CHAPTER XII
Orso found Colomba in a state of considerable anxiety because of hisprolonged absence. But as soon as she saw him she recovered her usualserene, though sad, expression. During the evening meal the conversationturned on trivial subjects, and Orso, emboldened by his sister'sapparent calm, related his encounter with the bandits, and even venturedon a joke or two concerning the moral and religious education that wasbeing imparted to little Chilina, thanks to the care of her uncle and ofhis worthy colleague Signor Castriconi.
"Brandolaccio is an upright man," said Colomba; "but as to Castriconi, Ihave heard he is quite unprincipled."
"I think," said Orso, "that he is as good as Brandolaccio, andBrandolaccio is as good as he. Both of them are at open war withsociety. Their first crime leads them on to fresh ones, every day, andyet they are very likely not half so guilty as many people who don'tlive in the _maquis_."
A flash of joy shone in his sister's eyes. "Yes," he continued, "thesewretches have a code of honour of their own. It is a cruel prejudice,not a mean instinct of greed, that has forced them into the life theyare leading."
There was a silence.
"Brother," said Colomba, as she poured out his coffee, "perhaps you haveheard that Carlo-Battista Pietri died last night. Yes, he died of themarsh-fever."
"Who is Pietri?"
"A man belonging to this village, the husband of Maddalena, who took thepocket-book out of our father's hand as he was dying. His widow has beenhere to ask me to join the watchers, and sing something. You ought tocome, too. They are our neighbours, and in a small place like this wecan not do otherwise than pay them this civility."
"Confound these wakes, Colomba! I don't at all like my sister to performin public in this way."
"Orso," replied Colomba, "every country pays honour to its dead afterits own fashion. The _ballata_ has come down to us from our forefathers,and we must respect it as an ancient custom. Maddalena does not possessthe 'gift,' and old Fiordispina, the best _voceratrice_ in the country,is ill. They must have somebody for the _ballata_."
"Do you believe Carlo-Battista won't find his way safely into the nextworld unless somebody sings bad poetry over his bier? Go if you choose,Colomba--I'll go with you, if you think I ought. But don't improvise! Itreally is not fitting at your age, and--sister, I beg you not to do it!"
"Brother, I have promised. It is the custom here, as you know, and, Itell you again, there is nobody but me to improvise."
"An idiotic custom it is!"
"It costs me a great deal to sing in this way. It brings back all ourown sorrows to me. I shall be ill after it, to-morrow. But I must do it.Give me leave to do it. Brother, remember that when we were at Ajaccio,you told me to improvise to amuse that young English lady who makes amock of our old customs. So why should I not do it to-day for these poorpeople, who will be grateful to me, and whom it will help to bear theirgrief?"
"Well, well, as you will. I'll go bail you've composed your _ballata_already, and don't want to waste it."
"No, brother, I couldn't compose it beforehand. I stand before the deadperson, and I think about those he has left behind him. The tears springinto my eyes, and then I sing whatever comes into my head."
All this was said so simply that it was quite impossible to suspectSignorina Colomba of the smallest poetic vanity. Orso let himself bepersuaded, and went with his sister to Pietri's house. The dead man layon a table in the largest room, with his face uncovered. All the doorsand windows stood open, and several tapers were burning round the table.At the head stood the widow, and behind her a great many women, whofilled all one side of the room. On the other side were the men, inrows, bareheaded, with their eyes fixed on the corpse, all in thedeepest silence. Each new arrival went up to the table, kissed the deadface, bowed his or her head to the widow and her son, and joined thecircle, without uttering a word. Nevertheless, from time to time oneof the persons present would break the solemn silence with a few words,addressed to the dead man.
"Why has thou left thy good wife?" said one old crone. "Did she not takegood care of thee? What didst thou lack? Why not have waited anothermonth? Thy daughter-in-law would have borne thee a grandson!" A tallyoung fellow, Pietri's son, pressed his father's cold hand and cried:"Oh! why hast thou not died of the _mala morte_?[*] Then we could haveavenged thee!"
[*] _La mala morte_, a violent death.
These were the first words to fall on Orso's ear as he entered the room.At the sight of him the circle parted, and a low murmur of curiositybetrayed the expectation roused in the gathering by the _voceratrice's_presence. Colomba embraced the widow, took one of her hands, and stoodfor some moments wrapped in meditation, with her eyelids dropped. Thenshe threw back her _mezzaro_, gazed fixedly at the corpse, and bendingover it, her face almost as waxen as that of the dead man, she beganthus:
"Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul! . . . To live is tosuffer! Thou goest to a place . . . where there is neither sun nor cold.. . . No longer dost thou need thy pruning-hook . . . nor thy heavypick. . . . There is no more work for thee! . . . Henceforward all thydays are Sundays! . . . Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul!. . . Thy son rules in thy house. . . . I have seen the oak fall, . . .dried up by the _libeccio_. . . . I thought it was dead indeed, . . .but when I passed it again, its root . . . had thrown up a sapling.. . . The sapling grew into an oak . . . of mighty shade. . . . Under itsgreat branches, Maddele, rest thee well! . . . And think of the oak thatis no more!"
