shining eyes, then asked—
"What do you want?"
Could this be his father? Anania looked at him shyly, then pronounced the words his mother had taught him.
"I am the son of Olì Derios."
The two men who were turning the screw stopped suddenly and one of them cried—
"Your brat!"
The tall man threw his pole down, approached the child, stared, shook him and asked—
"Who has sent you here? What do you want? Where's your mother?"
"She's outside. She's coming."
The oil-miller rushed out, followed by the boy with the red cap. But Olì had disappeared; and nothing more was heard of her.
Learning what had occurred, Aunt Tatàna, the oil-miller's wife, came to the mill. She was a woman not young, but still beautiful, fair and plump, with soft, warm brown eyes surrounded by little wrinkles. On her upper lip was a very faint golden moustache. Her manner was quiet, but cheerful and kind. She put her hands on Anania's shoulders, bent down and examined him.
"Don't cry, poor little man!" she said gently. "Mother will come in a few minutes! Be quiet, you!" she added, turning to the men and the boy, who were inclined to meddle.
Anania wept inconsolably and answered no questions. The boy kept staring at him with wicked blue eyes and a mocking smile on his round rosy face.
"Where has she gone? Isn't she coming? Where shall I find her?" sobbed the deserted child desperately. Something must have happened to his mother; she had been frightened; where could she be? Why didn't she come? And this horrible, oily, rough man—was this his father?
But the coaxing and gentle words of Aunt Tatàna comforted him a little. He stopped crying, and rubbed the tears all over his cheeks in his usual way; then thought of flight.
The woman, the oil-miller, the two men, and the boy were all talking loud. They swore, laughed, disputed.
"He's your own child. He's just like you!" said the woman, turning to her husband. But the miller cried—
"I don't want him! I tell you I don't want him!"
"Have you no heart? Holy Saint Catharine! can men be so cruel?" said Aunt Tatàna, jesting but serious. "Ah, Anania, that's you all over! You are always yourself!"
"Who else would you have me be?" he growled, "Well, I'm going for the police."
"You shan't go for the police, stupid! Wash your dirty linen at home, please!"
He insisted, so she said, temporising, "Well, well, go for the police to-morrow. At present finish your work; and remember the words of King Solomon about leaving the evening wrath till the morning."
The three men returned to their work; but while the miller stirred the olives under the wheel, he muttered and swore, and the others laughed. The woman said quietly—
"You are making bad worse. You have only yourself to blame. By Saint Catharine it's I who ought to be offended! Remember, Anania, that God doesn't leave wages till Saturday!"
Then she turned to the child who was crying again.
"Hush! little son!" she said, "we'll set it all right to-morrow. There! don't you know little birds always leave the nest when they get wings?"
"But did you know of this little bird's existence?" laughed one of the men; and the boy crowded on Anania and said teasingly, "Why has your mother run away? What sort of a woman is she?"
"Bustianeddu!" thundered the miller, "if you don't go this moment I'll kick you out!"
"Try!" said the boy impudently.
"You can tell him the sort of woman she is!" cried one of the men, and the other laughed till his sides shook and he neglected the screw of the press.
Aunt Tatàna was fondling the child, examining his poor clothes and asking him questions. He answered in an uncertain, lamentable voice interrupted by sobs.
"Poor little one! Poor little dear! Little bird without wings! without wings and without a nest!" said the kind soul, "be quiet, my little pet. Aren't you rather hungry? Come! we'll go in and Aunt Tatàna will give you some nice supper, and then we'll put you to bed, with the guardian angel; and to-morrow it will all come right!"
After this promise he allowed himself to be led to a little house beside the olive-mill. Here she gave him white bread and cheese, and an egg and a pear. Never had Anania supped so well! The pear worked wonders, added to Aunt Tatàna's sweet words and motherly caresses.
"To-morrow!" said the woman.
"To-morrow!" accepted the child.
While he ate, Aunt Tatàna moved about preparing her husband's supper. She talked to Anania and gave him good counsels which she said she had herself been taught by King Solomon and Holy Saint Catharine.
