The road from Lucca to Corellia lies at the foot of lofty mountains, over-mantled by chestnut-forests, and cleft asunder by the river Serchio—the broad, willful Serchio, sprung from the flanks of virgin fastnesses. In its course a thousand valleys open up, scoring the banks. Each valley has its tributary stream, down which, even in the dog-days, cool breezes rustle. The lower hills lying warm toward the south, and the broad glassy lands by the river, are trellised with vines. Some fling their branches in wild festoons on mulberry or aspen trees. Some trained in long arbors are held up by pillars of unbarked wood; others trail upon the earth in delicious luxuriance. The white and purple grapes peep from the already shriveled leaves, or hang in rich masses on the brown earth.
It is the vintage. The peasants, busy as bees, swarm on the hill-sides; the women pluck the fruit; the men bear it away in wooden measures. While they work, they sing those wild Tuscan melodies that linger in the air like long-drawn sighs. The donkeys, too, climb up and down, saddled with wooden panniers, crammed with grapes. These grapes are shot into large tubs, and placed in a shady outhouse. Some black-eyed boy will dance merrily on these tubs, by-and-by, with his naked feet, and squeeze out the juice. This juice is then covered and left to ferment, then bottled into flasks, covered with wicker-work, corked with tow, and finally stowed away in caves among the rocks.
The marchesa's lumbering coach, drawn by three horses harnessed abreast (another horse, smaller than the rest, put in tandem in front), creaks along the road by the river-side, on its high wheels. She sits within, a stony look upon her hard white face. Enrica, pale and silent, is beside her. No word has passed between them since they left Lucca two hours ago. They pass groups of peasants, their labors over for the day—turning out of the vineyards upon the high-road. The donkeys are driven on in front. They are braying for joy; their faces are turned homeward. Boys run at their heels, and spur them on with sticks and stones. The women lag behind talking—their white head-gear and gold ear-rings catching the low sunshine that strikes through rents of parting mountains. Every man takes off his hat to the marchesa; every woman wishes her good-day.
It is only the boys who do not fear her. They have no caps to raise; when the carriage has passed, they leave the donkeys and hang on behind like a swarm of bees. The driver is quite aware of this, and his long whip, which he has cracked at intervals all the way from Lucca—would reach the grinning, white-toothed little vagabonds well; but he—the driver—grins too, and spares them.
Together they all mount the zigzag mountain-pass, that turns short off from the right bank of the valley of the Serchio, toward Corellia. The peasants sing choruses as they trudge upward, taking short cuts among the trees at the angles of the zigzag. The evening lights come and go among the chestnut-trees and on the soft, short grass. Here a fierce flick of sunshine shoots across the road; there deep gloom darkens an angle into which the coach plunges, the peasants, grouped on the top of a bank overhead, standing out darkly in the yellow glow.
It is a lonely pass in the very bosom of the Apennines, midway between Lucca and Modena. In winter the road is clogged with snow; nothing can pass. Now, there is no sound but the singing of water-falls, and the trickle of water-courses, the chirrup of thecicala, not yet gone to its rest—and the murmur of the hot breezes rustling in the distant forest.
No sound—save when sudden thunder-pelts wake awful echoes among the great brotherhood of mountain-tops—when torrents burst forth, pouring downward, flooding the narrow garden ledges, and tearing away the patches of corn and vineyard, the people's food. Before—behind—around—arise peaks of purple Apennines, cresting upward into the blue sky—an earthen sea dashed into sudden breakers, then struck motionless. In front, in solitary state, rises the lofty summit of La Pagna, casting off its giant mountain-fellows right and left, which fade away into a golden haze toward Modena.
High up overhead, crowning a precipitous rock, stands Corellia, a knot of browned, sun-baked houses, flat-roofed, open-galleried, many-storied, nestling round a ruined castle, athwart whose rents the ardent sunshine darts. This ruined castle and the tower of an ancient Lombard church, heavily arched and galleried with stone, gleaming out upon a surface of faded brickwork, form the outline of the little town. It is inclosed by solid walls, and entered by an archway so low that the marchesa's driver has to dismount as he passes through. The heavy old carriage rumbles in with a hollow noise; the horse's hoofs strike upon the rough stones with a harsh, loud sound.
The whole town of Corellia belongs to the marchesa. It is an ancient fief of the Guinigi. Legend says that Castruccio Castracani was born here. This is enough for the marchesa. As in the palace of Lucca, she still—even at lonely Corellia—lives as it were under the shadow of that great ancestral name.
Lonely Corellia! Yes, it is lonely! The church bells, high up in the Lombard tower sound loudly the matins and the eventide. They sound louder still on the saints days and festivals. With the festivals pass summer and winter, both dreary to the poor. Children are born, and marriage-flutes wake the echoes of the mountain solitudes—and mothers weep, hearing them, remembering their young days and present pinching want. The aged groan, for joy to them comes like a fresh pang!
The marchesa's carriage passes through Corellia at a foot's pace. The driver has no choice. It is most difficult to drive at all—the street is so narrow, and the door-steps of the houses jut out so into the narrow space. The horses, too, hired at Lucca, twenty miles away, are tired, poor beasts, and reeking with the heat. They can hardly keep their feet upon the rugged, slippery stones that pave the dirty alley. As the marchesa passes slowly by, wan-faced women—colored handkerchiefs gathered in folds upon their heads, knitting or spinning flax cut from the little field without upon the mountain-side—put down the black, curly-headed urchins that cling to their laps—rise from where they are resting on the door-step, and salute the marchesa with an awe-struck stare. She, in no mood for condescension, answers them with a frown. Why have these wan-faced mothers, with scarcely bread to eat, children between their knees? Why has God given her none? Again the impious thought rises within her which tempted her when standing before the marriage-bed in the nuptial chamber. "God is my enemy." "He has smitten me with a curse." "Why have I no child?" "No child, nothing but her"—and she flashes a savage glance at Enrica, who has sunk backward, covering her tear-stained face with a black veil, to avoid the peering eyes of the Corellia townsfolk—"nothing but her. Born to disgrace me. Would she were dead! Then all would end, and I should go down—the last Guinigi—to an honored grave."
