He began to speak to the women. “I wish to tell you,” he said, “that I have just now heard that old Fra Felice is dead, and that he has left a legacy to you all. He has written down five numbers that are supposed to win in the lottery next Saturday, and he bequeaths them to you. No one has seen them yet. They are lying here in this envelope, and it is unopened.”
He was silent a moment to let the women have time to think over what he had said.
Instantly they began to cry: “The numbers, the numbers!”
The syndic signed to them to be silent.
“You must remember,” he said, “that it was impossible for Fra Felice to know what numbers will be drawn next Saturday. If you play on these numbers, you may all lose. And we cannot afford to be poorer than we are already here in Diamante. I ask you therefore to let me destroy the testament without any one seeing it.”
“The numbers,” cried the women, “give us the numbers!”
“If I am permitted to destroy the testament,” said the syndic, “I promise you that the blind shall have their church again.”
There was silence in the square. Donna Elisa rose from her seat in the hall of the court-house and seized the back of her chair with both hands.
“I leave it to you to choose between the church and the numbers,” said the syndic.
“God in heaven!” sighed Donna Elisa, “is he a devil to tempt poor people in such a way?”
“We have been poor before,” cried one of the women, “we can still be poor.”
“We will not choose Barabbas instead of Christ,” cried another.
The syndic took a match-box from his pocket, lighted a match, and brought it slowly up to the testament.
The women stood quiet and let Fra Felice’s five numbers be destroyed. The blind people’s church was saved.
“It is a miracle,” whispered old Donna Elisa; “they all believe in Fra Felice, and they let his numbers burn. It is a miracle.”
Later in the afternoon Donna Elisa again sat in her shop with her embroidery frame. She looked old as she sat there, and there was something shaken and broken about her. It was not the usual Donna Elisa; it was a poor, elderly, forsaken woman.
She drew the needle slowly through the cloth, and when she wished to take another stitch she was uncertain and at a loss. It was hard for her to keep the tears from falling on her embroidery and spoiling it.
Donna Elisa was in such great grief for to-day she had lost Gaetano forever. There was no more hope of getting him back.
The saints had gone over to the side of the opponent, and worked miracles in order to help Donna Micaela. No one could doubt that a miracle had happened. The poor women of Diamante would never have been able to stand still while Fra Felice’snumbers burned if they had not been bound by a miracle.
It made a poor soul so old and cross to have the good saints help Donna Micaela, who did not like Gaetano.
The door-bell jingled violently, and Donna Elisa rose from old habit. It was Donna Micaela. She was joyful, and came toward Donna Elisa with outstretched hands. But Donna Elisa turned away, and could not press her hand.
Donna Micaela was in raptures. “Ah, Donna Elisa, you have helped my railway. What can I say? How shall I thank you?”
“Never mind about thanking me, sister-in-law!”
“Donna Elisa!”
“If the saints wish to give us a railway, it must be because Diamante needs it, and not because they loveyou.”
Donna Micaela shrank back. At last she thought she understood why Donna Elisa was angry with her. “If Gaetano were at home,” she said. She stood and pressed her hand to her heart and moaned. “If Gaetano were at home he would not allow you to be so cruel to me.”
“Gaetano?—would not Gaetano?”
“No, he would not. Even if you are angry with me because I loved him while my husband was alive, you would not dare to upbraid me for it if he were at home.”
Donna Elisa lifted her eyebrows a little. “You think that he could prevail upon me to be silent about such a thing,” she said, and her voice was very strange.
“But, Donna Elisa,” Donna Micaela whisperedin her ear, “it is impossible, quite impossible not to love him. He is beautiful; don’t you know it? And he subjugates me, and I am afraid of him. You must let me love him.”
“Must I?” Donna Elisa kept her eyes down and spoke quite shortly and harshly.
Donna Micaela was beside herself. “It is I whom he loves,” she said. “It is not Giannita, but me, and you ought to consider me as a daughter; you ought to help me; you ought to be kind to me. And instead you stand against me; you are cruel to me. You do not let me come to you and talk of him. However much I long, and however much I work, I may not tell you of it.”
Donna Elisa could hold out no longer. Donna Micaela was nothing but a child, young and foolish and quivering like a bird’s heart,—just one to be taken care of. She had to throw her arms about her.
“I never knew it, you poor, foolish child,” she said.
The blind singers had a meeting in the church of Lucia. Highest up in the choir behind the altar sat thirty old, blind, men on the carved chairs of the Jesuit fathers. They were poor, most of them; most of them had a beggar’s wallet and a crutch beside them.
They were all very earnest and solemn; they knew what it meant to be members of that holy band of singers, of that glorious old Academy.
Now and then below in the church a subdued noise was audible. The blind men’s guides were sitting there, children, dogs, and old women, waiting. Sometimes the children began to romp with one another and with the dogs, but it was instantly suppressed and silenced.
Those of the blind who weretrovatoristood up one after another and spoke new verses.
“You people who live on holy Etna,” one of them recited, “men who live on the mountain of wonders, rise up, give your mistress a new glory! She longs for two ribbons to heighten her beauty, two long, narrow bands of steel to fasten her mantle. Give them to your mistress, and she will reward you with riches; she will give gold for steel. Countless are the treasures that she in her might will give them who assist her.”
“A gentle worker of miracles has come among us,” said another. “He stands poor and unnoticed in the bare old church, and his crown is of tin, and his diamonds of glass. ‘Make no sacrifices to me, O ye poor,’ he says; ‘build me no temple, all ye who suffer. I will work for your happiness. If prosperity shines from your houses, I shall shine with precious stones; if want flees from the land, my feet will be clothed in golden shoes embroidered with pearls.’”
As each new verse was recited, it was accepted or rejected. The blind men judged with great severity.
The next day they wandered out over Etna, and sang the railway into the people’s hearts.
After the miracle of Fra Felice’s legacy, people began to give contributions to the railway. Donna Micaela soon had collected about a hundred lire. Then she and Donna Elisa made the journey to Messina to look at the steam-tram that runs between Messina and Pharo. They had no greater ambition; they would be satisfied with a steam-tram.
“Why does a railway need to be so expensive?” said Donna Elisa. “It is just an ordinary road, although people do lay down two steel rails on it. It is the engineer and the fine gentlemen who make a railway expensive. Don’t trouble yourself about engineers, Micaela! Let our good road-builders, Giovanni and Carmelo, build your railway.”
