Part 10

A slight murmur arose among the servants. Two of them came forward to help the paralytic to get out of bed. Two others stood near the chair, which ran on rollers. The work was painful.

The corpulent old man was panting and lamenting loudly, his arm clinging to the neck of the servant who supported him. He was dripping with perspiration, while the room, the shutters being closed, was filled with an unbearable stench. When he reached the chair, his feet began to tap on the floor with a rhythmical motion. His loose stomach hung on his knees, like a half filled leather bag.

Then the Duke said to Mazzagrogna, “Giovanni, it is your turn!”

And the latter, with a resolute gesture, opened the shutters and went out onto the balcony.

IV

A sonorous shouting greeted him. Five, ten, twenty bundles of lighted sticks were simultaneously thrust beneath the place where he was standing. The glare illuminated the animated faces, eager for carnage, the steel of the guns, the iron axes. The faces of the torch-bearers were sprinkled with flour, as a protection from the sparks, and in the midst of their whitened faces their reddish eyes shone singularly. The black smoke arose in the air, fading away rapidly. The flames whistled and, stretching up on one side, were blown by the wind like infernal hair. The thinnest and dryest reeds bent over quickly, reddening, breaking down and cracking like sky-rockets. It was a gay sight.

“Mazzagrogna! Mazzagrogna! To death with the seducer! To death with the crooked man!” they all cried, crowding together to throw insults at him.

Mazzagrogna stretched out his hands, as though to subdue the clamour; he gathered together all his vocal force and began, in the name of the king, as if promulgating a law to infuse respect into the people.

“In the name of His Majesty, Ferdinando II, and by the grace of God, King of both Sicilies, of Jerusalem——”

“To death with the thief!”

Two or three shots resounded among the cries, and the speaker, struck on his chest and on his forehead, staggered, throwing his hands above his head and falling downward. Upon falling, his head stuck between two of the spikes of the iron railing and hung over the edge like a pumpkin. The blood began to drip down upon the soil beneath.

This spectacle rejoiced the people. The uproar arose to the stars. Then the bearer of the pole holding the hanging corpse came under the balcony and held the body of Vincenzio Murro near to that of the majordomo. The pole was wavering in the air and the people, dumbfounded, watched as the two bodies jolted together. An improvised poet, alluding to the Albino-like eyes of Mazzagrogna and to the bleared ones of the messenger, shouted these lines:

“_Lean over the window, you fried eyes,_ _That you may look upon the open skies!_”

A great outburst of laughter greeted the jest of the poet and the laughter spread from mouth to mouth like the sound of water falling down a stony valley.

A rival poet shouted:

“_Look, what a blind man can see!_ _If he closes his eyes and tries to flee._”

The laughter was renewed.

A third one cried out:

“_Oh, face of a dead brute!_ _Your crazy hair stands resolute!_”

Many more imprecations were cast at Mazzagrogna. A ferocious joy had invaded the hearts of the people. The sight and smell of blood intoxicated those nearest. Tomaso of Beffi and Rocco Fuici challenged each other to hit with a stone the hanging head of the dead man, which was still warm, and at every blow moved and shed blood. A stone, thrown by Rocco Fuici, at last, hit it in the centre, causing a hollow sound. The spectators applauded, but they had had enough of Mazzagrogna.

Again a cry arose, “Cassaura! Cassaura! To death! To death!”

Fabrizio and Ferdinandino Scioli, pushing their way through the crowd, were instigating the most zealous ones. A terrible shower of stones, like a dense hailstorm, mingled with gun-shots, beat against the windows of the palace, the window panes falling upon the assailing hoards and the stones rebounding. A few of the bystanders were hurt.

When they were through with the stones and had used all their bullets, Ferdinandino Scioli cried out, “Down with the doors!”

And the cry, repeated from mouth to mouth, shook every hope of salvation out of the Duke of Ofena.