Here Maddalena began to sob aloud, and two or three men who, onoccasion, would have shot at a Christian as coolly as at a partridge,brushed big tears off their sunburnt faces.
For some minutes Colomba continued in this strain, addressing herselfsometimes to the corpse, sometimes to the family, and sometimes, by apersonification frequently employed in the _ballata_, making the deadman himself speak words of consolation or counsel to his kinsfolk. Asshe proceeded, her face assumed a sublime expression, a delicate pinktinge crept over her features, heightening the brilliancy of her whiteteeth and the lustre of her flashing eyes. She was like a Pythoness onher tripod. Save for a sigh here and there, or a strangled sob, not theslightest noise rose from the assembly that crowded about her. Orso,though less easily affected than most people by this wild kind ofpoetry, was soon overcome by the general emotion. Hidden in a darkcorner of the room, he wept as heartily as Pietri's own son.
Suddenly a slight stir was perceptible among the audience. The circleopened, and several strangers entered. The respect shown them, and theeagerness with which room was made for them, proved them to be peopleof importance, whose advent was a great honour to the household.Nevertheless, out of respect for the _ballata_, nobody said a word tothem. The man who had entered first seemed about forty years of age.From his black coat, his red rosette, his confident air, and look ofauthority, he was at once guessed to be the prefect. Behind him camea bent old man with a bilious-looking complexion, whose furtive andanxious glance was only partially concealed by his green spectacles. Hewore a black coat, too large for him, and which, though still quite new,had evidently been made several years previously. He always kept closebeside the prefect and looked as though he would fain hide himselfunder his shadow. Last of all, behind him, came two tall young men,with sunburnt faces, their cheeks hidden by heavy whiskers, proud andarrogant-looking, and showing symptoms of an impertinent curiosity.Orso had had time to forget the faces of his village neighbours; butthe sight of the old man in green spectacles instantly called up oldmemories in his mind. His presence in attendance on the prefect sufficedto insure his recognition. This was Barricini, the lawyer, mayor ofPietranera, who had come, with his two sons, to show the prefect what a_ballata_ was. It would be difficult exactly to describe what happenedwithin Orso's soul at that moment, but the presence of his father's foefilled him with a sort of horror, and more than ever he felt inclined toyield to the suspicions with which he had been battling for so long.
As to Colomba, when she saw the man against
whom she had sworn a deadlyhatred, her mobile countenance assumed a most threatening aspect. Sheturned pale, her voice grew hoarse, the line she had begun to declaimdied on her lips. But soon, taking up her _ballata_ afresh, sheproceeded with still greater vehemence.
"When the hawk bemoans himself . . . beside his harried nest, . . . thestarlings flutter round him . . . insulting his distress."
A smothered laugh was heard. The two young men who had just come indoubtless considered the metaphor too bold.
"The falcon will rouse himself. . . . He will spread his wings. . . . Hewill wash his beak in blood! . . . Now, to thee, Carlo-Battista, letthy friends . . . bid an eternal farewell! . . . Long enough have theirtears flowed! . . . Only the poor orphan girl will not weep for thee!. . . Wherefore should she moan? . . . Thou has fallen asleep, full ofyears, . . in the midst of thine own kin . . . ready to appear . . .in the presence of the Almighty. . . . The orphan weeps for her father. . . overtaken by vile murderers, . . struck from behind. . . . For herfather, whose blood lies red . . . beneath the heaped-up green leaves.. . . But she has gathered up this blood, . . this innocent and nobleblood! . . . She has poured it out over Pietranera . . . that it maybecome a deadly poison. . . . And the mark shall be on Pietranera. . . until the blood of the guilty . . . shall have wiped out the bloodof the innocent man!"
As Colomba pronounced the last words, she dropped into a chair, drew her_mezzaro_ over her face, and was heard sobbing beneath it. The weepingwomen crowded round the _improvisatrice_; several of the men werecasting savage glances at the mayor and his sons; some of the eldersbegan to protest against the scandal to which their presence had givenrise. The dead man's son pushed his way through the throng, and wasabout to beg the mayor to clear out with all possible speed. But thisfunctionary had not waited for the suggestion. He was on his way to thedoor, and his two sons were already in the street. The prefect said afew words of condolence to young Pietri, and followed them out, almostimmediately. Orso went to his sister's side, took her arm, and drew herout of the room.
"Go with them," said young Pietri to some of his friends. "Take care noharm comes to them!"
Hastily two or three young men slipped their stilettos up the leftsleeves of their jackets and escorted Orso and his sister to their owndoor.