They carefully inspected the steam-tramway to Pharo and brought back all the knowledge they could. They measured how wide it ought to be between the rails, and Donna Micaela drew on a piece of paper the way the rails ran by one anotherat the stations. It was not so difficult; they were sure they would come out well.
That day there seemed to be no difficulties. It was as easy to build a station as an ordinary house, they said. Besides, more than two stations were not needed; a little sentry-box was sufficient at most of the stopping-places.
If they could only avoid forming a company, taking fine gentlemen into their service, and doing things that cost money, their plan of the railway would be realized. It would not cost so much. The ground they could certainly get free. The noble gentlemen who owned the land on Etna would of course understand how much use of the railway they would have, and would let it pass free of charge over their ground.
They did not trouble themselves to stake out the line beforehand. They were going to begin at Diamante and gradually build their way to Catania. They only needed to begin and lay a little piece every day. It was not so difficult.
After that journey they began the attempt to build the road at their own risk. Don Ferrante had not left a large inheritance to Donna Micaela, but one good thing that he had bequeathed her was a long stretch of lava-covered waste land off on Etna. Here Giovanni and Carmelo began to break ground for the new railway.
When the work began, the builders of the railway possessed only one hundred lire. It was the miracle of the legacy that had filled them with holy frenzy.
What a railway it would be, what a railway!
The blind singers were the share-collectors, the Christ-image gave the concession, and the old shop woman, Donna Elisa, was the engineer.
In Catania there was once a man with “the evil eye,” ajettatore. He was almost the most terriblejettatorewho had ever lived in Sicily. As soon as he showed himself on the street people hastened to bend their fingers to the protecting sign. Often it did not help at all; whoever met him could prepare himself for a miserable day; he would find his dinner burned, and the beautiful old jelly-bowl broken. He would hear that his banker had suspended payments, and that the little note that he had written to his friend’s wife had come into the wrong hands.
Most often ajettatoreis a tall, thin man, with pale, shy eyes and a long nose, which overhangs andhackshis upper lip. God has set the mark of a parrot’s beak upon thejettatore. Yet all things are variable; nothing is absolutely constant. Thisjettatorewas a little fellow with a nose like a San Michele.
Thereby he did much more harm than an ordinaryjettatore. How much oftener is one pricked by a rose than burned by a nettle!
Ajettatoreought never to grow up. He is well off only when he is a child. Then he still has his little mamma, and she never sees the evil eye; she never understands why she sticks the needle intoher finger every time he comes to her work-table. She will never be afraid to kiss him. Although she has sickness constantly in the house, and the servants leave, and her friends draw away, she never notices anything.
But after thejettatorehas come out into the world, he often has a hard time enough. Every one must first of all think of himself; no one can ruin his life by being kind to ajettatore.
There are several priests who arejettatori. There is nothing strange in that; the wolf is happy if he can tear to pieces many sheep. They could not very well do more harm than by being priests. One need only ask what happens to the children whom he baptizes, and the couples whom he marries.
Thejettatorein question was an engineer and wished to build railways. He had also a position in one of the state railway buildings. The state could not know that he was ajettatore. Ah, but what misery, what misery! As soon as he obtained a place on the railway a number of accidents occurred. When they tunnelled through a hill, one cave-in after another; when they tried to lay a bridge, breach upon breach; when they exploded a blast, the workmen were killed by the flying fragments.
The only one who was never injured was the engineer, thejettatore.
The poor fellows working under him! They counted their fingers and limbs every evening. “To-morrow perhaps we will have lost you,” they said.
They informed the chief engineer; they informedthe minister. Neither of them would listen to the complaint. They were too sensible and too learned to believe in the evil eye. The workmen ought to mind better what they were about. It was their own fault that they met with accidents.
And the gravel-cars tipped over; the locomotive exploded.
One morning there was a rumor that the engineer was gone. He had disappeared; no one knew what had become of him. Had some one perhaps stabbed him? Oh, no; oh, no! would any one have dared to kill ajettatore?
But he was really gone; no one ever saw him again.
It was a few years later that Donna Micaela began to think of building her railway. And in order to get money for it, she wished to hold a bazaar in the great Franciscan monastery outside Diamante.
There was a cloister garden there, surrounded by splendid old pillars. Donna Micaela arranged little booths, little lotteries, and little places of diversion under the arcades. She hung festoons of Venetian lanterns from pillar to pillar. She piled up great kegs of Etna wine around the cloister fountain.
While Donna Micaela worked there she often conversed with little Gandolfo, who had been made watchman at the monastery since Fra Felice’s death.
One day she made Gandolfo show her the whole monastery. She went through it all from attic to cellar, and when she saw those countless little cells with their grated windows and whitewashed walls and hard wooden seats, she had an idea.
She asked Gandolfo to shut her in in one of the cells and to leave her there for the space of five minutes.
“Now I am a prisoner,” she said, when she was left alone. She tried the door; she tried the window. She was securely shut in.
So that was what it was to be a prisoner! Four empty walls about one, the silence of the grave, and the chill.
“Now I can feel as a prisoner feels,” she thought.
Then she forgot everything else in the thought that possibly Gandolfo might not come to let her out. He could be called away; he could be taken suddenly ill; he could fall and kill himself in some of the dark passage-ways. Many things could happen to prevent him from coming.
No one knew where she was; no one would think of looking for her in that out-of-the-way cell. If she were left there for even an hour she would go mad with terror.
She saw before her starvation, slow starvation. She struggled through interminable hours of anguish. Ah, how she would listen for a step; how she would call!
She would shake the door; she would scrape the masonry of the walls with her nails; she would bite the grating with her teeth.
When they finally found her she would be lying dead on the floor, and they would find everywhere traces of how she had tried to break her way out.
Why did not Gandolfo come? Now she must have been there a quarter of an hour, a half-hour. Why did he not come?
She was sure that she had been shut in a whole hour when Gandolfo came. Where had he been such a long time?
He had not been long at all. He had only been away five minutes.
“God! God! so that is being a prisoner; that is Gaetano’s life!” She burst into tears when she saw the open sky once more above her.
A while later, as they stood out on an openloggia, Gandolfo showed her a couple of windows with shutters and green shades.
“Does any one live there?” she asked.
“Yes, Donna Micaela, some one does.”
Gandolfo told her that a man lived there who never went out except at night,—a man who never spoke to any one.
“Is he crazy?” asked Donna Micaela.