V

No one had dared to close the balcony, where Mazzagrogna had fallen. His corpse was lying in a contorted position. Then the rebels, in order to be freer, had left the pole, holding the bleeding body of the messenger, leaning against the balcony. Some of his limbs had been cut off with a hatchet, and the body could be seen through the curtains as they were inflated by the wind. The evening was still. The stars scintillated endlessly. A few stubble fields were burning in the distance.

Upon hearing the blows against the door the Duke of Ofena wished to try another experiment.

Don Filippo, stupefied with terror, kept his eyes closed and was speechless. Carletto Grua, his head bandaged, doubled up in the corner, his teeth chattering with fever and fear, watched with his eyes sticking out of their orbits, every gesture, every motion of his master. The servants had found refuge in the garrets. A few of them still remained in the adjoining rooms.

Don Luigi gathered them together, reanimated their courage and rearmed them with pistols and guns, and then assigned to each one his place under the parapets of the windows, and between the shutters of the balcony. Each one had to shoot upon the rebels with the greatest possible celerity, silently, without exposing himself.

“Forward!”

The firing began. Don Luigi was placing his hopes in a panic. He was untiringly discharging his long-range pistols with most marvellous energy. As the multitude was dense, no shot went astray. The cries arising after every discharge excited the servants and increased their ardour. Already disorder invaded the mutineers. A great many were running away, leaving the wounded on the ground.

Then a cry of victory arose from the group of the domestics.

“Long live the Duke of Ofena!” These cowardly men were growing brave, as they beheld the backs of their enemy. They no longer remained hidden, no longer shot at haphazard, but, having risen to their feet, were aiming at the people. And every time they saw a man fall, would cry, “Long live the Duke!”

Within a short time the palace was freed from the siege. All around the wounded ones lay, groaning. The residue of the sticks, which were still burning over the ground and crackling as they died out, cast upon the bodies uncertain flashes of light reflected in the pools of blood. The wind had grown, striking the old oaks with a creeping sound. The barking of dogs, answering one another, resounded throughout the valley.

Intoxicated by their victory and broken down with fatigue, the domestics went downstairs to partake of some refreshments. They were all unhurt. They drank freely and abundantly. Some of them announced the names of those they had struck, and described the way they had fallen. The cook was boasting of having killed the terrible Rocco Furci; and as they became excited by the wine the boasting increased.

VI

Now, while the Duke of Ofena feeling safe, for at least that night, from any danger, was attending the whining Carletto, a glare of light from the south was reflected in the mirror, and new clamours arose through the gusts of the south wind beneath the palace. At the same time four or five servants appeared, who, while sleeping, intoxicated, in the rooms below, had been almost suffocated by the smoke. They had not yet recovered their senses, staggering, being unable to talk, as their tongues were thick with drink. Others came running up, shouting:

“Fire! Fire!”

They were trembling, leaning against one another like a herd of sheep. Their native cowardice had again overtaken them. All their senses were dull as in a dream. They did not know what they ought to do, nor did the consciousness of real danger urge them to use a ruse as a means of escape.

Taken very much by surprise the Duke was at first perplexed. But Carletto Grua, noticing the smoke coming in, and hearing that singular roar which the flames make by feeding themselves, began to cry so loudly, and to make such maddened gestures, that Don Filippo awoke from the half drowsiness into which he had fallen, on beholding death.

Death was unavoidable. The fire, owing to the strong wind, was spreading with stupendous speed through the whole edifice, devouring everything in flames. These flames ran up the walls, hugging the tapestries, hesitating an instant over the edge of the cloth, with clear and changeable yet vague tints penetrating through the weave, with a thousand thin, vibrating tongues, seeming to animate, in an instant, the mural figures, with a certain spirit, by lighting up for a second a smile never before seen upon the mouths of the nymphs and the Goddess, by changing in an instant their attitudes and their motionless gestures.