The sick, too, are sitting at the doorways as the marchesa passes by. The mark of fever is on many an ashy cheek. These sick have been carried from their beds to breathe such air as evening brings. Air! There is no air from heaven in these foul streets. No sweet breath circulates; no summer scents of grasses and flowers reach the lonely town hung up so high. The summer sun scorches. The icy winds of winter, sweeping down from Alpine ridges, whistle round the walls. Within are chilly, desolate hearths, on which no fire is kindled. These sick, as the carriage passes, turn their weary eyes, and lift up their wasted hands in mute salutations to that dreaded mistress who is lord of all—the great marchesa. Will they not lie in the marchesa's ground when their hour comes? Alas! how soon—their weakness tells them very soon! Will they not be carried in an open bier up those long flights of steps—all hers—cut in the rocky sides of overlapping rocks, to the cemetery, darkly shaded by waving cypresses? The ground is hers, the rocks, the steps, the stones, the very flowers that brown, skinny hands will sprinkle on their bier—all hers. From birth to bridal, and the marriage-bed (so fruitful to the poor), from bridal to death, all hers. The land they live on, and the graves they fill, all—but a shadow of her greatness!
At the corner of the squalid, ill-smelling street through which she is now passing, is the town fountain. This fountain, once a willful mountain-torrent, now cruelly captured and borne hither by municipal force, splashes downward through a sculptured circle cut in a marble slab, into a covered trough below. Here bold-eyed maidens are gathered, who poise copper vessels on their dark heads—maidens who can chat, and laugh, and romp, on holidays, and with flushed faces dance wild tarantellas (fingers for castanets), where the old tale of love is told in many a subtile step, and shuffle, rush, escape, and feint, ending in certain capture! Beside the maidens linger some mountain lads. Now their work is over, they loll against the wall, pipe in mouth, or lie stretched on a plot of grass that grows green under the spray of the fountain. In a dark angle, a little behind from these, there is a shrine hollowed out of the city wall. Within the shrine an image of the Holy Mother of the Seven Sorrows stands, her arms outstretched, her bosom pierced by seven gilded arrows. The shrine is protected by an iron grating. Bunches of pale hill-side blossoms, ferns, and a few blades of corn, are thrust in between the bars. Some lie at the Virgin's feet—offerings from those who have nothing else to give. A little group (but these are old, and bowed by grief and want) kneel beside the shrine in the quiet evening-tide.
The rumble of a carriage, so strange a sound in lonely Corellia, rouses all. From year to year, no wheels pass through the town save the marchesa's. Ere she appears, all know who it must be. The kneelers at the shrine start up and hobble forward to stare and wonder at that strange world whence she comes, so far away at Lucca. The maidens courtesy and smile; the lads jump up, and range themselves respectfully against the wall; yet in their hearts neither care for her—neither the maidens nor the lads—no one cares for the marchesa. They are all looking out for Enrica. Why does the signorina lie back in the carriage a mass of clothes? The maidens would like to see how those clothes are made, to cut their poor garments something like them. The lads would like to let their eyes rest on her golden hair. Why does the Signorina Enrica not nod and smile to those she knows, as is her wont? Has that old tyrant, her aunt—these young ones are bold, and dare to whisper what others think; they have no care, and, like the lilies of the field, live in the wild, free air—has that old tyrant, her aunt, bewitched her?
Now the carriage has emerged from the dark alley, and entered the dirty but somewhat less dark piazza—the market-place of Corellia. The old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, with its big bells in the arched tower, hanging plainly to be seen, opens into the piazza by a flight of steps and a sculptured doorway. The Municipio, too, calling itself apalace(heaven save the mark!), with its list of births, deaths, and marriages, posted on a black-board outside the door, to be seen of all, adorns it. The Café of the Tricolor, and such shops as Corellia boasts of, are there opposite. Men, smoking, and drinking native wine, are lounging about. Ser Giacomo, the notary, spectacles on nose, sits at a table in a corner, reading aloud to a select audience a weekly broad-sheet published at Lucca, news of men and things not of the mountain-tops. Every soul starts up as they hear wheels approaching. If a bomb had burst in the piazza the panic could not be greater. They know it is the marchesa. They know that now the marchesa is come she will grind and harry them, and seize her share of grapes, and corn, and olives, to the uttermost farthing. Silvestro, her steward, a timid, pitiful man, can be got over by soft words, and the sight of want and misery. Not so the marchesa. They know that now she is come she will call the Town Council, fine them, pursue them for rent, cite them to the High Court of Barga, imprison them if they cannot pay. They know her, and they curse her. The ill-news of her arrival runs from lip to lip. Checco, the butcher, who sells his meat cut into dark, indescribably-shaped scraps, more fit for dogs than men, first sees the carriage turn into the piazza. He passes the word on to Oreste, the barber round the corner. Oreste, who, with his brother Pilade, both wearing snow-white aprons, are squaring themselves at their open doorway, over which hangs a copper basin, shaped like Manbrino's helmet, looking for customers—Oreste and Pilade turn pale. Then Oreste tells the baker, Pietro, who, naked as Nature made him, has run out from his oven to the open door, for a breath of air. The bewildered clerk at the Municipio, who sits and writes, and sleeps by turns, all day, in a low room beside a desk, taking notes for the sindaco (mayor) from all who come (he is so tired, that clerk, he would hear the last trumpet sound unmoved), even he hears the news, and starts up.
Now the carriage stops. It has drawn up in the centre of the piazza. It is the marchesa's custom. She puts her head out of the window, and takes a long, grave look all round. These are her vassals. They fear her. She knows it, and she glories in it. Every head is uncovered, every eye turned upon her. It is obviously some one's duty to salute her and to welcome her to her domain. She has stopped for this purpose. It is always done. No one, however, stirs. Ser Giacomo, the notary, bows low beside the table where he has been caught reading the Lucca broad-sheet; but Ser Giacomo does not stir. How he wishes he had staid at home!
He has not the courage to move one step toward her. Something must be done, so Ser Giacomo he runs and fetches the sindaco from inside the recesses of thecafé, where he is playing dominoes under a lighted lamp. The sindaco must give the marchesa a formal welcome. The sindaco, a saddler by trade—a snuffy little man, with a face drawn and yellow as parchment, wearing his working-clothes—advances to the carriage with a step as cautious as a cat.
"I trust the illustrious lady is well," he says timidly, bowing low and trying to smile. Mr. Sindaco is frightened, but he can be proud enough to his fellow-townsfolk, and he is downright cruel to that poor lad his clerk, at the Municipal Palace.
The marchesa, with a cold, distant air, that would instantly check any approach to familiarity—if any one were bold enough to be familiar—answers gravely, "That she is thankful to say she is in her usual health."
The sindaco—although better off than many, painfully conscious of long arrears of unpaid rent—waxing a little bolder at the sound of his own voice and his well-chosen phrases, continues:
"I am glad to hear it, Signora Marchesa." The sindaco further observes, "That he hopes for the illustrious lady's indulgence and good-will."
His smile has faded now; his voice trembles. If his skin were not so yellow, he would be white all over, for the marchesa's looks are not encouraging. The sindaco dreads a summons to the High Court of Barga, where the provincial prisons are—with which he may be soon better acquainted, he fears.