“No, no; he is as much in his right mind as you or I. But people say that he has to conceal himself. He is afraid of the government.”
Donna Micaela was much interested in the man. “What is his name?” she said.
“I call him Signor Alfredo.”
“How does he get any food?” she asked.
“I prepare it for him,” said Gandolfo.
“And clothes?”
“I get them for him. I bring him books and newspapers, too.”
Donna Micaela was silent for a while. “Gandolfo,” she said, and gave him a rose which she held in her hand, “lay this on the tray the next time you take food to your poor prisoner.”
After that Donna Micaela sent some little thing almost every day to the man in the monastery. Itmight be a flower, a book or some fruit. It was her greatest pleasure. She amused herself with her fancies. She almost succeeded in imagining that she was sending all these things to Gaetano.
When the day for the bazaar came, Donna Micaela was in the cloister early in the morning. “Gandolfo,” she said, “you must go up to your prisoner and ask him if he will come to the entertainment this evening.”
Gandolfo soon came back with the answer. “He thanks you very much, Donna Micaela,” said the boy. “He will come.”
She was surprised, for she had not believed that he would venture out. She had only wished to show him a kindness.
Something made Donna Micaela look up. She was standing in the cloister garden, and a window was thrown open in one of the buildings above her. Donna Micaela saw a middle-aged man of an attractive appearance standing up there and looking down at her.
“There he is, Donna Micaela,” said Gandolfo.
She was happy. She felt as if she had redeemed and saved the man. And it was more than that. People who have no imagination will not understand it. But Donna Micaela trembled and longed all day; she considered how she would be dressed. It was as if she had expected Gaetano.
Donna Micaela soon had something else to do than to dream; the livelong day a succession of calamities streamed over her.
The first was a communication from the old Etna brigand, Falco Falcone:—
Dear friend, Donna Micaela,—As I have heard that you intend to build a railway along Etna, I wish to tell you that with my consent it will never be. I tell you this now so that you need not waste any more money and trouble on the matter.Enlightened and most nobly born signora, I remainYour humble servant,Falco Falcone.Passafiero, my sister’s son, has written this letter.
Dear friend, Donna Micaela,—As I have heard that you intend to build a railway along Etna, I wish to tell you that with my consent it will never be. I tell you this now so that you need not waste any more money and trouble on the matter.
Enlightened and most nobly born signora, I remain
Your humble servant,
Falco Falcone.
Passafiero, my sister’s son, has written this letter.
Donna Micaela flung the dirty letter away. It seemed to her as if it were the death sentence of the railway, but to-day she would not think of it. Now she had her bazaar.
The moment after, her road-builders, Giovanni and Carmelo, appeared. They wished to counsel her to get an engineer. She probably did not know what kind of ground there was on Etna. There was, first, lava; then there was ashes; and then lava again. Should the road be laid on the top layer of lava, or on the bed of ashes, or should they dig down still deeper? About how firm a foundation did a railway need? They could not go ahead without a man who understood that.
Donna Micaela dismissed them. To-morrow, to-morrow; she had no time to think of it to-day.
Immediately after, Donna Elisa came with a still worse piece of news.
There was a quarter in Diamante where a poverty-stricken and wild people lived. Those poor souls had been frightened when they heard of the railway. “There will be an eruption of Etna and an earthquake,” they had said. Great Etna will endure no fetters. It will shake off the whole railway. Andpeople said now that they ought to go out and tear up the track as soon as a rail was laid on it.
A day of misfortune, a day of misfortune! Donna Micaela felt farther from her object than ever.
“What is the good of our collecting money at our bazaar?” she said despondingly.
The day promised ill for her bazaar. In the afternoon it began to rain. It had not rained so in Diamante since the day when the clocks rang. The clouds sank to the very house-roofs, and the water poured down from them. People were wet to the skin before they had been two minutes in the street. Towards six o’clock, when Donna Micaela’s bazaar was to open, it was raining its very hardest. When she came out to the monastery, there was no one there but those who were to help in serving and selling.
She felt ready to cry. Such an unlucky day! What had dragged down all these adversities upon her?
Donna Micaela’s glance fell on a strange man who was leaning against a pillar, watching her. Now all at once she recognized him. He was thejettatore—thejettatorefrom Catania, whom people had taught her to fear as a child.
Donna Micaela went quickly over to him. “Come with me, signor,” she said, and went before him. She wished to go so far away that no one should hear them, and then she wished to beg of him never to come before her eyes again. She could do no less. He must not ruin her whole life.
She did not think in what direction she went. Suddenly she was at the door of the monastery church and turned in there.
Within, it was almost dark. Only by the Christ-image a little oil lamp was burning.
When Donna Micaela saw the Christ-image she was startled. Just then she had not wished to see him.
He reminded her of the time when his crown had rolled to Gaetano’s feet, when he had been so angry with the brigands. Perhaps the Christ-image did not wish her to drive away thejettatore.
She had good reason to fear thejettatore. It was wrong of him to come to her entertainment; she must somehow be rid of him.
Donna Micaela had gone on through the whole church, and now stood and looked at the Christ-image. She could not say a word to the man who followed her.
She remembered what sympathy she had lately felt for him, because a prisoner, like Gaetano. She had been so happy that she had tempted him out to life. What did she now wish to do? Did she wish to send him back to captivity?
She remembered both her father and Gaetano. Should this man be the third that she—
She stood silent and struggled with herself. At last thejettatorespoke:—
“Well, signora, is it not true that now you have had enough of me?”
Donna Micaela made a negative gesture.
“Do you not desire me to return to my cell?”
“I do not understand you, signor.”
“Yes, yes, you understand. Something terrible has happened to you to-day. You do not look as you did this morning.”
“I am very tired,” said Donna Micaela, evasively.
The man came close up to her as if to force out the truth. Questions and answers flew short and panting between them.
“Do you not see that all your festival is likely to be a failure?”—“I must arrange it again to-morrow.”—“Have you not recognized me?”—“Yes, I have seen you before in Catania.”—“And you are not afraid of thejettatore?”—“Yes, formerly, as a child.”—“But now, now are you not afraid?” She avoided answering him. “Are you yourself afraid?” she said. “Speak the truth!” he said, impatiently. “What did you wish to say to me when you brought me here?”
She looked anxiously about her. She had to say something; she must have something to answer him. Then a thought occurred to her which seemed to her quite terrible. She looked at the Christ-image. “Do you require it?” she seemed to ask him. “Shall I do it for this strange man? But it is throwing away my only hope.”
