“And he shall win many followers”

I
THE OASIS AND THE DESERT

In the spring of 1894 the Etna railway was begun; in the autumn of 1895 it was finished. It went up from the shore, made a circuit round the mountain in a wide half-circle, and came down again to the shore.

Trains come and go every day, and Mongibello lies subdued and makes no sign. Foreigners pass with amazement through the black, distorted lava streams, through the groves of white almond-trees, through the dark old Saracen towns. “Look, look! is there such a land on earth!” they say.

In the railway carriages there is always some one telling of the time when the Christ-image was in Diamante.

What a time! What a time! Each day new miracles were performed. They cannot tell of them all, but he brought as much happiness to Diamante as if the hours of the day had been dancing maidens. People thought that Time had filled his hour-glass with shining sands of gold.

If any one had asked who reigned in Diamante at that time, the answer would have been that it was the Christ-image. Everything was done according to his will. No one took a wife, or played in a lottery, or built himself a house without consulting him.

Many knife-thrusts were spared for the image’s sake, many old feuds settled, and many bitter words were never uttered.

The people had to be good, for they observed that the image helped those who were peaceable and helpful. To them he granted the pleasant gifts of happiness and riches.

If the world had been as it ought to be, Diamante would soon have become a rich and powerful town. But instead, that part of the world which did not believe in the image destroyed all his work. All the happiness he scattered about him was of no avail.

The taxes were constantly increased, and took all their money. There was the war in Africa. How could the people be happy when their sons, their money, and their mules had to go to Africa? The war did not go well; one defeat followed another. How could they be happy when their country’s honor was at stake?

Especially after the railway had been finished was it manifest that Diamante was like an oasis in a great desert. An oasis is exposed to the drifting sands of the desert and to robbers and wild beasts. So was also Diamante. The oasis would have to spread over the whole desert to feel secure. Diamante began to believe that it could never be happy until the whole world worshipped its Christ-image.

It now happened that everything that Diamante hoped and strove for was denied it.

Donna Micaela and all Diamante longed to get Gaetano back. When the railway was ready Donna Micaela went to Rome and asked for his release, but it was refused her. The king and the queen would have liked to help her, but they could not. You know who was minister then. He ruled Italy with a hand of iron; do you think that he allowed the king to pardon a rebellious Sicilian?

The people also longed that the Christchild of Diamante should have the adoration that was his due, and Donna Micaela sought an audience for his sake with the old man in the Vatican. “Holy Father,” she said, “let me tell you what has been taking place in Diamante on the slopes of Etna!” And when she had told of all the miracles performed by the image, she asked the pope to have the old church of San Pasquale purified and consecrated, and to appoint a priest for the worship of the Christchild.

“Dear Princess Micaela,” said the pope, “those incidents of which you speak, the church dares not consider miracles. But you need not at all despair. If the Christchild wishes to be worshipped in your town, he will give one more sign. He will show Us his will so plainly that We shall not need to hesitate. And forgive an old man, my daughter, because he has to be cautious!”

A third thing the people of Diamante had hoped. They had expected at last to hear something from Gaetano. Donna Micaela journeyed also to Como, where he was held prisoner. She had letters of recommendation from the highest quarters in Rome, and she was sure that she would be allowed to speak to him. But the director of the prison sent her to the prison doctor.

The latter forbade her to speak to Gaetano.

“You wish to see the prisoner?” he said. “You shall not do it. Do you say that he loves you and believes you to be dead? Let him think it! Let him believe it! He has bowed his head to Death. He suffers no longing. Do you wish him to know that you are alive, so that he may begin to long? You wish, perhaps, to kill him? I will tell you something; if he begins to long for life, he will be dead within three months.”

He spoke so positively that Donna Micaela understood that she must give up seeing Gaetano. But what a disappointment, what a disappointment!

When she came home, she felt like one who has dreamt so vividly that he cannot, even after he is awake, rouse himself from his visions. She could not realize that all her hopes had been a mockery. She surprised herself time after time thinking: “When I have saved Gaetano.” But now she no longer had any hope of saving him.

She thought now of one, now of another enterprise, on which she wished to embark. Should she drain the plain, or should she begin to quarry marble on Etna. She hesitated and wondered. She could not keep her mind on anything.

The same indolence that had taken possession of Donna Micaela crept through the whole town. It was soon plain that everything that depended on people who did not believe in the Christchild of Diamante was badly managed and unsuccessful. Even the Etna railway was conducted in the wrong way. Accidents were happening constantly on the steep inclines; and the price of the tickets was too high. The people began to use the omnibuses and post wagons again.

Donna Micaela and others with her began to think of carrying the Christ-image out into the world. They would go out and show how he gave health and subsistence and happiness to all who were quiet and industrious and helped their neighbor. If people could once see, they would certainly be converted.

“The image ought to stand on the Capitol and govern the world,” said the people of Diamante.

“All those who govern us are incapable,” said the people. “We prefer to be guided by the holy Christchild.”

“The Christchild is powerful and charitable; if he ruled us, the poor would be rich, and the rich would have enough. He knows who wish to do right. If he should come to power, they who now are ruled would sit in the parliament. He would pass through the world like a plough with a sharp edge, and that which now lies unprofitable in the depths would then bear harvests.”

Before their longed-for plans came to pass, however, in the first days of March, 1896, the news of the battle at Adna arrived. The Italians had been defeated, and several thousands of them were killed or taken prisoners.

A few days later there was a change of ministry in Rome. And the man who came to power was afraid of the rage and despair of the Sicilians. To pacify them he pardoned out several of the imprisoned socialists. The five for whom he thought the people longed most were set free. They were Da Felice, Bosco, Verro, Barbato and Alagona.

Ah, Micaela tried to be glad when she heard it. She tried not to weep.

She had believed that Gaetano was in prison because the Christ-image was to break down the walls of his cell. He was sent there by the grace of God, because he had to be forced to bow his head before the Christchild and say: “My Lord and my God.”

But now it was not the image which had freed him; he would come out the same heathen as before; the same yawning chasm would still exist between them.

She tried to be glad. It was enough that he was free. What did she or her happiness matter in comparison to that!

But it happened so with everything for which Diamante had hoped and striven.

The great desert was very cruel to the poor oasis.

II
IN PALERMO

At last, at last, it is one o’clock at night. Those who are afraid to oversleep rise from their beds, dress themselves and go out into the street.

And those who have sat and hung over a cafÉ table till now start up when they hear steps echo on the stone pavements. They shake the drowsiness from their bodies and hurry out. They mingle in the swiftly increasing stream of people, and the heavy feet of Time begin to move a little faster.

Mere acquaintances press each other’s hands with heartfelt warmth. It is plain that the same enthusiasm fills all souls. And the most absurd people are out; old university professors, distinguished noblemen and fine ladies, who otherwise never set their foot in the street. They are all equally joyous.

“God! God! that he is coming, that Palermo is to have him back again!” they say.