In reply, the marchesa—who perfectly understands all this in a general way—scowls, and fixes her rigid eyes upon him.
"Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will promise no indulgence. I must pay my bills. You must pay me, Signore Sindaco; that is but fair."
The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence. He is hopeless, but polite—like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman as he fastens the rope round his neck. But the marchesa's words strike terror into all who hear them. All owe her long arrears of rent, and much besides. Why—oh! why—did the cruel lady come to Corellia?
Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the marchesa draws her head back into the coach.
"Send Silvestro to me," she adds, addressing the sindaco. "Silvestro will inform me of all I want to know." (Silvestro is her steward.)
"Is the noble young Lady Enrica unwell?" asks the persevering sindaco, gazing earnestly through the window.
He knows his doom. He has nothing to hope from the marchesa's clemency, so he may as well gratify his burning curiosity by a question about the much-beloved Enrica, who must certainly have been ill-used by her aunt to keep so much out of sight.
"The people of Corellia would also offer their respectful homage to her," bravely adds Mr. Sindaco, tempting his fate. "The Lady Enrica is much esteemed here in the town."
As he speaks the sindaco gazes in wonder at the muffled figure in the corner. Can this be she? Why does she not move forward and answer?—and show her pretty face, and approve the people's greeting?
"My niece has a headache; leave her alone," answers the marchesa, curtly. "Do not speak to her, Mr. Sindaco. She will visit Corellia another day; meanwhile, adieu."
The marchesa waves her hand majestically, and signs for him to retire. This the sindaco does with an inward groan at the thought of what is coming on him.
Poor Enrica, feeling as if a curse were on her, cutting her off from all her former life, shrinks back deeper into the corner of the carriage, draws the black veil closer about her face, and sobs aloud. The marchesa turns her head away. The driver cracks his long whip over the steaming horses, which move feebly forward with a jerk. Thus the coach slowly traverses the whole length of the piazza, the wheels rumbling themselves into silence out in a long street leading to another gate on the farther side of the town.
Not another word more is said that night among the townsfolk; but there is not a man at Corellia who does not curse the marchesa in his heart. Ser Giacomo, the notary, folds up his newspaper in dead silence, puts it into his pocket, and departs. The lights in the darkcafé, which burn sometimes all day when it is cloudy, are extinguished. The domino-players disappear. Oreste and Pilade shut up their shop despondingly. The baker Pietro comes out no more to cool at the door. Anyway, there must be bakers, he reflects, to bake the bread; so Pietro retreats, comforted, to his oven, and works frantically all night. He is safe, Pietro hopes, though he has paid no rent for two whole years, and has sold some of the corn which ought to have gone to the marchesa.
Meanwhile the heavy carriage, with its huge leather hood and double rumble, swaying dangerously to and fro, descends a steep and rugged road embowered in forest, leading to a narrow ledge upon the summit of a line of cliffs. On the very edge of these cliffs, formed of a dark-red basaltic stone, the marchesa's villa stands. A deep, dark precipice drops down beneath. Opposite is a range of mountains, fair and forest-spread on the lower flanks, rising above into wild crags, and broken, blackened peaks, that mock the soft blue radiance of the evening sky.
Silvestro, the steward, is a man "full of conscience," as people say, deeply sensible of his responsibilities, and more in dread of the marchesa than of the Church. It is this dread that makes him so emaciated—hesitate when he speaks, and bend his back and shoulders into a constant cringe. But for this dread, Silvestro would forgive the poor people more. He sees such pinching misery every day—lives in it—suffers from it; how can he ask those for money who have none? It is like forcing blood out of a stone. He is not the man to do it. Silvestro lives at hand; he hears the rattle of the hail that burns the grapes up to a cinder—the terrible din of the thunder before the forked lightning strikes the cattle; he sees with his own eyes the griping want of bread in the savage winter-time; his own eyes behold the little lambs, dead of hunger, lying by the road-side. Worse still, he sees other lambs—human lambs with Christian souls—fade and pine and shrink into a little grave, from failing of mother's milk, dried up for want of proper food. He sees, too, the aged die before God calls them, failing through lack of nourishment—a little wine, perhaps, or a mouthful of soup; the young and strong grow old with ceaseless striving. Poor Silvestro! he sees too much. He cannot be severe. He is born merciful. Silvestro is honest as the day, but he hides things from the marchesa; he is honest, but he cannot—no, he cannot—grind and vex the poor, as she would have him do. Yet she has no one to take his place in that God-forgotten town—so they pull on, man and mistress—a truly ill-matched pair—pull on, year after year. It is a weary life for him when the great lady comes up for her villeggiatura—Silvestro, divided, cleft in twain, so to say, as he is, between his awe and respect for the marchesa and her will, and his terrible sympathy for all suffering creatures, man or beast.
As to the marchesa, she despises Silvestro too profoundly to notice his changing moods. It is not her habit to look for any thing but obedience—absolute obedience—from those beneath her. A thousand times she has told herself such a fool would ruin her; but, up to this present time, she has borne with him, partly from convenience, and partly because she fears to get a rogue in his place. She does not guess how carefully Silvestro has hid the truth from her; she would not give him credit for the power of concealing any thing.
The sindaco having sent a boy up to Silvestro's house with the marchesa's message, "that he is to attend her," the steward comes hurrying down through the terraces cut in the steep ground behind the villa—broad, stately terraces, with balustrades, and big empty vases, and statues, and grand old lemon-trees set about. Great flights of marble steps cross and recross, rest on a marble stage, and then recross again. Here and there a pointed cypress-tree towers upward like a green pyramid in a desert of azure sky. Bright-leaved autumn flowers lie in masses on the rich brown earth, and dainty streamlets come rushing downward in little sculptured troughs.
What a dismal sigh Silvestro gave when he got the marchesa's message, and knew that she had arrived! How he wrung his hands and looked hopelessly upward to heaven with vacant, colorless eyes, the big heat-drops gathering on his bald, wrinkled forehead! He has so much to tell her!—It must be told too; he can hide the truth no longer. She will be sure to ask to see the accounts. Alas! alas! what will his mistress say? For a moment Silvestro gazes wistfully at the mountains all around with a vacant stare. Oh, that the mountains would cover him! Anyway, there are caves and holes, he thinks, where the marchesa's wrath would never reach him; caves and holes where he might live hidden for years, cared for by those who love him. Shall he flee, and never see his mistress's dark, dreadful eyes again? Folly!