“I hardly know whether I dare to speak of what I wish of you,” she said. “No, you see; you do not dare.”—“I intend to build a railway; you know that?”—“Yes, I know.”—“I want you to help me.”—“I?”
Now that she had made a beginning, it was easier for her to continue. She was surprised that her words sounded so natural.
“I know that you are a railroad builder. Yes, you understand of course that with my railroad no pay is given. But it would be better for you to help me work than to sit shut in here. You are making no use of your time.”
He looked at her almost sternly. “Do youknow what you are saying?”—“It is of course a presumptuous request.”—“Just so, yes, a presumptuous request.”
Thereupon the poor man began to try to terrify her.
“It will go with your railway as with your festival.” Donna Micaela thought so too, but now she thought that she had closed all ways of escape for herself; now she must go on being good. “My festival will soon be in full swing,” she said calmly.
“Listen to me, Donna Micaela,” said the man. “The last thing a man ceases to believe good of is himself. No one can cease to have hope for himself.”
“No; why should he?”
He made a movement as if he were impatient with her confidence.
“When I first began to think about the thing,” he said, “I was easily consoled. ‘There have been a few unfortunate occurrences,’ I said to myself, ‘so you have the reputation, and it has become a belief. It is the belief that has made the trouble. People have met you, and people have believed that they would come to grief, and come to grief they did. It is a misfortune worse than death to be considered ajettatore, but you need not yourself believe it.’”
“It is so absurd,” said Donna Micaela.
“Yes, of course, whence should my eyes have got the power to bring misfortune? And when I thought of it I determined to make a trial. I travelled to a place where no one knew me. The next day I read in the paper that the train on which I had travelled had run over a flagman. When Ihad been one day in the hotel, I saw the landlord in despair, and all the guests leaving. What had happened? I asked. ‘One of our servants has been taken with small-pox.’ Ah, what a wretched business!
“Well, Donna Micaela, I shut myself in and drew back from all intercourse with people. When a year had passed I had found peace. I asked myself why I was shut in so. ‘You are a harmless man,’ I said; ‘you wish to hurt no one. Why do you live as miserably as a criminal?’ I had just meant to go back to life again, when I met Fra Felice in one of the passages. ‘Fra Felice, where is the cat?’—‘The cat, signor?’—‘Yes, the monastery cat, that used to come and get milk from me; where is he now?’—‘He was caught in a rat-trap.’—‘What do you say, Fra Felice?’—‘He got his paw in a steel trap and he could not get loose. He dragged himself to one of the garrets and died of starvation.’ What do you say to that, Donna Micaela?”
“Was it supposed to be your fault that the cat died?”
“I am ajettatore.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah, what folly!”
“When some time had passed, again the desire to live awoke within me. Then Gandolfo knocked on my door, and invited me to your festival. Why should I not go? It is impossible to believe that one brings misfortune only by showing one’s self. It was a festival in itself, Donna Micaela, only to get ready and to take out one’s black clothes, brush them, and put them on. But when I came down to the scene of the festival, it was deserted; the rain streamed in torrents; your Venetian lanterns werefilled with water. And you yourself looked as if you had suffered all life’s misfortunes in a single day. When you looked at me you became ashy gray with terror. I asked some one: ‘What was Signora Alagona’s maiden name?’—‘Palmeri.’—‘Ah, Palmeri; so she is from Catania. She has recognized thejettatore.’”
“Yes, it is true; I recognized you.”
“You have been very friendly, very kind, and I am distressed to have spoiled your festival. But now I promise you that I shall keep away both from your entertainment and your railway.”
“Why should you keep away?”
“I am ajettatore.”
“I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.”
“I do not believe it either. Yes, yes, I believe. Do you see, people say that no one can have power over ajettatorewho is not as great in evil as he. Once, they say, ajettatorelooked at himself in the glass, and then fell down and died. Well, I never look at myself in the glass. Therefore I believe it.”
“I do not believe it. I think I almost believed it when I saw you out there. Now I do not believe it.”
“Perhaps you will let me work on your railway?”
“Yes, yes, if you only will.”
He came again close up to her, and they exchanged a few short sentences. “Come forward to the light; I wish to see your face!”—“You think that I am dissembling.”—“I think that you are polite.”—“Why should I be polite to you?”—“That railway means something to you?”—“It means life and happiness to me.”—“How is that?”—“It will win one who is dear to me.”—“Very dear?”
She did not reply, but he read the answer in her face.
He bent his knee to her, and sank his head so low that he could kiss the hem of her dress. “You are good; you are very good. I shall never forget it. If I were not who I am, how I would serve you!”
“Youshallserve me,” she said. And she was so moved by his misfortunes that she felt no more fear of his injuring her.
He sprang up. “I will tell you something. You cannot go across the floor without stumbling if I look at you.”
“Oh!” she said.
“Try!”
And she tried. She was very much frightened, and had never felt so unsteady as when she took her first step. Then she thought: “If it were for Gaetano’s sake, I could do it.” And then it was easy.
She walked to and fro on the church floor. “Shall I do it again?” He nodded.
As she was walking, the thought flashed through her brain: “The Christchild has taken the curse from him, because he is to help me.” She turned suddenly and came back to him.
“Do you know, do you know? you are nojettatore!”
“Am I not?”
“No, no!” She took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Do you not see? do you not understand? It is taken from you.”
Little Gandolfo’s voice was heard in the path outside the church. “Donna Micaela, Donna Micaela, where are you? There are so many people, Donna Micaela. Do you hear; do you hear?”
“Is it no longer raining?” said thejettatore, in an uncertain voice.
“It is not raining; how could it be raining? The Christ-image has taken the curse from you because you are going to work for his railway.”
The man reeled and grasped at the air with his hands. “It is gone. Yes, I think it is gone. Just now it was there. But now—”
He wished again to fall on his knees before Donna Micaela.
“Not to me,” she said; “to him, to him.” She pointed to the Christ-image.
But nevertheless he fell down before her. He kissed her hands, and with a voice broken by sobs he told her how every one had hated and persecuted him, and how much misery life had brought him hitherto.
The next day thejettatorewent out on Etna and staked out the road. And he was no more dangerous than any one else.
At the time when the Normans ruled in Sicily, long before the family of Alagona had come to the island, the two magnificent buildings, Palazzo Geraci and Palazzo Corvaja, were built in Diamante.