The Palermo students, who have not moved from their usual headquarters in Quattro Canti all night, have provided torches and colored lanterns. They were not to be lighted till four o’clock, when the man they expected was to come; but about two o’clock one or two of them begin to try whether their torches burn well. Then they light everything and greet the flames with cheers. It is impossible to stand in darkness when so much joy is burning within them.

In the hotels the travellers are waked and urged to get up. “There is a festival in Palermo to-night, O signori!”

The travellers ask for whom. “For one of the socialists whom the government has pardoned out of prison. He is coming now in the steamer from Naples.”—“What kind of a man is he?”—“His name is Bosco, and the people love him.”

There are preparations everywhere in the night for his sake. One of the goatherds on Monte Pellegrino is busy tying little bunches of blue-bells for his goats to wear in their collars. And as he has a hundred goats, and they all wear collars—But it must be done. His goats could not wander into Palermo the next morning without being adorned in honor of the day.

The dressmakers have had to sit at their work till midnight to finish all the new dresses that are to be worn that morning. And when such a little dressmaker has finished her work for others, she has to think of herself. She puts a couple of plumes in her hat and piles up bunches of ribbon a yard high. To-day she must be beautiful.

The long rows of houses begin to be illuminated. Here and there a rocket whizzes up. Fire-crackers hiss and snap at every street corner.

The flower shops along Via Vittorio Emanuele are emptied again and again. Always more, more of the white orange-blossoms! All Palermo is filled with the sweet fragrance of the orange-blossoms.

The gate-keeper in Bosco’s house has no peace for a moment. Magnificent cakes and towerlike bouquets are incessantly passing up the stairway, and poems of welcome and telegrams of congratulation are constantly coming. There is no end to them.

The poor bronze emperor on the Piazza Bologna, poor, ugly Charles the Fifth, who is forlorn and thin and wretched as San Giovanni in the desert, has in some inscrutable manner got a bunch of flowers in his hand. When the students standing on Quattro Canti, quite near by, hear of it, they march up to the emperor in a procession, light him with their torches, and raise a cheer for the old despot. And one of them takes his bunch of flowers to give it to the great socialist.

Then the students march down to the harbor.

Long before they get there their torches are burnt out, but they do not care. They come with arms about each other’s necks, singing loudly, and sometimes breaking off in their song to shout: “Down with Crispi! Long live Bosco!” The song begins again, but it is again broken off, because those who cannot sing throw their arms round the singers and kiss them.

Guilds and corporations swarm out of the quarters of the town where the same trade has been carried on for more than a thousand years. The masons come with their band of music and their banner; there come the workers in mosaic; here come the fishermen.

When the societies meet, they salute one another with their banners. Sometimes they take time to stop and make speeches. Then they tell of the five released prisoners, the five martyrs whom the government at last has given back to Sicily. And all the people shout: “Long live Bosco! Long live Da Felice! Long live Verro! Long live Barbato! Long live Alagona!”

If any one who has had enough of the life in the streets comes down to the harbor of Palermo, he stops and asks: “What place is this? Madonna Santissima, where am I?”

For he has expected to find the harbor still deserted and dark.

All the boats and skiffs in the harbor of Palermo have been taken by different societies and unions. They are floating about in the harbor, richly hung with colored Venetian lights, and every minute great bunches of rockets are sent up from them.

Over the heavy thwarts priceless rugs and hangings have been spread, and on them sit ladies, the beautiful Palermo ladies, dressed in light silks and shaded velvets.

The small craft glide about on the water, now in big groups, now separately. From the big ships rise masts and oars covered with pennants and lights, and the little harbor steam-launches dart about with funnels wreathed in flowers.

Beneath it all the water lies and shines and mirrors and reflects, so that the light from one lantern becomes a stream of brightness, and the drops that fall from the oars are like a rain of gold.

Round about the harbor stand a hundred thousand, a hundred and fifty thousand people, quite delirious with joy. They kiss one another; they raise shouts of rapture, and they are happy, happy. They are beside themselves with joy. Many of them cannot keep from weeping.

Fire, that is joy. It is good that fires can be lighted. Suddenly a great blaze flames up on Monte Pellegrino, just over the harbor. Mighty flames burst from all the pointed mountain walls surrounding the town. There are fires on Monte Falcone, on San Martino, on the mountain of The Thousands, where Garibaldi passed.

Far out on the sea comes the big Naples steamer. And on the steamer is Bosco, the socialist.

He cannot sleep that night. He has gone up from his cabin, and paces to and fro on the deck. And then his old mother, who has journeyed to Naples to meet him, comes from her cabin to keep him company. But he cannot talk with her. He is thinking that he will soon be at home. Ah, Palermo, Palermo!

He has been in prison over two years. They have been two years of suffering and longing, and has it been of any good? That is what he wishes to know. Has it been of benefit that he has been faithful to the cause, and gone to prison? Has Palermo thought of him? Have his sufferings won the cause a single follower?

His old mother sits crouched on the gangway, and shivers in the chill of the night. He has asked her, but she knows nothing of such things. She speaks of little Francesco and little Lina, how they have grown. She knows nothing of what he is struggling for.

Now he comes to his mother, takes her by the wrist, leads her to the railing, and asks her if she sees anything far away to the south. She looks out over the water with her dim eyes, and sees only the night, only the black night on the water. She does not see at all that a cloud of fire is floating on the horizon.

Then he begins to walk again, and she creeps down under cover. He does not need to talk to her; it is joy enough to have him home again after only two years’ absence. He was condemned to be away for twenty-four. She had not expected ever to see him again. But now the king has showed grace. For the king is a good man. If only he were allowed to be as good as he wished!

Bosco walks across the deck, and asks the sailors if they do not see the golden cloud on the horizon.

“That is Palermo,” say the seamen. “There is always a bright light floating over it at night.”

It cannot be anything that concerns him. He tries to persuade himself that nothing is being done for him. He can hardly expect every one all at once to have become socialists.

But after a while he thinks: “Still there must be something unusual going on. All the sailors are gathering forward at the bow.”

“Palermo is burning,” say the seamen.

Yes, that is what it must be.—It is because he has suffered so terribly that he expects something should be done for him.

Then the sailors see the fires on the mountains.

It cannot be a conflagration. It must be some saint’s day. They ask one another what day it is.

He, too, tries to believe that it is some such thing. He asks his mother if it is a feast-day. They have so many of them.

They come nearer and nearer. The thundering sound of the festival in the great city meets them.

“All Palermo is singing and playing to-night,” says one.

“A telegram must have come of a victory in Africa,” says another.

No one has a thought that it can be for his sake. He goes and places himself at the stern in order not to see anything. He will not deceive himself with false hopes. Would all Palermo be illuminated for a poor socialist?

Then his mother comes and fetches him. “Do not stand there! Come and see Palermo! It must be a king who is coming there to-day. Come and look at Palermo!”