Silvestro rouses himself. He resolves to meet his fate like a man, whatever that may be. He will not forsake his duty.—So Silvestro comes hurrying down by the terraces, upon which the shadows fall, to the house—a gray mediaeval tower, machicolated and turreted—the only remains of a strong fortress that in feudal times guarded these passes from Modena into Tuscany. To this gray tower is attached a large modern dwelling—a villa—painted of a dull-yellow color, with an overlapping roof, the walls pierced full of windows. The tower, villa, and the line of cliffs on which they stand, face east and west; on one side the forest and Corellia crowning a rocky height, on the other side mountains, with a deep abyss at the foot of the cliffs, yawning between. It is the marchesa's pleasure to inhabit the old tower rather than the pleasant villa, with its big windows and large, cheerful rooms.
Being tall and spare, Silvestro stoops under the low, arched doorway, heavily clamped with iron and nails, leading into the tower; then he mounts very slowly a winding stair of stone to the second story. The sound of his footsteps brings a whole pack of dogs rushing out upon the gravel.
(On the gravel before the house there is a fountain springing up out of a marble basin full of gold-fish. Pots are set round the edge with the sweetest-smelling flowers—tuberoses, heliotropes, and gardenias.) The dogs, barking loudly, run round the basin and upset some of the pots. One noble mastiff, with long white hair and strong straight limbs—the leader of the pack—pursues Silvestro up the dark, tiring stairs. When the mastiff has reached him and smelt at him he stands still, wags his tail, and thrusts his nose into Silvestro's hand.
"Poor Argo!" says the steward, meekly. "Don't bark at me; I cannot bear it now."
Argo gives a friendly sniff, and leaves him.
At a door on the right, Silvestro stops short, to collect his thoughts and his breath. He has not seen his mistress for a year. His soul sinks at the thought of what he must tell her now. "Can she punish me?" he asks himself, vaguely. Perhaps. He must bear it if she does. He has done all he can. Consoled by this reflection, he knocks. A well-known voice answers, "Come in." Silvestro's clammy hand is on the lock—a worm-eaten door creaks on its hinges—he enters.
The marchesa nods to Silvestro without speaking. She is seated before a high desk of carved walnut-wood, facing the door. The desk is covered with papers. A file of papers is in her hand; others lie upon her lap. All round there are cupboards, shelves, and drawers, piled with papers and documents, most of them yellow with age. These consist of old leases, contracts, copies of various lawsuits with her tenants, appeals to Barga, mortgages, accounts. The room is low, and rounded to the shape of the tower. Naked joists and rafters of black wood support the ceiling. The light comes in through some loop-holes, high up, cut in the thickness of the wall. Some tall, high-backed chairs, covered with strips of faded satin, stand near the chimney. A wooden bedstead, without curtains, is partly concealed behind a painted screen, covered with gods and goddesses, much consumed and discolored from the damp. As the room had felt a little chilly from want of use, a large fire of unbarked wood had been kindled. The fire blazes fiercely on the flat stones within an open hearth, unguarded by a grate.
Having nodded to Silvestro, the marchesa takes no further notice of him. From time to time she flings a loose paper from those lying before her—over her shoulder toward the fire, which is at her back. Of these papers some reach the fire; others, but half consumed, fall back upon the floor. The flames of the wood-fire leap out and seize the papers—now one by one—now as they lie in little heaps. The flames leap up; the burning papers crumple along the floor, in little streaks of fire, catching others that lie, still farther on in the room, still unconsumed. Ere these papers have sunk into ashes, a fresh supply, thrown over her shoulder by the marchesa, have caught the flames. All the space behind her chair is covered with smouldering papers. A stack of wood, placed near to replenish the fire, has caught, and is smouldering also. The fire, too, on the hearth is burning fiercely; it crackles up the wide open chimney in a mass of smoke and sparks.
The marchesa is far too much absorbed to notice this. Silvestro, standing near the door—the high desk and the marchesa's tall figure between him and the hearth—does not perceive it either. Still the marchesa bends over her papers, reading some and throwing others over her shoulders into the flames behind.
Silvestro, who had grown hot and cold twenty times in a minute, standing before her, his book under his arm—thinking she had forgotten him—addresses her at last.
"How does madama feel?" Silvestro asks most humbly, turning his lack-lustre eyes upon her, "Well," is the marchesa's brief reply. She signs to him to lay his book upon her desk. She takes it in her hand. She turns over the pages, following line after line with the tip of her long, white forefinger.
"There seems very little, Silvestro," she says, running her eyes up and down each page as she turns it slowly over. Her brow knits until her dark eyebrows almost meet—"very little. Has the corn brought in so small a sum, and the olives, and the grapes?"
"Madama," begins Silvestro, and he bends his head and shoulders, and squeezes his skinny hands together, in a desperate effort to obliterate himself altogether, if possible, in the face of such mishaps—"madama will condescend to remember the late spring frosts. There is no corn anywhere. Upon the lowlands the frost was most severe; in April, too, when the grain was forward. The olives bore a little last season, but Corellia is a cold place—too cold for olives; the trees, too, are very old. This year there will be no crop at all. As for the grapes—"
"Accidenteto the grapes!" interrupts the marchesa, reddening. "The grapes always fail. Every thing fails under you."
Silvestro shrinks back in terror at the sound of her harsh voice. Oh, that those purple mountains around would cover him! The moment of her wrath is come. What will she say to him?
"I wish I had not an acre of vineyard," the marchesa continues. "Disease, or hail, or drought, or rain, it is always the same—the grapes always fail."
"The peasants are starving, madama," Silvestro takes courage to say, but his voice is low and muffled.
"They have chestnuts," she answers quickly, "let them live on chestnuts."
Silvestro starts violently. He draws back a step or two nearer the door.
"Let the gracious madama consider, many have not even a patch of chestnuts. There is great misery, madama—indeed, there is great misery." Silvestro goes on to say. He must speak now or never. "Madama"—and he holds up his bony hands—"you will have no rent at all from the peasants. They must be kept all the winter."
"Silvestro, you are a fool," cries the marchesa, eying him contemptuously, as she would a troublesome child—"a fool; pray how am I to keep the peasants, and pay the taxes? I must live."
"Doubtless, excellent madama." Silvestro was infinitely relieved at the calmness with which the marchesa received his announcement. He could not have believed it. He feels most grateful to her. "But, if madama will speak with Fra Pacifico, he will tell her how bitter the distress must be this winter. The Town Council"—Silvestro, deceived by her apparent calmness, has made a mistake in naming the Town Council. It is too late. The words have been spoken. Knowing his mistress's temper, Silvestro imperceptibly glides toward the door as he mentions that body—"The Town Council has decreed—" His words die away in his throat at her aspect.
"Santo dei Santi!" she screams, boiling over with rage, "I forbid you to talk to me of the Town Council!"
Silvestro's hand is upon the lock to insure escape.
"Madama—consider," pleads Silvestro, wellnigh desperate. "The TownCouncil might appeal to Barga," Silvestro almost whispers now.