The noble Barons Geraci placed their house in the square, high up on the summit of Monte Chiaro. The Barons Corvaja, on the other hand, built their home far down the mountain and surrounded it with gardens.
The black-marble walls of Palazzo Geraci were built round a square court-yard, full of charm and beauty. A long flight of steps, passing under an arch adorned with an escutcheon, led to the second story. Not entirely round the court-yard, but here and there in the most unexpected places, the walls opened into little pillared loggias. The walls were covered with bas-reliefs, with speckled slabs of Sicilian marble and with the coats of arms of the Geraci barons. There were windows also, very small, but with exquisitely carved frames; some round, with panes so small that they could be covered with a grape leaf; some oblong, and so narrow that they let in no more light than a slit in a curtain.
The Barons Corvaja did not try to adorn the court-yard of their palace, but on the lower floor ofthe house they fitted up a magnificent hall. In the floor was built a basin for gold-fish; in niches in the walls fountains covered with mosaic, in which clear water spouted into gigantic shells. Over it all, a Moorish vaulted roof, supported on slender pillars, with twining vines in mosaic. It was a hall whose equal is only to be seen in the Moorish palace in Palermo.
There was much rivalry and emulation during all the time of building. When Palazzo Geraci put forth a balcony, Palazzo Corvaja acquired its high Gothic bay-windows; when the roof of Palazzo Geraci was adorned with richly carved battlements, a frieze of black marble, inlaid with white a yard wide, appeared on Palazzo Corvaja. The Geraci house was crowned by a high tower; the Corvaja had a roof garden, with antique pots along the railing.
When the palaces were finished the rivalry began between the families who had built them. The houses seemed to breed hostility and strife for all who lived in them. A Baron Geraci could never agree with a Baron Corvaja. When Geraci fought for Anjou, Corvaja fought for Manfred. If Geraci changed sides, and supported Aragoni, Corvaja went to Naples, and fought for Robert and Joanna.
But that was not all. It was an understood thing that when Geraci found a son-in-law, Corvaja had to increase his power by a rich marriage. Neither of the families could rest. They had to vie with each other while eating, while amusing themselves, while working. The Geraci came to the court of the Bourbons in Naples, not out of desire of distinction, but because the Corvaja were there. The Corvajaon the other hand had to grow grapes and mine sulphur, because the Geraci were interested in agriculture and the working of mines. When a Geraci received an inheritance some old relative of the Corvaja had to lie down and die, so that the honor of the family should not be hazarded.
Palazzo Geraci was always kept busy counting its servants, in order not to let Palazzo Corvaja lead. But not only the servants, but the braid on the caps, the harnesses and the horses. The pheasant feather on the heads of the Corvaja leaders must not be an inch higher than that on the Geraci. Their goats must increase in the same proportion, and the Geraci’s oxen must have just as long horns as the Corvaja’s.
In our time one might have expected an end to the enmity between the two palaces. In our time there are just as few Corvaja in the one palace as there are Geraci in the other.
The Geraci court-yard is now a dirty hole, which contains donkey-stalls and pig-styes and chicken houses. On the high steps rags are dried and the bas-reliefs are broken and mouldy. In one of the passage-ways a trade in vegetables is carried on, and in the other shoes are made. The gate-keeper looks like the most ragged of beggars, and from cellar to attic live none but poor and penniless people.
It is no better in Palazzo Corvaja. There is not a vestige of the mosaic left in the big hall; only bare, empty arches. No beggars live there, because the palace is principally in ruins. It no longer raises its beautiful façade with the carved windows to the bright Sicilian sky.
But the enmity between Geraci and Corvaja is not over. In the old days it was not only the noblefamilies themselves who competed with one another; it was also their neighbors and dependents. All Diamante is to this day divided into Geraci and Corvaja. There is still a high, loop-holed wall running across the town, dividing the part of Diamante which stands by the Geraci from that which has declared itself for the Corvaja.
Even in our day no one from Geraci will marry a girl from Corvaja. And a shepherd from Corvaja cannot let his sheep drink from a Geraci fountain. They have not even the same saints. San Pasquale is worshipped in Geraci, and the black Madonna is Corvaja’s patron saint.
A man from Geraci can never believe but that all Corvaja is full of magicians, witches, and werewolves. A man from Corvaja will risk his salvation that in Geraci there are none but rogues and pick-pockets.
Donna Micaela lived in the Geraci district, and soon all that part of the town were partisans of her railway. But then Corvaja could do no less than to oppose her.
The inhabitants of Corvaja specially disliked two things. They were jealous of the reputation of the black Madonna, and therefore did not like to have another miracle-working image come to Diamante. That was one thing. The other was that they feared that Mongibello would bury all Diamante in ashes and fire if any one tried to encircle it with a railway.
A few days after the bazaar Palazzo Corvaja began to show itself hostile. Donna Micaela one day found on the roof-garden a lemon, which was so thickly set with pins that it looked like a steel ball.It was Palazzo Corvaja, that was trying to bewitch as many pains into her head as there were pins in the lemon.
Then Corvaja waited a few days to see what effect the lemon would have. But when Donna Micaela’s people continued to work on Etna and stake out the line, they came one night and pulled everything up. And when the stakes were set up again the next day, they broke the windows in the church of San Pasquale and threw stones at the Christ-image.
There was a long and narrow little square on the south side of Monte Chiaro. On both the long sides stood dark, high buildings. On one of the short sides was an abyss; on the other rose the steep mountain. The mountain wall was arranged in terraces, but the steps were crumbled and the marble railings broken. On the broadest of the terraces rose the stately ruins of Palazzo Corvaja.
The chief ornament of the square was a beautiful, oblong water-basin which stood quite under the terraces, close to the mountain wall. It stood there white as snow, covered with carvings, and full of clear, cold water. It was the best preserved of all the former glories of the Corvaja.
One beautiful and peaceful evening two ladies dressed in black came walking into the little square. For the moment it was almost empty. The two ladies looked about them, and when they saw no one they sat down on the bench by the fountain, and waited.
Soon several inquisitive children came forward and looked at them, and the older of the two began to talk to the children. She began to tell themstories: “It is said,” and “It is told,” and “Once upon a time,” she said.
Then the children were told of the Christchild who turned himself into roses and lilies when the Madonna met one of Herod’s soldiers, who had been commanded to kill all children. And they were told the legend of how the Christchild once had sat and shaped birds out of clay, and how he clapped his hands and gave the clay pigeons wings with which to fly away when a naughty boy wished to break them to pieces.