He considers a moment. No, he does not think that any king is visiting Sicily just now. But he cannot dare to think, when no one else, not even his mother—

All at once every one on the steamer gives a loud cry. It sounds almost like a cry of distress. A big cutter has steered right down on them and now glides along by the steamer’s side.

The cutter is all flowers and lights; over the railing hang red and white silken draperies, everybody on board is dressed in red and white. Bosco stands on the steamer and looks to see what that beautiful messenger brings. Then the sail turns, and on its white surface shines to meet him: “Long live Bosco!”

It is his name. Not a saint’s, not a king’s, not the victorious general’s! The homage is for no other on the steamer. His name, his name!

The cutter sends up some rockets; a whole cloud of stars rain down, and then it is gone.

He enters the harbor, and there is jubilation and enthusiasm and cheering and adoration. People say: “We do not know how he will be able to live through it.”

But as soon as he realizes the homage, he feels that he does not at all deserve it. He would like to fall on his knees before those hundred and fifty thousand people who pay him homage and pray to them for forgiveness that he is so powerless, that he has done nothing for them.

As though by a special fate, Donna Micaela is in Palermo that night. She is there to start one of those new undertakings which she thinks she ought to organize in order to retain life and reason. She is probably there either on account of the draining or of the marble quarry.

She is down at the harbor; like all the others. People notice her as she pushes her way forward to the edge of the water: a tall, dark woman, with an air of being some one, a pale face with marked features and imploring, longing, passionate eyes.

During the reception in the harbor, Donna Micaela is fighting out a strange struggle. “If it were Gaetano,” she thinks, “could I, could I—

“If it were for him all these people were rejoicing, could I—”

There is so much joy—a joy the like of which she has never seen. The people love one another and are like brothers. And that not only because a socialist is coming home, but because they all believe that the earth will soon be happy. “If he were to come now, while all this joy is roaring about me,” she thinks. “Could I, could I—”

She sees Bosco’s carriage trying to force a way through the crowd. It moves forward step by step. For long moments it stands quite still. It will take several hours to come up from the harbor.

“If it were he, and I saw every one crowding round him, could I forbear from throwing myself into his arms? Could I?”

As soon as she can work her way out of the crowd she takes a carriage, drives out of Palermo, and passes through the plain of Conca d’Oro to the big Cathedral of the old Norman kings in Monreale.

She goes in, and stands face to face with the most beautiful image of Christ that human art has created. High up in the choir sits the blessing-giving Christ in glowing mosaic. He is mighty and mysterious and majestic. Without number are they who make a pilgrimage to Monreale in order to feel the consolation of gazing upon his face. Without number are they who in far distant lands long for him.

The ground rocks under any one who sees him for the first time. His eyes compel the knees of the foreigner to bend. Without being conscious of it the lips falter: “Thou, God, art God.”

About the walls of the temple glow the great events of the world in wonderful mosaic pictures. They only lead to him. They are only there to say: “All the past is his; all the present belongs to him, and all the future.”

The mysteries of life and death dwell within that head.

There lives the spirit which directs the fate of the world. There glows the love which shall lead the world to salvation.

And Donna Micaela calls to him: “Thou son of God, do not part me from thee! Let no man have power to part me from thee!”

It is a strange thing to come home. While yet on the journey, you cannot at all realize how strange it will be.

When you come down to Reggio on the Strait of Messina, and see Sicily emerge from the sea like a bank of fog, you are at first almost impatient. “Is it nothing else?” you say. “It is only a land like all others.”

And when you disembark at Messina you are still impatient. Something ought to have happened while you have been away. It is dreadful to be met by the same poverty, the same rags, the same misery as when you went away.

You see that the spring has come. The fig-trees are again in leaf; the grape-vines send out tendrils which grow yards long in a few hours, and a mass of peas and beans are spread out on the fruit-stands by the harbor.

If you glance towards the heights above the town, you see that the gray cactus plants that climb along the edges of the cliffs are covered with blood-red flowers. They have blossomed everywhere like little, glowing flames. It looks as if the flower cups had been filled with fire, which now is breaking out.

But, however much the cactus blossoms, it is still gray and dusty and cobwebby. You say to yourself that the cactus is like Sicily. However many springs it may blossom, it is still the gray land of poverty.

It is hard to realize that everything has remained quiet and the same. Scylla and Charybdis ought to have begun to roar as in former days. The stone giant in the Girgenti temple should have risen with reconstructed limbs. The temple of Selinunto ought to have raised itself from its ruins. All Sicily should have awakened.

If you continue your journey from Messina down the coast, you are still impatient. You see that the peasants are still ploughing with wooden ploughs and that their horses are just as thin and broken and jaded.

Yes, everything is the same. The sun sheds its light over the earth like a rain of color; the pelargoniums bloom at the roadside; the sea is a soft pale blue, and caresses the shore.

Wild mountains with bold peaks line the coast. Etna’s lofty top shines in the distance.

You notice all at once that something strange is taking place. All your impatience is gone. Instead you rejoice in the blossoming earth and in the mountains and in the sea. You are reclaimed by the beautiful earth as a bit of her lost property. There is no time to think of anything but tufts and stones.

At last you approach your real home, the home of your childhood. What wicked thoughts have filled your mind while you have been away! You never wished to see that wretched home again, because you had suffered too much there. And then you see the old walled town from afar, and it smiles at you innocently, unconscious of its guilt. “Come and love me once more,” it says. And you can only be happy and grateful because it is willing to accept your love.

Ah, when you go up the zigzag path that leads to the gate of the town! The light shade of the olive-tree falls over you. Was it meant as a caress? A little lizard scampers along a wall. You have to stop and look. May not the lizard be a friend of your childhood who wishes to say good-day?

Suddenly a fear strikes you. Your heart begins to throb and beat. You remember that you do not know what you may be going to hear when you come home. No one has written letters; you have received none. Everything that recalled home you have put away. It seemed the most sensible way, since you were never to come home again. Up to that moment your feelings for your home have been dead and indifferent.

But in that moment you do not know how you can bear it if everything is not exactly the same on the mountain of your birth. It will be a mortal blow if there is a single palm missing on Monte Chiaro or if a single stone has loosened from the town wall.

Where is the big agave at the turn of the cliff? The agave is not there; it has blossomed and been cut down. And the stone bench at the street-corner is broken. You will miss that bench; it has been such a pleasant resting-place. And look, they have built a barn on the green meadow under the almond-trees. You will never again be able to stretch out there in the flowering clover.

You are afraid of every step. What will you meet next?

You are so moved that you feel that you could weep if a single old beggar-woman has died in your absence.

No, you did not know that to come home was so strange.

You came out of prison a few weeks ago, and the torpor of the prison still has possession of you. You hardly know if you will take the trouble to go home. Your beloved is dead; it is too terrible to tear your longing from its grave. So you drift aimlessly about, and let one day pass like the next. At last you pluck up courage. You must go home to your poor mother.

And when you are there, you feel that you have been longing for every stone, every blade of grass.