"Let them—let them; it is just what I should like. Let them appeal.I will fight them at law, and beat them in full court—the ruffians!"She gives a short, scornful laugh. "Yes, we will fight it out atBarga."
Suddenly the marchesa stops. Her eyes have now reached the balance-sheet on the last page. She draws a long breath.
"Why, there is nothing!" she exclaims, placing her forefinger on the total, then raising her head and fixing her eyes on Silvestro—"nothing!"
Silvestro shrinks, as it were, into himself. He silently bows his head in terrified acquiescence.
"A thousand francs! How am I to live on a thousand francs!"
Silvestro shakes from head to foot. One hand slides from the lock; he joins it to the other, clasps them both together, and sways himself to and fro as a man in bodily anguish.
At the sight of the balance-sheet a kind of horror has come over the marchesa. So intense is this feeling, she absolutely forgets to abuse Silvestro. All she desires is to get rid of him before she has betrayed her alarm.
"I shall call a council," she says, collecting herself; "I shall take the chair. I shall find funds to meet these wants. Give the sindaco and Ser Giacomo notice of this, Silvestro, immediately."
The steward stares at his mistress in mute amazement. He inclines his head, and turns to go; better ask her no questions and escape.
"Silvestro!"—the marchesa calls after him imperiously—"come here." (She is resolved that he, a menial, shall see no change in her.) "At this season the woods are full of game. I will have no poachers, mind. Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door—do you hear? No one shall carry a gun within my woods."
Silvestro's lips form to two single words, and these come very faint:"The poor!" Then he holds himself together, terrified.
"The poor!" retorts the marchesa, defiantly—"the poor! For shame, Silvestro! They shall not overrun my woods and break through my vineyards—they shall not! You hear?" Her shrill voice rings round the low room, "No poachers—no trespassers, remember that; I shall tell Adamo the same. Now go, and, as you pass, tell Fra Pacifico I want him to-morrow." ("He must help me with Enrica," was her thought.)
When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa's pale face. One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and fell into a fit of musing—the burning papers on the hearth, and those also smouldering on the floor, lighting up every grain in the wood-work of the cupboards at her back.
This was ruin—absolute ruin! The broad lands that spread wellnigh for forty miles in the mountains and along the river Serchio—the feudal tower in which she sat, over which still floated, on festivals, the banner of the Guinigi (crosses of gold on a red field—borne at the Crusades); the stately palace at Lucca—its precious heirlooms—strangers must have it all!
She had so fortified herself against all signs of outward emotion, other than she chose to show, that even in solitude she was composed; but the veins swelled in her forehead, and she turned very white. Yet there had been a way. "Enrica"—her name escaped the marchesa's thin lips unwittingly. "Enrica."—The sound of her own voice startled her. (Enrica was now alone, shut up by her aunt's order in her little chamber on the third floor over her own. On their arrival, the marchesa had sternly dismissed her without a word.)
"Enrica."—With that name rose up within her a thousand conflicting thoughts. She had severed herself from Enrica. But for Cavaliere Trenta she would have driven her from the palace. She had not cared whether Enrica lived or died—indeed, she had wished her dead. Yet Enrica could save the land—the palace—make the great name live! Had she but known all this at Lucca! Was it too late? Trenta had urged the marriage with Count Nobili. But Trenta urged every marriage. Could she consent to such a marriage? Own herself ruined—wrong?—Feel Nobili's foot upon her neck?—Impossible! Her obstinacy was so great, that she could not bring herself to yield, though all that made life dear was slipping from her grasp.
Yes—yes, it was too late.—The thing was done. She must stand to her own words. Tortures would not have wrung it from her—but in the solitude of that bare room the marchesa felt she had gone too far. The landmark of her life, her pride, broke down; her stout heart failed—tears stood in her dark eyes.
At this moment the report of a gun was heard ringing out from the mountains opposite. It echoed along the cliffs and died away into the abyss below. The marchesa was instantly leaning out of the lowest loop-hole, and calling in a loud voice, "Adamo—Adamo—Angelo, where are you?" (Adamo and Pipa his wife, and Angelo their son, were her attendants.)
Adamo, a stout, big-limbed man, bull-necked—with large lazy eyes and a black beard as thick as horse-hair, a rifle slung by a leather strap across his chest, answered out of the shrubs—now blackening in the twilight: "I am here, padrona, command me."
"Adamo, who is shooting on my land?"
"Padrona, I do not know."
"Where is Angelo?"
"Here am I," answered a childish voice, and a ragged, loose-limbed lad—a shock of chestnut hair, out of which the sun had taken all the color, hanging over his face, from which his merry eyes twinkle—leaped out on the gravel.
"You do not know, Adamo? What does this mean? You ought to know. I ambut just come back, and there are strangers about already with guns.Is this the way you serve me, Adamo?—and I pay you a crown a month.You idle vagabond!"
"Padrona," spoke Adamo in a deep voice—"I am here alone—this boy helps me but little."
"Alone, Adamo! you dare to say alone, and you have the dogs? Hear how they bark—they have heard the shot too—good dogs, good dogs, they are left me—alone.—Argo is stronger than three men; Argo knocks over any one, and he is trained to follow on the scent like a bloodhound. Adamo, you are an idiot!" Adamo hung his head, either in shame or rage, but he dared not reply.
"Now take the dogs out with you instantly—you hear, Adamo? Argo, and Ponto the bull-dog, and Tuzzi and the others. Take them and go down at once to the bottom of the cliffs. Search among the rocks everywhere. Creep along the vines-terraces, and through the olive-grounds. Be sure when you go down below the cliffs to search the mouth of the chasm. Go at once. Set the dogs on all you find. Argo will pin them. He is a brave dog. With Argo you are stronger than any one you will meet. If you catch any men, take them at once to the municipality. Wretches, they deserve it!—poaching in my woods! Listen—before you go, tell Pipa to come to me soon."
Pipa's footsteps came clattering up the stairs to the marchesa's room. The light of the lamp she carried—for it was already dark within the tower—caught the spray of the fountain outside as she passed the narrow slits that served for windows.
"Pipa," said the marchesa, as she stood before her in the doorway, a broad smile on her merry brown face, "set that lamp on the desk here before me. So—that will do. Now go up-stairs and tell the Signorina Enrica that I bid her 'Good-night,' and that I will see her to-morrow morning after breakfast. Then you may go to bed, Pipa. I am busy, and shall sit up late." Pipa curtsied in silence, and closed the marchesa's door.