Suddenly the round visage of the boy Bustianeddu appeared at the window.
"Get away, little frog!" she said, "it's cold."
"Yes, it's cold," he returned, "so please let me come in."
"Why aren't you at the mill?"
"They've sent me away. There's such a crowd there."
"Well, come in," said the woman, opening the door. "Come in, poor orphan, you also are without a mother! What's Uncle Anania doing? Is he angry still?"
"Oh I suppose so!" said Bustianeddu, sitting down and gnawing the core of the stranger child's pear.
"They've all arrived," he went on, discoursing and gesticulating like a grown person; "my father, and Maestro Pane, and Uncle Pera, and that liar Franziscu Carchide, and Aunt Corredda, every single one of them——"
"What are they saying?" asked the woman, with quick interest.
"They're saying you'll have to adopt the kid. Uncle Pera laughs and says, who will Uncle Anania leave his goods to, if he has no child? Uncle Anania ran at him with the pole. Then they all laughed like mad."
Aunt Tatàna's interest was overpowering. Telling Bustianeddu to mind the child, she went back to the mill.
At once Bustianeddu began confidentially to his charge—
"My father has 100lirein the chest of drawers, and I know where he keeps the key. We live close here, and have some land for which we pay taxes. One day the Commissioner came and seized the barley. What's in that saucepan making that cra—cra—cra—? Don't you think it's burning? I'd better look in." (he lifted the cover) "The devil! Potatoes! I thought it was something better. I'm going to taste them!"
With two fingers he hooked out a boiling lump, blew on it and ate it up. Then he took another.
"What are you doing?" said Anania shocked, "if the woman comes back——"
"We know how to make macaroni, my father and I," said the imperturbable youngster, "do you know? And tomato sauce——"
"No, I don't know," said Anania absently.
He was thinking of his mother, his mind besieged by sad questions. Where had she gone? Why hadn't she come into the mill? Why had she gone away and forgotten him? Now that he had eaten and was warm, Anania would have liked to run away. To run away and look for his mother. To run away and find his mother. This idea took firm roots and would not leave him.
After a while Aunt Tatàna came back. She brought with her a ragged woman with uncertain step, a red nose, and a large hanging mouth; a horrible-looking person.
"And this—this is the little bird?" she said stammering and looking lovingly at the foundling. "Let me see your little face, to bless you! By God's truth, he's as pretty as a star! And the man doesn't want him? Well Tatàna Atonzu, it's for you to pick him up—to pick him up like a sugar-plum——"
She came nearer and kissed Anania. He turned away, for she smelt of drink.
"Aunt Nanna," said the incorrigible Bustianeddu, pretending to drain a glass, "have you had enough for to-day?"
"Eh? Eh? What? What do you mean? What are you doing here, you little fly, you p—poor little orphan? Go home to your b—bed."
"You'd better go to bed yourself," said Aunt Tatàna, "take yourselves off, both of you."
She gave the woman a gentle push, but before going away Nanna begged for a drop of something. Bustianeddu offered her water; she snatched at the glass eagerly, but after one sip shook her head and set it down. Then she moved unsteadily away. Aunt Tatàna sent Bustianeddu after her, and shut the door.
"You are tired, my pet," she said to Anania, "come, I will put you to bed."
She took him to a big room behind the kitchen and undressed him, coaxing him with sweet words.
"Don't be frightened, my little one. Mother will come to-morrow; or else we'll go together and look for her. Do you know how to cross yourself? Can you say yourCredo? Yes, every night we ought to say theCredo! I'll teach it to you, and some nice prayers; especially one by San Pasquale which will prepare you for the hour of death. Ah! I see you have aRezetta! What a pretty one! That is nice! San Giovanni will take care of you. Yes, he was once a little naked boy like you, though afterwards he baptized our Lord Jesus. Go to sleep, my pet. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen."
Anania found himself in a great bed with red pillows. Aunt Tatàna covered him up; then she went away, leaving him in the dark. He held his amulet very tight, shut his eyes, and did not cry. However he could not sleep.