Ever since he came into the shop Donna Elisa has thought: “Now I will tell him of Micaela. Perhaps he does not even know that she is alive.” But she puts it off from minute to minute, not only because she wishes to have him for a while to herself alone, but also because as soon as she mentions Micaela’s name he will fall into the anguish and misery of love. For Micaela will not marry him; she has said so to Donna Elisa a thousand times. She would like to free him from prison, but she will not be the wife of an atheist.

Only for one half-hour will Donna Elisa keep Gaetano for herself; only for one half-hour.

But even so long she may not sit with his hand in hers, asking him a thousand questions, for the people have learned that he has come. All at once the whole street is full of those who wish to see him. Donna Elisa has bolted the door, for she knew that she would not have him in peace a moment after they had discovered him, but it was of little avail. They knock on the windows, and pound on the door.

“Don Gaetano,” they cry; “Don Gaetano!”

Gaetano comes laughing out to the steps. They wave their caps and cheer. He hurries down into the crowd, and embraces one after another.

But that is not what they wish. He must go up on the steps and make a speech. He must tell them how cruel the government has been to him, and how he has suffered in prison.

Gaetano laughs still, and stations himself on the steps. “Prison,” he says; “what is it to talk about? I have had my soup every day, and that is more than many of you can say.”

Little Gandolfo swings his cap and calls to him: “There are many more socialists in Diamante now than when you went away, Don Gaetano.”

“How else could it be?” he laughs. “Everybody must become a socialist. Is socialism anything dreadful or terrible? Socialism is an idyl. It is an idyl of one’s own home and happy work, of which every one dreams from his childhood. A whole world filled with—”

He stops, for he has cast a glance towards the summer-palace. There stands Donna Micaela on one of the balconies, and looks down at him.

He does not think for a moment that it is an illusion or a hallucination. He sees instantly that she is flesh and blood. But just for that reason—and also because the prison life has taken all his strength from him, so that he cannot be considered a well person—

He feels a terrible difficulty in holding himself upright. He clutches in the air with his hands, tries to get support from the door-post, but nothing helps. His legs give way under him; he slides down the steps and strikes his head on the stones.

He lies there like one dead.

Every one rushes to him, carries him in, runs after surgeon and doctor, prescribes, talks, and proposes a thousand ways to help him.

Donna Elisa and Pacifica get him finally into one of the bedrooms. Luca drives the people out and places himself on guard before the closed door. Donna Micaela, who came in with the others, was taken first of them all by the hand and led out. She was not allowed to stay in at all. Luca had himself seen Gaetano fall as if from a blow on the temple when he caught sight of her.

Then the doctor comes, and he makes one attempt after another to rouse Gaetano. He is not successful; Gaetano lies as if turned to stone. The doctor thinks that he received a dangerous blow on the head when he fell. He does not know whether he will succeed in bringing him to life.

The swoon in itself was nothing, but that blow on the hard edge of the stone steps—

In the house there is an eager bustle. The poor people outside can only listen and wait.

There they stand the livelong day outside Donna Elisa’s door. There stand Donna Concetta and Donna Emilia. No love has been lost between them in former times, but to-day they stand beside one another and mourn.

Many anxious eyes peer in through the windows of Donna Elisa’s house. Little Gandolfo and old Assunta from the Cathedral steps, and the poor old chair-maker, stand there the whole afternoon without tiring. It is so terrible that Gaetano is going to die just when they have got him back again.

The blind stand and wait as if they expected him to give them their sight, and the poor people, both from Geraci and Corvaja, are waiting to hear how it will turn out for their young lord, the last Alagona.

He wished them well, and he had great strength and power. If he could only have lived—

“God has taken his hand from Sicily,” they say. “He lets all those perish who wish to help the people.”

All the afternoon and evening, and even till midnight, the crowd of people are still outside Donna Elisa’s house. At precisely twelve o’clock Donna Elisa throws open the shop-door and comes out on the steps. “Is he better?” they all cry at the sight of her.—“No, he is not better.”

Then there is silence; but at last a single trembling voice asks: “Is he worse?”—“No, no; he is not worse. He is the same. The doctor is with him.”

Donna Elisa has thrown a black shawl over her head and carries a lantern in her hand. She goes down the steps to the street, where the people are sitting and lying, closely packed one beside one another. She makes her way quietly through them.

“Is Gandolfo here?” she asks. “Yes, Donna Elisa.” And Gandolfo comes forward to her.

“You must come with me and open your church for me.”

Every one who hears Donna Elisa say that, understands that she wishes to go to the Christchild in the church of San Pasquale and pray for Gaetano. They rise and wish to go with her.

Donna Elisa is much touched by their sympathy. She opens her heart to them.

“I will tell you something,” she says, and her voice trembles exceedingly. “I have had a dream. I do not know how I could sleep to-night. But while I was sitting at the bedside, and was most anxious, I did fall asleep. I had scarcely closed my eyes before I saw the Christchild before me in his crown and gold shoes, as he stands out in San Pasquale. And he spoke in this way to me: ‘Make the unhappy woman who is on her knees praying in my church your son’s wife, then Gaetano will be well.’ He hardly had time to say it before I awoke, and when I opened my eyes, I seemed to see the Christchild disappearing through the wall. And now I must go out and see if any one is there.

“But now you all hear that I vow that if there is any woman out in the church of San Pasquale, I shall do what the image commanded me. Even if it is the poorest girl from the street, I shall take charge of her and make her my son’s wife.”

When Donna Elisa has spoken, she and all those who have waited in the street go out to San Pasquale. The poor people are filled with shuddering expectation. They can scarcely contain themselves from rushing by Donna Elisa, in order to see if there is any one in the church.

Fancy if it is a gypsy girl who has sought shelter there for the night! Who can be in the church at night except some poor, homeless wanderer? Donna Elisa has made a terrible vow.

At last they come to Porta Etnea, and from there they go quickly, quickly down the hill. The saints preserve us, the church door is open! Some one really is there.

The lantern shakes in Donna Elisa’s hand. Gandolfo wishes to take it from her, but she will keep it. “In God’s name, in God’s name,” she murmurs as she goes into the church.

The people crowd in after her. They almost crush one another to death in the door, but their excitement keeps them silent, no one says a word. All gaze at the high altar. Is any one there? Is any one there? The little hanging-lamp over the image shines pitifully faint. Is any one there?

Yes, some one is there. There is a woman there. She is on her knees, praying, and her head is so deeply bent that they cannot see who she is. But when she hears steps behind her she lifts her long, bowed neck and looks up. It is Donna Micaela.

At first she is frightened and starts up as if she wished to escape. Donna Elisa is also frightened, and they look at one another as if they had never met before. Then Donna Micaela says in a very low voice: “You have come to pray for him, sister-in-law.” And the people see her move a little way along so that Donna Elisa may have room directly in front of the image.

Donna Elisa’s hand trembles so that she has to set the lantern down on the floor, and her voice is quite hoarse as she says: “Has none other but you been here to-night, Micaela?”—“No, none other.”