Midnight had struck from the church-clock at Corellia. The strokes seemed to come slower by night than day, and sounded hollower. Hours ago the last light had gone out. The moon had set behind the cleft summits of La Pagna. Distant thunder had died away among the rocks. The night was close and still. The villa lay in deep shadow, but the outline of the turrets of the tower were clearly marked against the starry sky. All slept, or seemed to sleep.
A thin blue vapor curls out from the marchesa's casement. This vapor, at first light as a fog-drift, winds itself upward, and settles into a cloud, that hovers in the air. Each moment the cloud rises higher and higher. Now it has grown into a lurid canopy, that overhangs the tower. A sudden glow from an arched loop-hole on the second story shows every bar of iron across it. This is caught up below in a broad flash across the basin of the fountain. Within there is a crackling as of dry leaves—a clinging, heavy smell of heated air. Another and another flame curls round the narrow loop-hole, twisting upward on the solid wall.
At this instant there is a low growl, as from a kicked dog. A door below is banged-to and locked. Then steps are heard upon the gravel. It is Adamo. He had returned, as the marchesa bade him, and has come to tell her he has searched everywhere—down even to the reeds by the river Serchio (where he had discharged his gun at a water-hen), but had found no one, though all the way the dogs had sniffed and whined.
Adamo catches sight of the crimson glare reflected upon the fountain. He looks up at the tower—he sees the flames. A look of horror comes into his round black eyes. Then, with a twitch, settling his gun firmly upon his shoulder, he rushes to the unlocked door and flings it wide open.
"Pipa! Wife! Angelo!" Adamo shouts down the stone passage connecting the tower with the villa where they slept. "Wake up! The tower is on fire! Fire! Fire!"
As Adam opened his mouth, the rush of hot air, pent upon the winding stair, drawn downward by the draught from the open door, catches his breath. He staggers against the wall. Then the strong man shook himself together—again he shouts, "Pipa! Pipa! rise!"
Without waiting for an answer, putting his hand over his mouth, Adamo charges up the stone stairs—up to the marchesa's door. Her room is on fire.
"I must save her! I must save her! I will think of Pipa and the children afterward."
Each step Adamo takes upward, the heat grows fiercer, the smoke that pours down denser. Twice he had slipped and almost fallen, but he battles bravely with the heat and blinding smoke, and keeps his footing.
Now Adamo is on the landing of the first floor—Adamo blinded, his head reeling—but lifting his strong limbs, and firm broad feet, he struggles upward. He has reached the marchesa's door. The place is marked by a chink of fire underneath. Adamo passes his hand over the panel; it is unconsumed, the fire drawing the other way out by the window.
"O God! if the door is bolted! I shall drop if I am not quick." Adamo's fingers were on the lock. "The door is bolted! Blessed Virgin, help me!"
He unslings his unloaded gun—he had forgotten it till then—and, tightly seizing it in his strong hands, he flings the butt end against the lock. The wood is old, the bolt is loose.
"Holy Jesus! It yields! It opens!"
Overcome by the rush of fiery air, again Adamo staggers. As he lifts his hands to raise the hair, which, moist from heat, clings to his forehead, his fingers strike against a medal of the Virgin he wore round his naked throat.
"Mother of God, help me!" A desperate courage seizes him; he rushes in—all before him swims in a red mist. "Help me, Madonna!" comes to his parched lips. "O God, where is the marchesa?"
A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor close to the door. It is the marchesa. "Is she dead or alive?" He cannot stop to tell. He raises her. She lay within his arms. Her dark dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest. Not an instant is to be lost. The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned the flames. Every moment they are rising higher. They redden on the dark rafters of the ceiling. The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds. Adamo is on the threshold. Outside it is now so dark that, spite of danger, he has to pause and feel his way downward, or he might dash his precious burden against the walls. In that pause a piercing cry from above strikes upon his ear, but in the crackling of the increasing flames and a fresh torrent of smoke and burning sparks that burst out from the room, Adamo's brain—always of the dullest—is deadened. He forgets that cry. All his thought is to save his mistress. Even Pipa and Angelo and little Gigi are forgotten.
Ere he reaches the level of the first story, the alarm-bell over his head clangs out a goodly peal. A bound of joy within his honest heart gives him fresh courage.
"It is the Madonna! When I touched her image, I knew that she would help me. Pipa has heard me. Pipa has pulled the bell. She is safe! And Angelo—and little Gigi, safe! safe! Brave Pipa! How I love her!"
Before a watch could tick twenty seconds, and while Adamo's foot was still on the last round of the winding stair, the church-bells of Corellia clash out in answer to the alarm-bell.
Now Adamo has reached the outer door. He stands beneath the stars. His face and hands are black, his hair is singed; his woolen clothes are hot and burn upon him. The cool night air makes his skin smart with pain. Already Pipa's arms are round him. Angelo, too, has caught him by the legs, then leaps into the air with a wild hoot. Bewildered Pipa cannot speak. No more can Adamo; but Pipa's clinging arms say more than words. Tenderly Adamo lays the marchesa down beside the fountain. He totters on a step or two, feeling suddenly giddy and strangely weak. He stands still. The strain had been too much for the simple soul, who led a quiet life with Pipa and the children. Tears rise in his big black eyes. Greatly ashamed, and wondering what has come to him, he sinks upon the ground. Pipa, watching him, again flings her arms about him; but Adamo gave her a glance so fierce, as he points to the marchesa lying helpless upon the ground, it sent her quickly from him. With a smothered sob Pipa turns away to help her.
(Ah! cruel Pipa, and is your heart so full that you have forgotten Enrica, left helpless in the tower?—Yet so it was. Enrica is forgotten. Cruel, cruel Pipa! And stupid Adamo, whose head turns round so fast he must hold on by a tree not to fall again.)
Silvestro and Fra Pacifico now rushed out of the darkness; Fra Pacifico aroused out of his first sleep. He had not seen the marchesa since her arrival. He did not know whether Enrica had come with her from Lucca or not. Seeing Pipa busy about the fountain, the women, thought Fra Pacifico, were safe; so Fra Pacifico strode off on his strong legs to see what could be done to quench the fire, and save, if possible, the more combustible villa. Surely the villa must be consumed! The smoke now darkened the heavens. The flames belted the thick tower-walls as with a burning girdle. Showers of sparks and flames rose out from each aperture with sudden bursts, revealing every detail on the gray old walls; moss and lichen, a trail of ivy that had forced itself upward, long grass that floated in the hot air; a crevice under the battlements where a bird had built its nest. Then a swirl of smoke swooped down and smothered all, while overhead the mighty company of constellations looked calmly down in their cold brightness!
A crowd of men now came running down from Corellia, roused by the church-bells. Pietro, the baker, still hard at work, was the first to hear the bell, to dash into the street, and shout, "Help! help! Fire! fire! At the villa!"