While the old lady was talking, many children gathered about her, and also big people. It was a Saturday evening, so that the laborers were coming home from their work in the fields. Most of them came up to the Corvaja fountain for water. When they heard that some one was telling legends they stopped to listen. Both the ladies were soon surrounded by a close, dark wall of heavy, black cloaks and slouch hats.
Suddenly the old lady said to the children: “Do you like the Christchild?” “Yes, yes,” they said, and their big, dark eyes sparkled.—“Perhaps you would like to see him?”—“Yes, we should indeed.”
The lady threw back her mantilla and showed the children a little Christ-image in a jewelled dress, and with a gold crown on his head and gold shoes on his feet. “Here he is,” she said. “I have brought him with me to show you.”
The children were in raptures. First they clasped their hands at the sight of the image’s grave face, then they began to throw kisses to it.
“He is beautiful, is he not?” said the lady.
“Let us have him! Let us have him!” cried the children.
But now a big, rough workman, a dark man with a bushy, black beard, pushed forward. He wished to snatch away the image. The old lady had barely time to thrust it behind her back.
“Give it here, Donna Elisa, give it here!” said the man.
Poor Donna Elisa cast one glance at Donna Micaela, who had sat silent and displeased the whole time by her side. Donna Micaela had been persuaded with difficulty to go to Corvaja and show the image to the people there. “The image helps us when it wills,” she said. “We shall not force miracles.”
But Donna Elisa had been determined to go, and she had said that the image was only waiting to be taken to the faithless wretches in Corvaja. After everything that he had done, they might have enough faith in him to believe that he could win them over also.
Now she, Donna Elisa, stood there with the man over her, and she did not know how she could prevent him from snatching the image away.
“Give it to me amicably, Donna Elisa,” said the man, “otherwise, by God, I will take it in spite of you. I will hack it to small pieces, to small, small pieces. You shall see how much there will be left of your wooden doll. You shall see if it can withstand the black Madonna.”
Donna Elisa pressed against the mountain wall; she saw no escape. She could not run, and she could not struggle. “Micaela!” she wailed, “Micaela!”
Donna Micaela was very pale. She held her hands against her heart, as she always did when anything agitated her. It was terrible to her to stand opposed to those dark men. These were they of the slouch hats and short cloaks of whom she had always been afraid.
But now, when Donna Elisa appealed to her, she turned quickly, seized the image and held it out to the man.
“See here, take it!” she said defiantly. And she took a step towards him. “Take it, and do with it what you can!”
She held the image on her outstretched arms, and came nearer and nearer to the dark workman.
He turned towards his comrades. “She does not believe that I can do anything to the doll,” he said, and laughed at her. And the whole group of workmen slapped themselves on the knee and laughed.
But he did not take the image; he grasped instead the big pick-axe, which he held in his hand. He drew back a few steps, lifted the pick over his head, and stiffened his whole body for a blow which was to crush at once the entire hated wooden doll.
Donna Micaela shook her head warningly. “You cannot do it,” she said, and she did not draw the image back.
He saw that nevertheless she was afraid, and he enjoyed frightening her. He stood longer than was necessary with uplifted pick.
“Piero!” came a cry shrill and wailing.
“Piero! Piero!”
The man dropped his pick without striking. He looked terrified.
“God! it is Marcia calling!” he said.
At the same moment a crowd of people came tumbling out of a little cottage which was built among the ruins of the old Palazzo Corvaja. There were about a dozen women and a carabiniere, who were fighting. The carabiniere held a child in his arms, and the women were trying to drag the child away from him. But the policeman, who was a tall, strong fellow, freed himself from them, lifted the child to his shoulder, and ran down the terrace steps.
The dark Piero had looked on without making a movement. When the carabiniere freed himself, he bent down to Donna Micaela and said eagerly: “Ifthe little onecan prevent that, all Corvaja shall be his friend.”
Now the carabiniere was down in the square. Piero made a sign with his hand. Instantly all his comrades closed in a ring round the fugitive. He turned squarely round. Everywhere a close ring of men threatened him with picks and shovels.
All at once there was terrible confusion. The women who had been struggling with the carabiniere came rushing down with loud cries. The little girl, whom he held in his arms, screamed as loud as she could and tried to tear herself away. People came running from all sides. There were questionings and wonderings.
“Let us go now,” said Donna Elisa to Donna Micaela. “Now no one is thinking of us.”
But Donna Micaela had caught sight of one of the women. She screamed least, but it was instantly apparent that it was she whom the matter concerned. She looked as if she was about to lose her life’s happiness.
She was a woman who had been very beautiful, although all freshness now was gone from her, for she was no longer young. But hers was still an impressive and large-souled face. “Here dwells a soul which can love and suffer,” said the face. Donna Micaela felt drawn to that poor woman as to a sister.
“No, it is not the time to go yet,” she said to Donna Elisa.
The carabiniere asked and asked if they would not let him come out.
No, no, no! Not until he let the child go!
It was the child of Piero and his wife, Marcia. But they were not the child’s real parents. The trouble arose from that.
The carabiniere tried to win the people over to his side. He tried to convince, not Piero nor Marcia, but the others. “Ninetta is the child’s mother,” he said; “you all know that. She has not been able to have the child with her while she was unmarried; but now she is married, and wishes to have her child back. And now Marcia refuses to give her the boy. It is hard on Ninetta, who has not been able to have her child with her for eight years. Marcia will not give him up. She drives Ninetta away when she comes and begs for her child. Finally Ninetta had to complain to the syndic. And the syndic has told us to get her the child. It is Ninetta’s own child,” he said appealingly.
But it had no great effect on the men of Corvaja.
“Ninetta is a Geraci,” burst out Piero, and the circle stood fast round the carabiniere.
“When we came here to fetch the child,” saidthe latter, “we did not find him. Marcia was dressed in black, and her rooms were draped with black, and a lot of women sat and mourned with her. And she showed us the certificate of the child’s death. Then we went and told Ninetta that her child was in the church-yard.
“Well, well, a while afterwards I went on guard here in the square. I watched the children playing there. Who was strongest, and who shouted the loudest, if not one of the girls? ‘What is your name?’ I asked her. ‘Francesco,’ she answered instantly.