Donna Elisa has to support herself against the wall to keep from falling, and Donna Micaela sees it. She is instantly beside her and puts her arm about her waist. “Sit down, sit down!” She leads her to the altar platform and kneels down in front of her. “Is he so ill? We will pray for him.”

“Micaela,” says Donna Elisa, “I thought that I should find help here.”—“Yes, you shall see, you will.”—“I dreamed that the image came to me, that he came to me and said that I was to come here.”—“He has also helped us many times before.”—“But he said this to me: ‘Make the unhappy woman who is on her knees praying before my altar your son’s wife, then your son will be well.’”—“What do you say that he said?”—“I was to make her who was kneeling and praying out here my son’s wife.”—“And you were willing to do it? You did not know whom you would meet!”

“On the way I made a vow—and those who followed me heard it—that whoever it might be, I would take her in my arms and lead her to my home. I thought that it was some poor woman whom God wished to help.”—“It is one indeed.”—“I was in despair when I saw that there was no one here but you.”

Donna Micaela does not answer; she gazes up at the image. “Is it your will? Is it your will?” she whispers anxiously.

Donna Elisa continues to bemoan herself. “I saw him so plainly, and he has never deceived before. I thought that some poor girl who had no marriage portion had prayed to him for a husband. Such things have happened before. What shall I do now?”

She laments and bewails; she cannot get away from the thought that it ought to be a poor woman. Donna Micaela grows impatient. She takes her by the arm and shakes her. “But Donna Elisa, Donna Elisa!”

Donna Elisa does not listen to her; she continues her laments. “What shall I do? what shall I do?”

“Why, make the poor woman who was kneeling and praying here your son’s wife, Donna Elisa!”

Donna Elisa looks up. Such a face as she sees before her! So bewitching, so captivating, so smiling!

But she may not look at it for more than a second. Donna Micaela hides it instantly in Donna Elisa’s old black dress.

Donna Micaela and Donna Elisa go together into the town. The street winds so that they cannot see Donna Elisa’s house until they are quite near. When it at last comes into view they see that the shop windows are lighted up. Four gigantic wax-candles are burning behind the bunches of rosaries.

Both the women press each other’s hands. “He lives!” one whispers to the other. “He lives!”

“You must not tell him anything about what the image commanded you to do,” says Donna Micaela to Donna Elisa.

Outside the shop they embrace one another and each goes her own way.

In a little while Gaetano comes out on the steps of the shop. He stands still for a moment and breathes in the fresh night air. Then he sees how lights are burning in the dark palace across the street.

Gaetano breathes short and panting; he seems almost afraid to go further. Suddenly he dashes across like some one going to meet an unavoidable misfortune. He finds the door to the summer-palace unlocked, takes the stairs in two bounds, and bursts open the door to the music-room without knocking.

Donna Micaela is sitting there, wondering if he will come now in the night or the next morning. Then she hears his step outside in the gallery. She is seized with terror; how will he be? She has longed so unspeakably for him. Will he really be so that all that longing will be satisfied?

And will no more walls rise between them? Will they for once be able to tell each other everything? Will they speak of love, and not of socialism?

When he opens the door she tries to go to meet him, but she cannot; she is trembling in every limb. She sits down and hides her face in her hands.

She expects him to throw his arms about her and kiss her, but that he does not do. It is not Gaetano’s way to do what people expect of him.

As soon as he could stand upright he has thrown on his clothes to come to see her. He is apparently wildly gay when he comes now. He would have liked her to take it lightly also. He will not be agitated. He had fainted in the forenoon. He could stand nothing.

He stands quietly beside her until she regains her composure. “You have weak nerves,” he says. That is actually all he says.

She and Donna Elisa and every one is convinced that he has come to clasp her in his arms and say that he loves her. But just for that reason it is impossible for Gaetano. Some people are malicious; it is their nature never to do just what they ought to do.

Gaetano begins to tell her of his journey; he does not speak even of socialism, but talks of express-trains and conductors and curious travelling companions.

Donna Micaela sits and looks at him; her eyes beg and implore more and more eagerly. Gaetano seems to be glad and happy to see her, but why can he not say what he has to say?

“Have you been on the Etna railway?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, and begins quite unconstrainedly to speak of the beauty and usefulness of the road. He knows nothing of how it came to be.

Gaetano is saying to himself that he is a brute. Why does he not speak the words for which she is longing? But why is she sitting there so humbly? Why does she show that he needs only to stretch out his hand and take her? He is desperately, stormily happy to be near her, but he feels so sure of her, so certain. It is so amusing to torture her.

The people of Diamante are still standing outside in the street, and they all feel as great a happiness as if they had given away a daughter in marriage.

They have been patient till now in order to give Gaetano time to declare himself. But now it surely must be accomplished. And they begin to shout:—

“Long live Gaetano! long live Micaela!”

Donna Micaela looks up with inexpressible dismay. He surely must understand that she has nothing to do with it.

She goes out to the gallery and sends Luca down with the request that they will be silent.

When she comes back, Gaetano has risen. He offers her his hand; he wishes to go.

Donna Micaela puts out her hand almost without knowing what she is doing. But then she draws it back; “No, no,” she says.

He wishes to go, and who knows whether he will come again on the morrow. She has not been able to talk to him; she has not been able to say a word to him of all that she wished to say.

Surely there was no need for them to be like ordinary lovers. That man had given her life all its life for many years. Whether he spoke to her of love or not was of no importance; yet she wishes to tell him what he has been to her.

And now, just now. One has to make the most of one’s opportunities when Gaetano is in question. She dares not let him go.

“You must not go yet,” she says. “I have something to say to you.”

She draws forward a chair for him; she herself places herself a little behind him. His eyes are too gay to-night, they trouble her.

Then she begins to speak. She lays before him the great, hidden treasures of her life. They were all the words he had said to her and all the dreams he had set her to dreaming. She had not lost one. She had collected and saved them up. They had been the only richness in her poor life.

In the beginning she speaks fast, as if repeating a lesson. She is afraid of him; she does not know whether he likes her to speak. At last she dares to look at him. He is serious now, no longer malicious. He sits still and listens as if he would not lose a syllable. Just now his face was sickly and ashen, but now it suddenly changes. His face begins to shine as though transfigured.

She talks and talks. She looks at him, and now she is beautiful. How could she help being beautiful? At last she can speak out to him, she can tell him how love came to her and how it has never left her since. Finally she can tell him how he has been all the world to her.

Words cannot say enough; she takes his hand and kisses it.

He lets her do it without moving. The color in his cheeks grows no deeper, but it becomes clearer, more transparent. She remembers Gandolfo, who had said that Gaetano’s face was so white that it shone.

He does not interrupt her. She tells him about the railway, speaks of one miracle after another. He looks at her now and then. His eyes glow at the sight of her. He is not by any means making fun of her.