Oreste and Pilade heard him. They came tumbling out. Ser Giacomo roused the sindaco—who in his turn woke his clerk; but when Mr. Sindaco was fairly off down the hill, this much-injured and very weary youth turned back and went to bed.
Some bore lighted torches, others copper buckets. Pietro, the butcher, brought the municipal ladder. These men promptly formed a line down the hill, to carry the water from the willful mountain-stream that fed the town fountain. Fra Pacifico took the lead. (He had heard the alarm, and had rung the church-bells himself.) No one cared for the marchesa; but a burning house was a fine sight, and where Fra Pacifico went all Corellia followed. Adamo, recovered now, was soon upon the ladder, receiving the buckets from below. Pipa beside the fountain watched the marchesa, sprinkling water on her face. "Surely her eyelids faintly quiver!" thinks Pipa.—Pipa watched the marchesa speechless—watched her as birth and death are only watched!
The marchesa's eyes had quivered; now they slowly unclose. Pipa, who, next to the Virgin and the saints, worshiped her mistress—laughed wildly—sobbed—then laughed again—kissed her hand, her forehead—then pressed her in her arms. Supported by Pipa, the marchesa sat up—she turned, and then she saw the mountains of smoke bursting from the tower, forming into great clouds that rose over the tree-tops, and shut out the stars. The marchesa glanced quickly round with her keen, black eyes—she glanced as one searching for some thing she cannot find; then her lips parted, and one word fell faintly from them: "Enrica!"
Pipa caught the half-uttered name, she echoed it with a scream.
"Ahi! The signorina! The Signorina Enrica!"
Pipa shouted to Adamo on the ladder.
"Adamo! Adamo! where is the signorina?"
Adamo's heart sank at her voice. On the instant he recalled that cry he had heard upon the stairs.
"Where did you see her last?" Adamo shouted back to Pipa out of the din—his big stupid eyes looking down upon her face. "Up-stairs?"
Pipa nodded. She could not speak, it was too horrible.
"Santo Dio! I did not know it!" He struck upon his breast. "Assassin!I have killed her! Assassin! Beast! what have I done?"
Again the air rang with Pipa's shrill cries. The Corellia men, who with eager hands pass the buckets down the hill, stop, and stare, and wonder. Fra Pacifico, who had eyes and ears for every one, turned, and ran forward to where Pipa sat wringing her hands upon the ground, the marchesa leaning against her.
"Is Enrica in the tower?" asked Fra Pacifico.
"Yes, yes!" the marchesa answered feebly. "You must save her!"
"Then follow me!" shouted the priest, swinging his strong arms above his head.
Adamo leaped from the ladder. Others—they were among the very poorest—stepped out and joined him and the priest; but at the very entrance they were met and buffeted by such a gust of fiery wind, such sparks and choking smoke, that they all fell back aghast. Fra Pacifico alone stood unmoved, his tall, burly figure dark against the glare. At this instant a man wrapped in a cloak rushed out of the wood, crossed the red circle reflected from the fire, and dashed into the archway.
"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Adamo from behind.
"You go to certain death!" cried Fra Pacifico, laying his hand upon him.
"I am prepared to die," the other answered, and pushed by him.
Twice he essayed to mount the stairs. Twice he was driven back before them all. See! He has covered his head with his cloak. He has set his foot firmly upon the stone steps. Up, up he mounts—now he is gone! Without there was a breathless silence. "Who is he?—Can he save her?"—Words were not spoken, but every eye asked this question. The men without are brave, ready to face danger in dark alley—by stream or river—or on the mountain-side. Danger is pastime to them, but each one feels in his own heart he is glad not to go. Fra Pacifico stands motionless, a sad stern look upon his swarthy face. For the first time in his life he has not been foremost in danger!
By this time, Fra Pacifico thinks, unless choked, the stranger must be near the upper story.
The marchesa has now risen. She stands upright, her eyes riveted on the tower. She knows there is a door that opens from the top of the winding stair, on the highest story, next Enrica's room, a door out on the battlements. Will the stranger see it? O God! will he see it?—or is the smoke too thick?—or has he fainted ere he reached so high?—or, if he has reached her, is Enrica dead? How heavy the moments pass—weighted with life or death! Look, look! Surely something moves between the turrets of the tower! Yes, something moves. It rises—a muffled form between the turrets—the figure of a man wrapped in a cloak—on the near side out of the smoke and flames. Yes—it is the stranger—Enrica in his arms! All is clearly seen, cut as it were against a crimson background. A shout rises from every living man—a deep, full shout as out of bursting hearts that vent themselves. Out of the shout the words ring out—"The steps!—the steps!—There—to the right—cut in the battlements! The steps!—the steps!—close by the flagstaff! Pass the steps down to the lower roof of the villa" (The wind set on the other side, drawing the fire that way. The villa was not touched.)
The stranger heard and bowed his head. He has found the steps—he has reached the lower roof of the villa—he is safe!
No one below had moved. The hands by which the water was passed were now laid upon the ladder. It was shifted over to the other side against the villa walls. Adamo and Fra Pacifico stand upon the lower rungs, to steady it. The stranger throws his cloak below, the better to descend.
"Who is he?" That strong, well-knit frame, those square shoulders, that curly chestnut hair, the pleasant smile upon his glowing face, proclaim him. It is Count Nobili! He has lands along the Serchio, between Barga and Corellia, and was well known as a keen sportsman.
"Bravo! bravo! Evviva! Count Nobili—evviva!" Caps were tossed into the air, hands were wildly clapped, friendly arms are stretched out to bear him up when he descends. Adamo is wildly excited; Adamo wants to mount the ladder to help. The others pull him back. Fra Pacifico stands ready to receive Enrica, a baffled look on his face. It is the first time Fra Pacifico has stood by and seen another do his work.
See, Count Nobili is on the ladder, Enrica in his arms! As his feet touch the ground, again the people shout: "Bravo! Count Nobili! Evviva!" Their hot southern blood is roused by the sight of such noble daring. The people press upon him—they fold him in their arms—they kiss his hands, his cheeks, even his very feet.
Nobili's eyes flash. He, too, forgets all else, and, with a glance that thrills Enrica from head to foot, he kisses her before them all. The men circle round him. They shout louder than before.
As the crowd parted, the dark figure of the marchesa, standing near the fountain, was disclosed. Before she had time to stir, Count Nobili had led Enrica to her. He knelt upon the ground, and, kissing Enrica's hand, placed it within her own. Then he rose, and, with that grace natural to him, bowed and stood aside, waiting for her to speak.
The marchesa neither moved nor did she speak. When she felt the warm touch of Enrica's hand within her own, it seemed to rouse her. She drew her toward her and kissed her with more love than she had ever shown before.