To-morrow! To-morrow! But oh dear! how many years had passed since they had started from Fonni? What ever would Zuanne think? Strange fancies, confused thoughts passed through the little mind; among them all, the figure of his mother remained distinct. Where had she gone? Was she cold? To-morrow he would see her again. To-morrow. If they didn't take him to find her he would go by himself. To-morrow——
Anania heard the olive-miller come in. He disputed with his wife. He cried, "I don't want the child! I don't want him!"
Then there was silence. But, suddenly, someone opened the door, came into the room, walked on tip-toe to the bed, cautiously lifted the quilt. A bristly moustache touched Anania's cheek. He was pretending to be asleep, but he opened his eyes, a tiny, tiny bit, and saw that the person who had kissed him was his father!
A few minutes later Aunt Tatàna came in and lay down in the great bed beside Anania. He heard her praying a long time, whispering and sighing—then he fell asleep.
[8]Carabinieri—The country police.
[8]Carabinieri—The country police.
[9]La Rezetta, an amulet containing prayers written on paper, flowers gathered on St John's night, relics, etc.
[9]La Rezetta, an amulet containing prayers written on paper, flowers gathered on St John's night, relics, etc.
No one reported to the police that a child had been deserted. Olì was able to disappear unhindered. It was never exactly known whither she had gone. Someone said he had seen her on the steamer from Sardinia to Civita Vecchia. Later, a Fonni shopkeeper, who had been to the continent on business, declared he had met Olì in Rome, smartly dressed and accompanied by other women of obvious character.
These things were told at the olive-mill, the child being present. He listened eagerly. Like some little wild animal which has apparently been tamed, he continually meditated escape. At Fonni, while living with his mother, he had thought of running away to find his father; now he was with his father and he thought of running away to look for Olì. She might be far off, she might be beyond the sea—no matter; he felt capable of finding her by himself. Not that he loved her! No, he could not love one who had given him more blows than kisses, one who had deserted him! Instinctively he felt that was shameful. But then neither did he love his father. Anania could not forget his first impression, the terror and repulsion with which the dark, oily, angry man had inspired him, the man who had kissed him in secret while before the world he stormed at and insulted him.
But Aunt Tatàna—ah, she loved him! She washed and brushed and dressed him; she taught him prayers and the precepts of King Solomon. She took him to church, and gave him nice things to eat, and let him sleep with her. Little by little Anania gave her his affection. In a short time he was another boy. He grew fat and gave himself airs; he had forgotten his rough Fonni costume, and wore a nice little suit of dark fustian. He acquired the Nuoro accent, and was knowing and sharp like Bustianeddu.
Yet his little heart remained unchanged. It could not change. Dreams of flight, of adventure, of wondrous accidents, were blended in his childish soul with nostalgic yearning for his native place, for the people and the things he knew, for the liberty he had enjoyed, for the unkind mother who had become to him an object of pity and of shame. Though he was better off, the little wild creature suffered under the dislocation of all his habits. He wanted he knew not what. He thought he wanted his mother—because everyone had a mother! because to have lost his mother was not so much grief as humiliation. He understood that his mother could not be with the olive-miller, because he had another wife; well, then, he would rather be left with his mother. He belonged to her; perhaps also he instinctively felt her the weaker and became her champion.
As time passed, all these thoughts, these instincts grew fainter, but they did not disappear from his little soul; so also her physical image was transformed in his memory, never obliterated.
One day he learned something unexpected about Bustianeddu, whose friendship he had so far endured rather than courted.
"My mother's not dead," said this boy, almost boastingly, "she's away on the continent like yours. She ran away one time when my father was in prison. When I'm grown up, I'll go and find her. I swear it. I've an uncle on the continent too. He's a schoolmaster. He wrote that he'd seen my mother in a street and was going to beat her, but the people held him off. It was my uncle gave me this red cap."