Passing on, in their still increasing flight, they would wrap themselves around the wooden carvings, preserving to the last their shapes, as though to make them appear to be manufactured of fiery substance when they were suddenly consumed, turning to Cinders, as if by magic. The voices of the flames were forming a vast choir, a profound harmony, like the rustling of millions of weeds. At intervals, through the roaring openings, appeared the pure sky with its galaxy of stars.

Now the entire palace was a prey of the fire.

“Save me! Save me!” cried the old man, attempting in vain to get up, already feeling the floor sinking beneath him, and almost blinded by the implacable reddish glare.

“Save me! Save me!”

With a supreme effort he succeeded in rising and began to run, the trunk of his body leaning forward, moving with little hopping steps, as if pushed by an irresistible progressive impulse, waving his shapeless hands, until he fell overpowered—the victim of the fire—collapsing and curling up like an empty bladder.

By this time the cries of the people increased and at intervals arose above the roar of the fire. The servants, crazed with terror and pain, jumped out of the windows, falling upon the ground dead, where if not entirely dead they were instantly killed. With every fall a greater clamour arose.

“The Duke! The Duke!” the unsatisfied barbarians were crying as if they wanted to see the little tyrant jump out with his cowardly protégé.

“Here he comes! Here he comes! Is it he?”

“Down! down! We want you!”

“Die, you dog! Die! Die! Die!”

In the large doorway, in the presence of the people, Don Luigi appeared carrying on his shoulders the motionless body of Carletto Grua. His whole face was burned and almost unrecognisable. He no longer had any hair nor beard left. He was walking boldly through the fire, endeavouring to keep his courage in spite of that atrocious pain.

At first the crowd was dumb. Then again broke forth in shouts and gestures, waiting ferociously for this great victim to expire before them.

“Here, here, you dog! We want to see you die!”

Don Luigi heard through the flames these last insults. He gathered together all of his will-power and stood for an instant in an attitude of indescribable scorn. Then turning abruptly he disappeared forever where the fire was raging fiercest.

XI

_THE WAR OF THE BRIDGE_

_Fragments of the Pescarese Chronicle_

Towards the middle of August—when in the fields the wheat was bleaching dry in the sun—Antonio Mengarino, an old peasant full of probity and wisdom, standing before the Board of the Council when they were discussing public matters, heard some of the councillors, citizens of the place, discoursing in low tones about the cholera, which was spreading through the province; and he listened with close attention to the proposals for preserving the health and for eliminating the fears of the people and he leaned forward curiously and incredulously as he listened.

With him in the Council were two other peasants, Giulio Citrullo of the Plain, and Achille di Russo of the Hills, to whom the old man would turn from time to time, winking and grimacing insinuatingly, to warn them of the deception which he believed was concealed in the words of the Councillors and the Mayor.

At last, unable to restrain himself longer, he spoke out with the assurance of a man who knows and sees.

“Stop your idle talk! What if there is a little cholera among us. Let us keep the secret to ourselves.”

At this unexpected outburst, the Councillors were taken by surprise, then burst into laughter.

“Go on, Mengarino! What foolishness are you talking!” exclaimed Don Aiace, the Assessor, slapping the old man on the shoulder, while the rest, with much shaking of heads and beating of fists upon the table, talked of the pertinacious ignorance of the country people.

“Well, well, but do you think we are deceived by your talk?” asked Antonio Mengarino, with a quick gesture, hurt by the laughter which his words had created, and in the hearts of the three peasants their instinctive hostility toward and hatred of the upper classes were revived. Then they were excluded from the secrets of the Council? Then they were still considered ignoramuses? Oh, those were two galling thoughts!

“Do as you please. We are going,” said the old man bitterly, putting on his hat and the three peasants left the hall in silent dignity.

When they were outside the town, in the upland country filled with vineyards and cornfields, Giulio Citrullo stopped to light his pipe, and said decisively:

“We will not mind them! We can be on our guard, and know that we shall have to take precautions. I would not like to be in their places!”