She wonders exceedingly what is passing in him. He looks as if what she said was nothing new to him. He seems to recognize everything she says. Could it be that his love for her was the same as that she felt for him? Was it connected with every noble feeling in him? Had it been the elevating power in his life? Had it given wings to his artistic powers? Had it taught him to love the poor and the oppressed? Is it once more taking possession of him, making him feel that he is an artist, an apostle, that nothing is too high for him?

But as he is still silent she thinks that perhaps he will not be tied to her. He loves her, but possibly he wishes to be a free man. Perhaps he thinks that she is not a suitable wife for a socialist.

Her blood begins to boil. She thinks that he perhaps believes that she is sitting there and begging for his love.

She has told him almost everything that has happened while he has been away. Now she suddenly breaks off in her story.

“I have loved you,” she says. “I shall always love you, and I think that I should like you to tell me once that you love me. It would make the parting easier to bear.”

“Would it?” he says.

“Can I be your wife?” she says, and her voice trembles with indignation. “I no longer fear your teachings as I did; I am not afraid of your poor; I wish to turn the world upside down, I, as well as you. But I am a believer. How can I live with you if you do not agree with me in that? Or perhaps you would win me to unbelief? Then the world would be dead for me. Everything would lose its meaning, its significance. I should be a miserable, destitute creature. We must part.”

“Really!” he turns towards her. His eyes begin to glow with impatience.

“You may go now,” she says quietly; “I have said to you everything I wished to say. I should have wished that you had something to say to me. But perhaps it is better as it is. We will not make it harder to part than it need be.”

One of Gaetano’s hands holds her hands firmly and closely, the other holds her head still. Then he kisses her.

Was she mad, that she could think that he would let anything, anything in the world, part them now?

IV
ONLY OF THIS WORLD

As she grew up everybody said of her: “She is going to be a saint, a saint.”

Her name was Margherita Cornado. She lived in Girgenti on the south side of Sicily, in the great mining district. When she was a child her father was a miner; later he inherited a little money, so that he no longer needed to work.

There was a little, narrow, miserable roof-garden on Margherita Cornado’s house in Girgenti. A small and steep stairway led up to it, and one had to creep out through a low door. But it was well worth the trouble. When you reached the top you saw not only a mass of roofs, but the whole air over the town was gaily crowded with the towers and faÇades of all Girgenti’s churches. And every faÇade and every tower was a quivering lace-work of images, of loggias, of glowing canopies.

And outside the town there was a wide plain which sloped gently down towards the sea, and a semicircle of hills that guarded the plain. The plain was glittering red; the ocean was blue as enamel; the hillsides were yellow; it was a whole orient of warmth and color.

But there was even more to be seen. Ancient temples were dotted about the valley. Ruins and strange old towers were everywhere, as in a fairy world.

As Margherita Cornado grew up, she used to spend most of her days there; but she never looked out over the dazzling landscape. She was occupied with other things.

Her father used to tell her of the life in the sulphur mines at Grotte, where he had worked. While Margherita Cornado sat on the airy terrace, she thought that she was incessantly walking about the dark mine veins, and finding her way through dim shafts.

She could not help thinking of all the misery that existed in the mines; especially she thought of the children, who carried the ore up to the surface. “The little wagons,” they called them. That expression never left her mind. Poor, poor little wagons, the little mine-wagons!

They came in the morning, and each followed a miner down into the mine. As soon as he had dug out enough ore, he loaded the mine-wagon with a basket of it, and then the latter began to climb. Several of them met on the way, so that there was a long procession. And they began to sing:—

When they finally reached the light of day, they emptied their baskets of ore and threw themselves on the ground to rest a moment. Most of them dragged themselves over to the sulphurous pools near the shaft of the mine and drank the pestiferous water.

But they soon had to go down again, and they gathered at the mouth of the mine. As they clambered down, they cried: “Lord and God, have mercy, have mercy, have mercy!”

Every journey the little wagons made, their song grew more feeble. They groaned and cried as they crawled up the paths of the mine.

The little wagons were bathed in perspiration; the baskets of ore ground holes in their shoulders. As they went up and down they sang:—

Margherita Cornado had suffered for those poor children all her own childhood. And because she was always thinking of their hardships, people believed that she would be a saint.

Neither did she forget them as she grew older. As soon as she was grown, she went to Grotte, where most of the mines are, and when the little wagons came out into the daylight, she was waiting for them by the shaft with fresh, clean water. She wiped the perspiration from their faces, and she dressed the wounds on their shoulders. It was not much that she could do for them, but soon the little wagons felt that they could not go on with their work any day that Margherita Cornado did not come and comfort them.

But unfortunately for the little wagons, Margherita was very beautiful. One day one of the mining-engineers happened to see her as she was relieving the children, and instantly fell very much in love with her.

A few weeks after, Margherita Cornado stopped coming to the Grotte mines. She sat at home instead and sewed on her wedding outfit. She was going to marry the mining-engineer. It was a good match, and connected her with the chief people of the town, so she could not care for the little wagons any longer.

A few days before the wedding the old beggar, Santuzza, who was Margherita’s god-mother, came and asked to speak to her. They betook themselves to the roof-garden in order to be alone.

“Margherita,” said the old woman, “you are in the midst of such happiness and magnificence that perhaps there is no use speaking to you of those who are in need and sorrow. You have forgotten all such things.”

Margherita reproved her for speaking so.

“I come with a greeting to you from my son, Orestes. He is in trouble, and he needs your advice.”

“You know that you can speak freely to me, Santuzza,” said the girl.

“Orestes is no longer at the Grotte mines; you know that, I suppose. He is at Racalmuto. And he is very badly off there. Not that the pay is so bad, but the engineer is a man who grinds down the poor to the last drop of blood.”

The old woman told how the engineer tortured the miners. He made them work over time; he fined them if they missed a day. He did not look after the mines properly; there was one cave-in after another. No one was secure of his life as long as he was under earth.

“Well, Margherita, Orestes had a son. A splendid boy; just ten years old. The engineer came and wished to buy the boy from Orestes, and set him to work with the little wagons. But Orestes said no. His boy should not be ruined by such work.

“Then the engineer threatened him, and said that Orestes would be dismissed from the mine.”

Santuzza paused.

“And then?” asked Margherita.

“Yes, then Orestes gave his son to the engineer. The next day the boy got a whipping from him. He beat him every day. The boy grew more and more feeble. Orestes saw it, and asked the engineer to spare the boy, but he had no mercy. He said that the boy was lazy, and he continued to persecute him. And now he is dead. My grandson is dead, Margherita.”

The girl had quite forgotten all her own happiness. She was once more only the miner’s daughter, the protector of the little wagons, the poor child who used to sit on the bright terrace and weep over the hardships of the black mines.

“Why do you let the man live?” she cried.

The old woman looked at her furtively. Then she crept close to her with a knife. “Orestes sends you this with a thousand questions,” she said.

Margherita Cornado took the knife, kissed the blade, and gave it back without a word.

It was the evening before the wedding. The parents of the bridegroom were awaiting their son. He was to come home from the mines towards night; but he never came. Later in the night a servant was sent to the Grotte mines to look for him, and found him a mile from Girgenti. He lay murdered at the roadside.