This story was quite comforting to Anania, and drew him into intimacy with Bustianeddu. For years they were companions, at the olive-mill, in the streets, beside Aunt Tatàna's fire. Bustianeddu was much the age of Zuanne, Anania's lost brother. At bottom he was warmhearted and generous. He said he attended school; but often the schoolmaster asked the boy's father for his invisible pupil. The father was a small dealer in skins and fleeces; when these inquiries reached him, he tied his son up with a rope of undressed leather, locked him in, and bade him learn his lessons. Like older criminals, Bustianeddu came out of prison more reckless and cunning than before. But his father was often away from home; and then the boy, weighted with responsibility, became very serious. He swept the house, washed the linen, cooked the dinner. Anania was delighted to help him. In return Bustianeddu gave him advice and taught him many things good and evil. They were often at the olive-mill where "Big Anania" (so called to distinguish him from his son) worked for his master the rich Signor Daniele Carboni. Big Anania called Signor Carboni "Master," because he had served him for years—as olive-miller, field-labourer, gardener, vine-dresser, according to season; he was, however, very independent, and his work though well paid was not without its risks.
On one side of the olive-mill was the courtyard through which Anania had entered that first night; on the other a garden which sloped down to the high road. It was a beautiful garden, partly orchard, partly wild, with rocky boulders among which straggled bushes of white thorn, Indian figs, almond trees, and peaches. There was one oak tree with rugged stem, harbouring nests of great locusts, caterpillars, and all sorts of birds. The garden belonged to Signor Carboni, and was the envy of all the boys in the neighbourhood. The old gardener, Uncle PeraSa Gattu(the cat), carried a cudgel to keep them out. From this garden the strong, beautiful Nuoro girls could be seen going to the fountain, amphoras on their heads, like the women of the Bible. Uncle Pera ogled them while he sowed his peas and beans, putting three peas in each hole, and shouting to scare the sparrows.
Anania and Bustianeddu watched him from the mill window, anxious themselves to get into the sunny orchard, and waiting till the gardener should take himself off. Uncle Pera, a dried-up little man, clean-shaven, his face the colour of brick-dust, was too fond of his vegetables to desert them often. Not till nightfall did he go up to the mill to warm himself and to gossip.
This was a good olive year and the press was at work night and day. Twoettolitriof olives produced about twolitriof oil. Near the door stood a tin for oil to feed the lamps of this or that Madonna; pious persons poured into it a few drops from each load of olives. All round the press the floor was crowded with barrels and tubs, with sacks of black, shining olives, with heaps of steaming refuse. The whole place was dark, hot, dirty. The cauldron was always boiling, the wheel turned by the big bay horse was always in motion, always distilling oil. The smell of the husks, though too strong, was not exactly disagreeable. The furnace sent out a fine heat, and round it in the long chilly evenings were gathered all the coldest persons of the neighbourhood. Beside the miller and his staff, five or six people came regularly. Efès Cau, once a man of means, now reduced by drink to extreme poverty, slept almost nightly at the mill, contaminating the corner where he lay, to the great annoyance of cleaner persons.
Anania and Bustianeddu sat in a corner on a heap of hot husks, amused by the talk of their elders, delighted by the absurdities of the drunken Efès.
Uncle Pera offered him wine; but Franziscu Carchide, the handsome young shoemaker, interposed.
"No, no, Efès, if you don't dance, you don't drink. You must sing too. Come!"
"'When Amelia so pure and so pale——'"
"'When Amelia so pure and so pale——'"
Anania and Bustianeddu laughed till their sides ached, squatting on the husks like a pair of chickens.
"Let's put pins where he sleeps," suggested Bustianeddu.
"What for?" asked the more kindly Anania.
"To prick him, of course. Then he'll dance with a vengeance. I've brought the pins."
"All right," said the other, unwillingly.
The sot was still dancing, singing, reeling, stretching his hand to the glass. The people and the children laughed.
Then came Nanna, the drunken woman, cleaner and more sober than usual.