Meanwhile, throughout the farming country, the fear of the disease had taken possession of all. Over the fruit trees, the vineyards, the cisterns, and the wells, the farmers, suspicious and threatening, kept close and indefatigable watch. Through the night frequent shots broke the silence, and even the dogs barked till dawn. Imprecations against the Government burst forth with greater violence from day to day. All the peaceful labours of the farm-hands were undertaken with a sort of carelessness; from the fields expressions of rebellion rose in songs and rhymes, improvised by the hands.

Then, the old men recalled instances in the past which confirmed the suspicions about poisoning. In the year ’54, some vintagers had one day caught a man hidden in the top of a fig-tree, and when they forced him to descend, they noticed in his hand a vial, which he had attempted to conceal. With dire threats they compelled him to swallow the yellowish ointment which it contained, whereupon shortly he fell writhing in agony with greenish foam issuing from his mouth and died within a few minutes. In Spoltore, in the year ’57, Zinicche, a blacksmith, killed the Chancellor, Don Antonio Rapino, in the square, after which the mysterious deaths ceased, and the country was saved.

Then stories began to be circulated of recent mysterious happenings. One woman said that seven cases of poison had come to the City Hall, sent by the Government to be distributed through the country by mixing it with the salt. The cases were green, fastened with iron bands and three locks. The Mayor had been obliged to pay seven thousand ducats to bury the cases and save the country. Another story went about that the Government paid the Mayor five ducats for every dead person because the population was too large, and it was the poor who must die. The Mayor was now making out a list of those selected. Ha! He would get rich, this great signore! And so the excitement grew. The peasants would not buy anything in the market of Pescara; the figs were left to rot on the trees; the grapes were left among the vine-leaves; even the nightly depredations in the orchards and vineyards did not occur, for the robbers feared to eat poisoned fruit. The salt, which was the only provision obtained from the city stores, was given to dogs and cats before being used, to make sure that it was harmless.

One day the news came that in Naples the people were dying in large numbers and hearing the name of Naples, of that great, far-distant kingdom where “Gianni Without Fear” made his fortune, the imaginations of the people were inflamed. The vintage time came, but the merchants of Lombardy bought the home grapes, and took them to the north to make artificial wines. The luxury of new wine was scarce; the vintagers who trampled out the juice of the grapes in the vats to the songs of maidens, had little to do.

But when the work of the vineyards was ended, and the fruit of the trees was gone, the fears and suspicions of the people grew less, for now there was little chance for the Government to scatter the poison. Heavy, beneficent rains fell upon the country, drenching the soil and preparing it for the ploughing and the sowing, and together with the favour of the soft autumnal sun and the moon in its first quarter, had its beneficent influence upon seeds. One morning through all the country the report was spread that at Villareale, near the oak groves of Don Settimio, over the shore of the river, three women had died after having eaten soup made from dough bought in the city. The indignation of every person in the country was aroused, and with greater vehemence after the quiet of the transient security.

“Aha! That is well! The ‘great Signore’ does not wish to renounce the ducats!... But they cannot harm us now, for there is no more fruit to eat, and we do not go to Pescara. The ‘great Signore’ is playing his cards very badly. He wishes to see us die! But he has mistaken the time, poor Signore!

“Where can he put the poison? In the dough? In the salt?... But we shall not eat any more dough, and we have our salt first tried by the dogs and cats. Ha, rascally Signore! What have you done? Your day will come, too....”

Thus, everywhere the grumbling rose, mixed with mocking and contumely against the men of the Commune and the Government.

In Pescara, one after another, three, four, five persons were taken with the disease. Evening was approaching, and over the houses hung a funereal dread, which seemed to be mingled with the dampness arising from the river. Through the streets the people ran frantically towards the City Hall, where the Mayor, the Councillors, and the gendarmes, overwhelmed with the miserable confusion, ran up and down the stairs, all talking loudly, giving contrary orders, not knowing what action to take, where to go, nor what to do.

The strange occurrence and the excitement which followed it, caused many of the people to grow slightly ill. Feeling a strange sensation in their stomachs, they would begin to tremble, and with chattering teeth would look into one another’s faces; then, with rapid strides, would hasten to lock themselves in their homes, leaving their evening meals untouched.