“It occurred to me that that girl, Francesco, might be Ninetta’s boy, and I stood quiet and waited. Just now I saw Francesco go into Marcia’s house. I followed, and there sat the girl Francesco and ate supper with Marcia. She and all the mourners began to scream when I appeared. Then I seized Signorina Francesco and ran. For the child is not Marcia’s. Remember that, signori! He is Ninetta’s. Marcia has no right to him.”
Then at last Marcia began to speak. She spoke in a deep voice which compelled every one to listen, and she made only a few, but noble gestures. Had she no right to the child? But who had given him food and clothing? He had been dead a thousand times over if she had not been there. Ninetta had left him with La Felucca. They knew La Felucca. To leave one’s child to her was the same as saying to it: “You shall die.” And, moreover, right? right? What did that mean? The one whom the boy loved had a right to him. The one who loved the boy had a right to him. Piero and she loved the boy like their own son. They could not be parted from him.
The wife was desperate, the husband perhaps even more so. He threatened the carabiniere whenever he made a movement. Yet the carabiniere seemed to see that the victory would be his. The people had laughed when he spoke of “Signorina Francesco.” “Cut me down, if you will,” he said to Piero. “Does it help you? Will you retain the child for that? He is not yours. He is Ninetta’s.”
Piero turned to Donna Micaela. “Pray to him to help me.” He pointed to the image.
Donna Micaela instantly went forward to Marcia. She was shy and trembled for what she was venturing, but it was not the time for her to hold back. “Marcia,” she whispered, “confess! Confess,—if you dare!” The startled woman looked at her. “I see it so well,” whispered Donna Micaela; “you are as alike as two berries. But I will say nothing if you do not wish it.” “He will kill me,” said Marcia. “I know one who will not let him kill you,” said Donna Micaela. “Otherwise they will take your child from you,” she added.
All were silent, with eyes fixed on the two women. They saw how Marcia struggled with herself. The features of her strong face were distorted. Her lips moved. “The child is mine,” she said, but in so low a voice that no one heard it. She said it again, and now it came in a piercing scream: “The child is mine!”
“What will you do to me when I confess it?” she said to the man. “The child is mine, but not yours. He was born in the year when you were at work in Messina. I put him with La Felucca, and Ninetta’s boy was there too. One day when I came to La Felucca she said, ‘Ninetta’s boy is dead.’At first I only thought: ‘God! if it had been mine! Then I said to La Felucca: ‘Let my boy be dead, and let Ninetta’s live.’ I gave La Felucca my silver comb, and she agreed. When you came home from Messina I said to you: ‘Let us take a foster child. We have never been on good terms. Let us try what adopting a child will do.’ You liked the proposal, and I adopted my own child. You have been happy with him, and we have lived as if in paradise.”
Before she finished speaking the carabiniere put the child down on the ground. The dark men silently opened their ranks for him, and he went his way. A shiver went through Donna Micaela when she saw the carabiniere go. He should have stayed to protect the poor woman. His going seemed to mean: “That woman is beyond the pale of the law; I cannot protect her.” Every man and woman standing there felt the same: “She is outside of the law.”
One after another went their way.
Piero, the husband, stood motionless without looking up. Something fierce and dreadful was gathering in him. Rage and suffering were gathering within him. Something terrible would happen as soon as he and Marcia were alone.
The woman made no effort to escape. She stood still, paralyzed by the certainty that her fate was sealed, and that nothing could change it. She neither prayed nor fled. She shrank together like a dog before an angry master. The Sicilian women know what awaits them when they have wounded their husbands’ honor.
The only one who tried to defend her was DonnaMicaela. Never would she have begged Marcia to confess, she said to Piero, if she had known what he was. She had thought that he was a generous man. Such a one would have said: “You have done wrong; but the fact that you confess your sin publicly, and expose yourself to my anger to save the child, atones for everything. It is punishment enough.” A generous man would have taken the child on one arm, put the other round his wife’s waist, and have gone happy to his home. A signor would have acted so. But he was no signor; he was a bloodhound.
She talked in vain; the man did not hear her; the woman did not hear her. Her words seemed to be thrown back from an impenetrable wall.
Just then the child came to the father, and tried to take his hand. Furious, he looked at the boy. As the latter was dressed in girl’s clothes, his hair smoothly combed and drawn back by the ears, he saw instantly the likeness to Marcia, which he had not noticed before. He kicked Marcia’s son away.
There was a terrible tension in the square. The neighbors continued to go quietly and slowly away. Many went unwillingly and with hesitation, but still they went. The husband seemed only to be waiting for the last to go.
Donna Micaela ceased speaking; she took the image instead and laid it in Marcia’s arms. “Take him, my sister Marcia, and may he protect you!” she said.
The man saw it, and his rage increased. It seemed as if he could no longer contain himself till he was alone. He crouched like a wild beast ready to spring.
But the image did not rest in vain in the woman’s arms. The outcast moved her to an act of the greatest love.
“What will Christ in Paradise say to me, who have first deceived my husband, and then made him a murderer?” she thought. And she remembered how she had loved big Piero in the days of her happy youth. She had not then thought of bringing such misery upon him.
“No, Piero, no, do not kill me!” she said eagerly. “They will send you to the galleys. You shall be relieved of seeing me again without that.”
She ran towards the other side of the square, where the ground fell away into an abyss. Every one understood her intention. Her face bore witness for her.
Several hurried after her, but she had a good start. Then the image, which she still carried, slipped from her arms and lay at her feet. She stumbled over it, fell, and was overtaken.
She struggled to get away, but a couple of men held her fast. “Ah, let me do it!” she cried; “it is better for him!”
Her husband came up to her also. He had caught up her child and placed him on his arm. He was much moved.
“See, Marcia, let it be as it is,” he said. He was embarrassed, but his dark, deep-set eyes shone with happiness and said more than his words. “Perhaps, according to old custom, it ought to be so, but I do not care for that. Look, come now! It would be a pity for such a woman as you, Marcia.”
He put his arm about Marcia’s waist, and went towards his house in the ruins of Palazzo Corvaja.It was like a triumphal entry of one of the former barons. The people of Corvaja stood on both sides of the way and bowed to him and Marcia.
As they went past Donna Micaela, they both stopped, bowed deep to her, and kissed the image which some one had given back to her. But Donna Micaela kissed Marcia. “Pray for me in your happiness, sister Marcia!” she said.