"Aren't you ashamed?" she said, seizing Efès by the arm; "don't you see all these beggars, these filthy persons are mocking you? And what are they laughing at me for? I've been out working to-day. Good Lord, how I have worked! Ah, Efès, Efès! have you forgotten how rich your house used to be? Your mother had gold buttons as big as my fist. Your house was like a church, so clean, so full of fine things. If you had kept from the drink, everyone would have treasured you like a sugar plum. Now you're a laughing-stock, like a dancing bear. What are they laughing at now? By the Lord, they must be all drunk! Come, miller, spare me a drop of oil to eat with my supper. Your wife is a saint, miller, but upon my word you are a devil. When are you going to find that treasure you talk about?"
Meanwhile Efès, seated on a sack, wept, thinking of his mother and the rich home of his youth. Carchide strove to console him with another glass, but Efès wept on, even while he drank.
A farmer from a neighbouring village, and Bustianeddu's father, a young man with blue eyes and red beard, conspired together to make Nanna drunk. She told scandalous stories of Uncle Pera, and Uncle Pera swore at the two men who worked the screw of the olive press, and told them they were lazy good-for-nothings.
Maestro Pane, the humpbacked carpenter, who wore his grey moustache at one side only of his toothless mouth, sat under the window beating his fist on his knee and talking very loud. No one, however, listened, for he was in the habit of talking to himself.
Under the influence of the wine. Nanna was becoming loquacious.
"Yes, that old gardener waits every morning till the girl comes down to the fountain. Then he calls her in, promising to give her some lettuce——"
"Ah, you tipsy wretch!" cried Uncle Pera, jumping up with his cudgel.
"Well, what harm am I saying? I say that when she comes in for the lettuce you teach her the Ave Maria."
They all laughed, even little Anania, though he could not imagine why Uncle Pera should teach the Ave Maria by force to the girl who was going to the fountain.
That night when Anania was safe in Aunt Tatàna's big bed he could not sleep, but turned and twisted as if pins were pricking him.
"What's the matter, child?" asked Aunt Tatàna in her gentle way, "have you the stomachache?"
"No, no."
"Then what is it?"
After a few minutes he revealed his remorse.
"We put pins in the place where Efès sleeps."
"You naughty boys! Why did you do that?"
"Because he gets drunk——"
"Holy Saint Catharine!" sighed the good woman, "how wicked boys are nowadays! Suppose someone put pins in your bed? Would you like it? No? Wouldn't you? Then you are more wicked than Efès. All people in the world are wicked, my little lamb, but we must have pity on one another. If we don't pity each other we shall be like the fishes in the sea which devour their brothers. King Solomon said no one must judge but God. Do you understand?"
Anania thought of his mother, his mother who had been so wicked and had deserted him; and he felt sad—so sad!
One day in March, Bustianeddu invited Anania to dine with him. The skin-dealer was away on his business, and the boy, after two days' imprisonment for truancy, was alone at home. On his right cheek was the mark of a heavy blow administered by his irate parent.
"They want to make a scholar of me," he said to Anania, spreading out his hands like a man discussing some matter of importance, "but I don't intend to be a scholar. I intend to be a pastry-cook. Why shouldn't I?"
"Yes, why not?" echoed Anania.
"Because they think itdisgraceful!" said the other, drawling the word contemptuously, "they think learning a trade is disgraceful when one might be a scholar. That's what my relations say. But I've got a joke ready for them! Just you wait a bit."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll tell you afterwards. Now we'll have dinner."
He had prepared macaroni; at least he gave this name to certain lumps, greasy, and hard as almonds, seasoned with dried tomatoes. The boys ate in company with a grey cat, which snatched morsels from the dish with his paw, and ate them furtively in a corner.
"How clever he is!" said Anania, following the creature with his eyes; "our cat has been stolen!"
"Lots of ours have been stolen. They disappear and we don't know what becomes of them."
"All the cats in the place disappear. What do the people who take the poor things do with them?"
"They roast them. Cat is good, you know; just like hare. On the continent they sell cats as hares. So my father says."
"Has your father been to the Continent?"
"Yes; and I intend to go myself."
"You?" said Anania, laughing enviously.