Then, late in the night, when the first tumult of the panic had subsided, the police lighted fires of sulphur and tar at the corners of the streets. The red flames lighted up the walls and the windows, and the unpleasant odour of manure pervaded the air of the frightened city, and in the light of the distant moon, it looked as though the tar men were merrily smearing the keels of vessels. Thus did the Asiatic Plague make an entrance into Pescara.

The disease, creeping along the river, spread through the little seashore hamlets,—through those groups of small, low houses where the sailors live, and where old men are engaged in small industries.

Most of those seized with the disease died, because no amount of reasoning and assurance, or experiments, could persuade them to take the medicine. Anisafine, the hunchback who sold water mixed with spirit of anise to the soldiers, when he saw the glass of the physician, closed his lips tightly and shook his head in refusal of the potion. The doctor tried to coax him with persuasive words and first drank half the liquid, then the assistants each took a sip. Anisafine continued to shake his head.

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

Anisafine began to laugh sceptically, “Ha! ha! ha! You took the counter-poison,” he said, and soon after he was dead.

Cianchine, simple-minded butcher, did the same thing. The doctor, as a last resort, poured the medicine between the man’s teeth. Cianchine spit it out wrathfully, overwhelmed with horror. Then he began to abuse those present, and died raging, held by two amazed gendarmes.

The public kitchens, instituted by charitably-disposed people, were at first thought by the peasants to be laboratories for the mixing of poisons. The beggars would starve rather than eat meat cooked in those boilers. Costantino di Corropoli, the cynic, went about scattering his doubts through his circle. He would wander around the kitchens, saying aloud with an indescribable gesture, “You can’t entrap me!”

The woman Catalana di Gissi was the first to conquer her fears. Hesitating a little, she entered and ate a small mouthful, waiting to notice the effect of the food and then took a few sips of wine, whereupon, feeling restored and fortified, she smiled with astonishment and pleasure. All the beggars were waiting for her to come out and when they saw her unharmed, they rushed in to eat and drink.

The kitchens are inside an old open theatre in the neighbourhood of Portanova. The kettles in which the food is prepared are placed where the orchestra used to sit. The steam from them rises and fills the old stage; through the smoke you see the scenery behind on the stage, representing a feudal castle in the light of the full moon. Here at noon-time gathers around a rustic table the tribe of the beggars. Before the hour strikes, there is a swarming of multi-coloured rags in the pit, and there arises the grumbling of hoarse voices. Some new figures appear among the well-known ones; noteworthy among whom is a certain woman called Liberata Lotta di Montenerodomo, stupendous as the mythological Minerva, with a regular and austere brow and with her hair strained tightly over her head and adhering to it like a helmet. She holds in her hands a grass-green vase, and stands aside, taciturn, waiting to be asked to partake.

However, the great epic account of this chronicle of the cholera is the War of the Bridge.

An old feud exists between Pescara and Castellammare Adriatico, which districts lie on either side of the river.

The opposing factions were assiduously engaged in pillage and reprisals, the one doing all that lay in its power to hinder the prosperity of the other, and as the important factor in the prosperity of a country is its commerce, and as Pescara possessed many industries and great wealth, the people of Castellammare had long sought with much astuteness and all manner of allurements to draw the merchants away from the rival town.

An old wooden bridge, built on big tarred boats chained together and fastened to the piers, spans the river. The cables and the ropes, which stretch from almost the height of the piers to the low parapets, cross each other in the air, looking like some barbaric instrument. The uneven boards creak under the weight of the wagons, and when the ranks of the soldiers pass over, the whole of the great structure shakes and vibrates from one end to the other, resounding like a drum. It was from this bridge that the popular legends of Saint Cetteo, the Liberator, originated, and the saint yearly stops in the centre with great Catholic pomp to receive the salutes which the sailors send him from the anchored boats.