A search for the murderer was immediately instituted. Strict examinations of the miners were held, but the culprit could not be discovered. There were no witnesses; no one could be prevailed upon to betray a comrade.

Then Margherita Cornado appeared and denounced Orestes, who was the son of her god-mother, Santuzza, and who had not moved to Racalmuto at all.

She did it although she had heard afterwards that her betrothed had been guilty of everything of which Santuzza had accused him. She did it although she herself had sealed his doom by kissing the knife.

She had hardly accused Orestes before she repented of it; she was filled with the anguish of remorse.

In another land what she had done would not have been considered a crime, but it is so regarded in Sicily. A Sicilian would rather die than be an informer.

Margherita Cornado enjoyed no rest either by night or by day. She had a continual aching feeling of anguish in her heart, a great unhappiness dwelt in her.

She was not severely judged, because every one knew that she had loved the murdered man and thought that Santuzza had been too cruel towards her. No one spoke of her disdainfully, and no one refused to salute her.

But it made no difference to her that others were kind to her. Remorse filled her soul and tortured her like an aching wound. Orestes had been sentenced to the galleys for life. Santuzza had died a few weeks after her son’s sentence had been passed, and Margherita could not ask forgiveness of either of them.

She called on the saints, but they would not help her. It seemed as if nothing in the world could have the power to free her from the horror of remorse.

At that time the famous Franciscan monk, Father Gondo, was sojourning in the neighborhood of Girgenti. He was preaching a pilgrimage to Diamante.

It did not disturb Father Gondo not to have the pope acknowledge the Christ-image in the church of San Pasquale as a miracle-worker. He had met the blind singers on his wanderings and had heard them tell of the image. Through long, happy nights he had sat at the feet of Father Elia and Brother Tommaso, and from sunset to sunrise they had told him of the image.

And now the famous preacher had begun to send all who were in trouble to the great miracle-worker. He warned the people not to let that holy time pass unheeded. “The Christchild,” he said, “had not hitherto been much worshipped in Sicily. The time had come when he wished to possess a church and followers. And to effect it he let his holy image perform miracle after miracle.”

Father Gondo, who had passed his novitiate in the monastery of Aracoeli on the Capitol, told the people of the image of the Christchild that was there, and of the thousand miracles he had performed. “And now that good little child wishes to be worshipped in Sicily,” said Father Gondo. “Let us hesitate no longer, and hasten to him. For the moment heaven is generous. Let us be the first to acknowledge the image! Let us be like the shepherds and wise men of the East; let us go to the holy child while he is still lying on his bed of straw in the miserable hut!”

Margherita Cornado was filled with a new hope when she heard him. She was the first to obey Father Gondo’s summons. After her others joined him also. Forty pilgrims marched with him through the plateaus of the inland to Diamante.

They were all very poor and unhappy. But Father Gondo made them march with song and prayer. Soon their eyes began to shine as if the star of Bethlehem had gone before them.

“Do you know,” said Father Gondo, “why God’s son is greater than all the saints? Because he gives the soul holiness; because he forgives sins; because he grants to the spirit a blessed trust in God; because his kingdom is not of this world.”

When his little army looked tired, he gave them new life by telling them of the miracles the image had performed. The legends of the blind singers were like cooling drinks and cheering wine. The poor wanderers in the barren lands of Sicily walked with a lighter step, as if they were on their way to Nazareth to see the carpenter’s son.

“He will take all our burdens from us,” said Father Gondo. “When we come back our hearts will be freed from every care.”

And during the wandering through the scorched, glowing desert, where no trees gave cooling shade, and where the water was bitter with salt and sulphur, Margherita Cornado felt that her heart’s torments were relieved. “The little king of heaven will take away my pain,” she said.

At last, one day in May, the pilgrims reached the foot of the hill of Diamante. There the desert stopped. They saw about them groves of olive-trees and fresh green leaves. The mountain shone; the town shone. They felt that they had come to a place in the shadow of God’s grace.

They toiled joyfully up the zigzag path, and with loud and exultant voices sang an old pilgrims’ song.

When they had gone some way up the mountain, people came running from Diamante to meet them. When the people heard the monotonous sound of the old song, they threw aside their work and hurried out. And the people of Diamante embraced and kissed the pilgrims.

They had expected them long ago; they could not understand why they had not come before. The Christ-image of Diamante was a wonderful miracle-worker; he was so compassionate, so loving that every one ought to come to him.

When Margherita Cornado heard them she felt as if her heart was already healed of its pain. All the people of Diamante comforted her and encouraged her. “He will certainly help you; he helps every one,” they said. “No one has prayed to him in vain.”

At the town-gate the pilgrims parted. The townspeople took them to their homes, so that they might rest after their journey. In an hour they were all to meet at the Porta Etnea in order to go out to the image together.

But Margherita had not the patience to wait a whole hour. She asked her way out to the church of San Pasquale and went there alone before all the others.

When Father Gondo and the pilgrims came out to San Pasquale an hour later, they saw Margherita Cornado sitting on the platform by the high altar. She was sitting still and did not seem to notice their coming. But when Father Gondo came close up to her, she started up as if she had lain in wait for him and threw herself upon him. She seized him by the throat and tried to strangle him.

She was big, splendidly developed and strong. It was only after a severe struggle that Father Gondo and two of the pilgrims succeeded in subduing her. She was quite mad, and so violent that she had to be bound.

The pilgrims had come in a solemn procession; they sang, and held burning candles in their hands. There was a long line of them, for many people from Diamante had joined them. Those who came first immediately stopped their singing; those coming after had noticed nothing and continued their song. But then the news of what had happened passed from file to file, and wherever it came the song stopped. It was horrible to hear how it died away and changed into a low wail.

All the weary pilgrims realized that they had failed in their coming. All their laborious wanderings had been in vain. They were disappointed in their beautiful hopes. The holy image would have no consolation to offer them.

Father Gondo himself was in despair. It was a more severe blow to him than to any one else, for each one of the others had only his own sorrow to think of, but he bore the sorrows of all those people in his heart. What answer could he give to all the hopes he had awakened in them?

Suddenly one of his beautiful, child-like smiles passed over his face. The image must wish to test his faith and that of the others. If only they did not fail, they would certainly be helped.

He began again to sing the pilgrim song in his clear voice and went up to the altar.

But as he came nearer to the image, he broke off in his song again. He stopped and looked at the image with staring eyes. Then he stretched out his hand, took the crown and brought it close to his eyes. “It is written there; it is written there,” he murmured. And he let the crown fall from his hand and roll down on the stone floor.

From that moment Father Gondo knew that the outcast from Aracoeli was before him.

But he did not immediately cry it out to the people, but said instead, with his usual gentleness,—

“My friends, I wish to tell you something strange.”

He told them of the Englishwoman who had wished to steal the Christ-image of Aracoeli. And he told how the image had been called Antichrist and had been cast out into the world.