Bustianeddu thought the moment had come for telling his plans. "I can't stay here," he said pompously. "I intend to go away. I'll find my mother and be a pastry-cook. If you like, you may come with me."
Anania grew red with excitement. His heart beat very loud.
"But we've no money," he observed.
"We'll take the hundred lire which are in that chest of drawers. If you like, we'll take them now. Only we must hide them for a while, for if we set out at once my father will guess we've got them. We'll wait till the cold weather's over. Then we'll go. Come here."
He led Anania to a dirty room where was great confusion of evil smelling lamb's skins. He found a key in a hiding-place and opened a drawer with it. The drawer contained a red note for a hundred lire, some silver and a few smaller notes. The little thieves took the red note, shut the drawer and put back the key in its place.
"Now you keep it," said Bustianeddu, "and when it's dark we'll hide it down the hole of the oak tree in the garden behind the mill. Then we'll wait."
Before he had time to object, Anania found the note thrust into his bosom, and rubbing against his precious amulet. He passed a day of intolerable anxiety; fevered with remorse and terror, hope and the wildest of projects.
To escape! to escape! How and whither he knew not, but his dream was to come true. He was sick with alarm and joy. A hundred seemed a treasure inexhaustible; but for the present he felt himself guilty of a grave crime, and the hour which was to deliver him from the stolen property seemed to be never coming.
It was by no means the first time the boys had trespassed in Uncle Pera's garden; it was easy to jump down from the window of the unused mill stable. But never had they ventured in at night and it was some time before they could screw up their courage for the deed. The evening was clear and cold. A full moon rose behind the black crags of Orthobene and flooded the garden with gold. The two children, flattening their noses against the window pane, heard a long despairing wail, a human or superhuman lament.
"Whatever's that?" said Anania; "it must be a devil! I won't go. I'm frightened."
"Then stay here, silly. It's only a cat!" said Bustianeddu scornfully, "I'm going. I'll hide the money in the oak, where Uncle Pera won't think of looking. Then I'll come back. You stay here and keep watch. If any danger comes, whistle."
What this danger might be the two friends did not know, but the mere imagination sufficed to make the adventure delightful; the fantastic moonlight, even the long drawn lamentation of the cat, added to its flavour. Bustianeddu jumped down into the orchard, Anania stayed at the window, all eyes and ears, trembling a little with fear. Hardly had his companion vanished in the direction of the oak tree, when two black shadows passed close to the window. Anania shuddered, whistled faintly, and crouched to conceal himself. What spasms of alarm and strange enjoyment did he not feel. How ever would Bustianeddu escape? What was actually happening down there in the dark? Oh! the lament of the torn-cat was more horrible than ever! It ended in a wild and lacerating shriek; then ceased. Silence. What mystery! What horror! Anania's heart was bursting in his bosom. What had befallen his friend? Had he been seized? arrested? He would be taken off to prison, and Anania himself would have his part in the woeful punishment!
He had no idea of running away. He waited under the window courageously.
"Anania! Where the devil are you gone to?"
Anania leaned out, extended a hand to his friend, marvellously preserved.
"The devil!" repeated Bustianeddu, panting, "I managed that admirably."
"Did you hear me whistle? I whistled very loud."
"I didn't hear you at all. But I did hear two men coming. I hid under the cabbages. Who do you suppose they were? Uncle Pera and Maestro Pane. What do you suppose they were doing? They were snaring cats. The caterwauler got caught and Uncle Pera killed him with his stick. Maestro Pane put the beast under his cloak and said quite jolly, 'What a fat one!' 'Not so bad,' said Uncle Pera, 'the last was as thin as a tooth-pick.' Then they went away."
"Oh!" cried Anania open-mouthed.
"When they go in they'll roast him. Then they'll have supper. Now we know what becomes of our cats. They snare 'em—those two. It's a mercy they didn't see me."
"And the money?"
"That's all right. Hidden. We'll go in now, Ninny. You're no good."
Anania was not offended. He shut the window and they went back to the olive-mill. The usual scene was in progress. Efès, leaning against the wall was singing his accustomed song:—