The blind singers have week after week sung of Diamante’s railway, and the big collection-box in the church of San Pasquale has been filled every evening with gifts. Signor Alfredo measures and sets stakes on the slopes of Etna, and the distaff-spinners in the dark alleys tell stories of the wonderful miracles that have been performed by the little Christ-image in the despised church. From the rich and powerful men who own the land on Etna comes letter after letter promising to give ground to the blessed undertaking.
During these last weeks every one comes with gifts. Some give building stone for the stations, some give powder to blast the lava blocks, some give food to the workmen. The poor people of Diamante, who have nothing, come in the night after their work. They come with shovels and wheelbarrows and creep out on Etna, dig the ground, and ballast the road. When Signor Alfredo and his people come in the morning they believe that the Etna goblins have broken out from their lava streams and helped on the work.
All the while people have been questioning and asking: “Where is the king of Etna, Falco Falcone? Where is the mighty Falco who has held sway on the slopes of Etna for five and twenty years? Hewrote to Don Ferrante’s widow that she would not be allowed to construct the railway. What did he mean by his threat? Why does he sit still when people are braving his interdiction? Why does he not shoot down the people of Corvaja when they come creeping through the night with wheelbarrows and pickaxes? Why does he not drag the blind singers down into the quarry and whip them? Why does he not have Donna Micaela carried off from the summer-palace, in order to be able to demand a cessation in the building of the railway as a ransom for her life?”
Donna Micaela says to herself: “Has Falco Falcone forgotten his promise, or is he waiting to strike till he can strike harder?”
Everybody asks in the same way: “When is Etna’s cloud of ashes to fall on the railway? When will Mongibello cataracts tear it away? When will the mighty Falco Falcone be ready to destroy it?”
While every one is waiting for Falco to destroy the railway, they talk a great deal about him, especially the workmen under Signor Alfredo.
Opposite the entrance to the church of San Pasquale, people say, stands a little house on a bare crag. The house is narrow, and so high that it looks like a chimney left standing on a burnt building site. It is so small that there is no room for the stairs inside the house; they wind up outside the walls. Here and there hang balconies and other projections that are arranged with no more symmetry than a bird’s nest on a tree-trunk.
In that house Falco Falcone was born, and his parents were only poor working-people. In that miserable hut Falco learned arrogance.
Falco’s mother was an unfortunate woman, who during the first years of her marriage brought only daughters into the world. Her husband and all her neighbors despised her.
The woman longed continually for a son. When she was expecting her fifth child she strewed salt every day on the threshold and sat and watched who should first cross it. Would it be a man or a woman? Should she bear a son or a daughter?
Every day she sat and counted. She counted the letters in the month when her child was to be born. She counted the letters in her husband’s name and in her own. She added and subtracted. It was an even number; therefore she would bear a son. The next day she made the calculation over again. “Perhaps I counted wrong yesterday,” she said.
When Falco was born his mother was much honored, and she loved him on account of it more than all her other children. When the father came in to see the child he snatched off his cap and made a low bow. Over the house-door they set a hat as a token of honor, and they poured the child’s bath water over the threshold, and let it run out into the street. When Falco was carried to the church he was laid on his god-mother’s right arm; when the neighbors’ wives came to look after his mother they courtesied to the child sleeping in his cradle.
He was also bigger and stronger than children generally are. Falco had thick hair when he was born, and when he was a week old he already had a tooth. When his mother laid him to her breast he was so wild that she laughed and said: “I think that I have brought a hero into the world.”
She was always expecting great achievementsfrom Falco, and she put pride into him. But who else hoped anything of him? Falco could not even learn to read. His mother tried to take a book and teach him the letters. She pointed to A, that is the big hat; she pointed to B, that is the spectacles; she pointed to C, that is the snake. That he could learn. Then his mother said: “If you put the spectacles and the big hat together, it makes Ba.” That he could not learn. He became angry and struck her, and she let him alone. “You will be a great man yet,” she said.
Falco was dull and bad-tempered in his childhood and youth. As a child, he would not play; as a youth, he would not dance. He had no sweetheart, but he liked to go where fighting was to be expected.
Falco had two brothers who were like other people, and who were much more esteemed than he. Falco was wounded to see himself eclipsed by his brothers, but he was too proud to show it. His mother was always on his side. After his father’s death she had him sit at the head of the table, and she never allowed any one to jest with him. “My oldest son is the best of you all,” she said.
When the people remember it all they say: “Falco is proud. He will make it a point of honor to destroy the railway.”
And they have hardly terrified themselves with one story before they remember another about him.
For thirty long years, people say, Falco lived like any other poor person on Etna. On Monday he went away to his work in the fields with his brothers. He had bread in his sack for the whole week, and he made soup of beans and rice like every one else.And he was glad on Saturday evening to be able to return to his home. He was glad to find the table spread, with wine and macaroni, and the bed made up with soft pillows.
It was just such a Saturday evening. Falco and Falco’s brothers were on their way home; Falco, as usual, a little behind the others, for he had a heavy and slow way of walking. But look, when the brothers reached home, no supper was waiting, the beds were not made, and the dust lay thick on the threshold. What, were all in the house dead? Then they saw their mother sitting on the floor in a dark corner of the cottage. Her hair was drawn down over her face, and she sat and traced patterns with her finger on the earth floor. “What is the matter?” said the brothers. She did not look up; she spoke as if she had spoken to the earth. “We are beggared, beggared.” “Do they want to take our house from us?” cried the brothers. “They wish to take away our honor and our daily bread.”
Then she told: “Your eldest sister has had employment with Baker Gasparo, and it has been good employment. Signor Gasparo gave Pepa all the bread left over in the shop, and she brought it to me. There has been so much that there was enough for us all. I have been happy ever since Pepa found that employment. It will give me an old age free from care, I thought. But last Monday Pepa came home to me and wept; Signora Gasparo had turned her away.”
“What had Pepa done?” asked Nino, who was next younger to Falco.
“Signora Gasparo accused Pepa of stealing bread. I went to Signora Gasparo and asked her to takePepa back. ‘No,’ she said, ‘the girl is not honest.’ ‘Pepa had the bread from Signor Gasparo,’ I said; ‘ask him.’ ‘I cannot ask him,’ said the signora; ‘he is away, and comes home next month.’ ‘Signora,’ I said, ‘we are so poor. Let Pepa come back to her place.’ ‘No,’ she said; ‘I myself will leave Signor Gasparo if he takes that girl back.’ ‘Take care,’ I said then; ‘if you take bread from me, I will take life from you.’ Then she was frightened and called others in, so that I had to go.”