"I thank you, Count Nobili," she said, in a strange, cold voice. Even at that moment she could not bring herself to look him in the face. "You have saved my niece's life."
"Madame," replied Nobili, his sweet-toned voice trembling, "I have saved my own. Had Enrica perished, I should not have lived."
In these few words the chivalric nature of the man spoke out. The marchesa waved her hand. She was stately even now. Nobili understood her gesture, and, stung to the very soul, he drew back.
"Permit me," he said, haughtily, before he turned away, "to add my help to those who are laboring to save your house."
The marchesa bowed her head in acquiescence; then, with unsteady steps, she moved backward and seated herself upon the ground.
Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy that she pinned her to the spot. Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica, feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica's white face up ward to the blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round her.
"Blessed Mother!" she sobbed, drawing her coarse fingers through the matted curls, "not a hair singed! Oh, the noble count! Oh, how I love him—"
"No, dear Pipa," Enrica answered, softly, "I am not hurt—only frightened. The fire had but just reached the door when he came. He was just in time."
"To think we had forgotten her!" murmured Pipa, still holding her tightly.
"Who remembered me first?" asked Enrica, eagerly.
"The marchesa, signorina, the marchesa. She remembered you. The marchesa was brought down by Adamo. Your name was the first word she uttered."
Enrica's blue eyes glistened. In an instant she had disengaged herself from Pipa, and was kneeling at the marchesa's feet.
"Dear aunt, forgive me. Now that I am saved, forgive me! You must forgive me, and forgive him, too!"
These last words came faint and low. The marchesa put her finger on her lip.
"Not now, Enrica, not now. To-morrow we will speak."
Meanwhile Count Nobili, Fra Pacifico, and the Corellia men, strove what human strength could do to put the fire out. Even the sindaco, forgetting the threats about his rent, labored hard and willingly—only Silvestro did nothing. Silvestro seemed stunned; he sat upon the ground staring, and crying like a child.
To save the rooms within the tower was impossible. Every plank of wood was burning. The ceilings had fallen in; only the blackened walls and stone stairs remained. The villa was untouched—the wind, setting the other way, and the thick walls of the tower, had saved it.
Now every hand that could be spared was turned to bring beds from the steward's for the marchesa and Enrica. They had gone into Pipa's room until the villa was made ready. Pipa told Adamo, and he told the others, that the marchesa had not seen the burning papers, and the lighted pile of wood, until the flames rose high behind her back. She had rushed forward, and fallen.
When all was over, Count Nobili was carried up the hill back to Corellia, in triumph, on the shoulders of Pietro the baker, and Oreste, the strongest of the brothers. Every soul of the poor townsfolk—women as well as men who had not gone down to help—had risen, and was out. They had put lights into their windows. They crowded the doorways. The market-place was full, and the church-porch. The fame of Nobili's courage had already reached them. All bless him as he passes—bless him louder when Nobili, all aglow with happiness, empties his pockets of all the coin he has, and promises more to-morrow. At this the women lay hold of him, and dance round him. It was long before he was released. At last Fra Pacifico carried him off, almost by force, to sleep at the curato.
Fra Pacifico was a dark, burly man, with a large, weather-beaten face, kind gray eyes under a pair of shaggy eyebrows, a resolute nose, large, full-lipped mouth, and a clean-shaven double chin, that rested comfortably upon his priestly stock. He was no longer young, but he had a frame like iron, and in his time he had possessed a force of arm and muscle enough to fell an ox. His strength and daring were acknowledged by all the mountain-folks from Corellia to Barga, hardy fellows, and judges of what a man can do. Moreover, Fra Pacifico was more than six feet high—and who does not respect a man of such inches? In fair fight he had killed his man—a brigand chief—who prowled about the mountains toward Carrara. His band had fled and never returned.
Fra Pacifico had stood with his strong feet planted on the earth, over the edge of a rocky precipice—by which the high-road passed—and seized a furious horse dragging a cart holding six poor souls below. Fra Pacifico had found a shepherd of Corellia—one of his flock—struck down by fever on a rocky peak some twenty miles distant, and he had carried him on his back, and laid him on his bed at home. Every one had some story to tell of his prowess, coolness, and manly daring. When he walked along the streets, the ragged children—as black with sun and dirt as unfledged ravens—sidled up to him, and, looking up into his gray eyes, ran between his firm-set legs, plucked him by the cassock, and felt in his pockets for an apple or a cake. Then the children held him tight until he had raised them up and kissed them.
Spite of the labors of the previous night (no one had worked harder), Fra Pacifico had risen with daybreak. His office accustomed him to little sleep. There was no time by day or night that he could call his own. If any one was stricken with sickness in the night, or suddenly seized for death in those pale hours when the day hovers, half-born, over the slumbering earth, Fra Pacifico must rise and wake his acolyte, the baker's boy, who, going late to bed, was hard to rouse. Along with him he must grope up and down slippery steps, and along dark alleys, bearing the Host under a red umbrella, until he had placed it within the dying lips. If a baby was weakly, or born before its time, and, having given one look at this sorrowful world, was about to lose its eyes on it forever, Fra Pacifico must run out at any moment to christen it.
There was no doctor at Corellia, the people were too poor; so Fra Pacifico was called upon to do a doctor's duty. He must draw the teeth of such as needed it; bind up cuts and sores; set limbs; and give such simple drugs as he knew the nature of. He must draw up papers for those who could not afford to pay the notary; write letters for those who could only make a cross; hear and conceal every secret that reached him in the confessional or on the death-bed. He must be at hand at any hour in the twenty-four—ready to counsel, soothe, command, and reprimand; to bless, to curse, and, if need be, to strike, when his righteous anger rose; to fetch and carry for all, and, poor himself, to give out of his scanty store. These were his priestly duties.
Fra Pacifico lived at the back of the old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, in a house overlooking a damp square, overgrown with moss and weeds. Between the tower where the bells hung, and the body of the church, an open loggia (balcony), roofed with wood and tiles, rested on slender pillars. In the loggia, Fra Pacifico, when at leisure, would sit and rest and read his breviary; sometimes smoke a solitary pipe—stretching out his shapely legs in the luxury of doing nothing. Behind the loggia were the priest's four rooms, bare even for the bareness of that squalid place. He kept no servant, but it was counted an honor to serve him, and the mothers of Corellia came by turns to cook and wash for him.
Fra Pacifico, as I have said, had risen at daybreak. Now he is searching to find a messenger to send to Lucca, as the marchesa had desired, to summon Cavaliere Trenta. That done, he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the church-door. Here, kneeling at the altar, he celebrates a private mass of thanksgiving for the marchesa and Enrica. Then, with long strides, he descends the hill to see what is doing at the villa.