“I still remember old Fra Simone,” said Father Gondo. “He never showed me the image without saying: ‘It was this little hand that rang. It was this little foot that kicked on the door.’

“But when I asked Fra Simone what had become of the other image, he always said: ‘What should have become of him? The dogs of Rome have probably dragged him away and torn him to pieces.’”

When Father Gondo had finished speaking, he went, still quite slowly and quietly, and picked up the crown that he had just let fall to the floor.

“Now read that!” he said. And he let the crown go from man to man. The people stood with their wax-candles in their hands and lighted up the crown with them. Those who could read, read; the others saw that at least there was an inscription.

And each one who had held the crown in his hand instantly extinguished his candle.

When the last candle was put out, Father Gondo turned to his pilgrims who had gathered about him. “I have brought you here,” he said to them, “that you might find one who gives the soul peace and an entry to God’s kingdom; but I have brought you wrong, for this one has no such thing to give. His kingdom is only of this world.

“Our unfortunate sister has gone mad,” continued Father Gondo, “because she came here and hoped for heavenly benefits. Her reason gave way when her prayers were not heard. He could not hear her, for his kingdom is only of this world.”

He was silent a moment, and they all looked up at him to find out what they ought to think of it all.

He asked as quietly as before: “Shall an image which bears such words in its crown any longer be allowed to desecrate an altar?”

“No, no!” cried the pilgrims. The people of Diamante stood silent.

Father Gondo took the image in his hands and carried it on his outstretched arms through the church and towards the door.

But although the Father had spoken gently and humbly, his eyes had rested the whole time sternly and with compelling force on the crowd of people. There was not one there whom he had not subdued and mastered by the strength of his will. Every one had felt paralyzed and without the power of thinking independently.

As Father Gondo approached the door, he stopped and looked around. One last commanding glance fell on the people.

“The crown also,” said Father Gondo. And the crown was handed to him.

He set the image down and went out under the stone canopy that protected the image of San Pasquale. He whispered a word to a couple of pilgrims, and they hurried away. They soon came back with their arms full of branches and logs. They laid them down before Father Gondo and set them on fire.

All who had been in the church had crowded out. They stood in the yard outside the church, still subdued, with no will of their own. They saw that the monk meant to burn their beloved image that helped them so, and yet they made no resistance. They could not understand themselves why they did not try to save the image.

When Father Gondo saw the fire kindle and therefore felt that the image was entirely in his power, he straightened himself and his eyes flashed.

“My poor children,” he said gently, and turned to the people of Diamante. “You have been harboring a terrible guest. How is it possible for you not to have discovered who he is?

“What ought I to believe of you?” he continued more sternly. “You yourselves say that the image has given you everything for which you have prayed. Has no one in Diamante in all these years prayed for the forgiveness of sins and the peace of the soul?

“Can it be possible? The people of Diamante have not had anything to pray for except lottery numbers and good years and daily bread and health and money. They have asked for nothing but the good of this world. Not one has needed to pray for heavenly grace.

“Can it really be? No, it is impossible,” said Father Gondo joyfully, as if filled with a sudden hope. “It is I who have made a mistake. The people of Diamante have understood that I would not lay the image on the fire without asking and investigating about it. You are only waiting for me to be silent to step forward and give your testimony.

“Many will now come and say: ‘That image has made me a believer;’ and many will say: ‘He has granted me the forgiveness of sins;’ and many will say: ‘He has opened my eyes, so that I have been able to gaze on the glory of heaven.’ They will come forward and speak, and I shall be mocked and derided and compelled to bear the image to the altar and acknowledge that I have been mistaken.”

Father Gondo stopped speaking and smiled invitingly at the people. A quick movement passed through the crowd of listeners. Several seemed to have the intention of coming forward and testifying. They came a few steps, but then they stopped.

“I am waiting,” said the Father, and his eyes implored and called on the people to come.

No one came. The whole mass of people was in wailing despair that they would not testify to the advantage of their beloved image. But no one did so.

“My poor children,” said Father Gondo, sadly. “You have had Antichrist among you, and he has got possession of you. You have forgotten heaven. You have forgotten that you possess a soul. You think only of this world.

“Formerly it was said that the people of Diamante were the most religious in Sicily. Now it must be otherwise. The inhabitants of Diamante are slaves of the world. Perhaps they are even infidel socialists, who love only the earth. They can be nothing else. They have had Antichrist among them.”

When the people were accused in such a way, they seemed at last to be about to rise in resistance. An angry muttering passed through the ranks.

“The image is holy,” one cried. “When he came San Pasquale’s bells rang all day.”

“Could they ring for less time to warn you of such a misfortune?” rejoined the monk.

He went on with his accusations with growing violence. “You are idolaters, not Christians. You serve him because he helps you. There is nothing of the spirit of holiness in you.”

“He has been kind and merciful, like Christ,” answered the people.

“Is not just that the misfortune?” said the Father, and now all of a sudden he was terrible in his wrath. “He has taken the likeness of Christ to lead you astray. In that way he has been able to weave his web about you. By scattering gifts and blessings over you, he has lured you into his net and made you slaves of the world. Or is it not so? Perhaps some one can come forward and say the contrary? Perhaps he has heard that some one who is not present to-day has prayed to the image for a heavenly grace.”

“He has taken away the power of a jettatore,” said one.

“Is it not he who is as great in evil as the jettatore who has power over him?” answered the father, bitterly.

They made no other attempts to defend the image. Everything that they said seemed only to make the matter worse.

Several looked round for Donna Micaela, who was also present. She stood among the crowd, heard and saw everything, but made no attempt to save the image.

When Father Gondo had said that the image was Antichrist she had been terrified, and when he showed that the people of Diamante had only asked for the good of this world, her terror had grown. She had not dared to do anything.

But when he said that she and all the others were in the power of Antichrist, something in her rose against him. “No, no,” she said, “it cannot be so.” If she should believe that an evil power had governed her during so many years, her reason would give way. And her reason began to defend itself.

Her faith in the supernatural broke in her like a string too tightly stretched. She could not follow it any longer.

With infinite swiftness everything of the supernatural that she herself had experienced flashed through her mind, and she passed sentence on it. Was there a single proven miracle? She said to herself that there were coincidences, coincidences.

It was like unravelling a skein. From what she herself had experienced she passed to the miracles of other times. They were coincidences. They were hypnotism. They were possibly legends, most of them.

The raging monk continued to curse the people with terrible words. She tried to listen to him to get away from her own thoughts. But all she thought was that what he said was madness and lies.

What was going on in her? Was she becoming an atheist?

She looked about for Gaetano. He was there also; he stood on the church steps quite near the monk. His eyes rested on her. And as surely as if she had told him it, he knew what was passing in her. But he did not look as if he were glad or triumphant. He looked as if he wished to stop Father Gondo, to save a little vestige of faith for her.

Donna Micaela’s thoughts had no mercy. They went on and robbed her soul. All the glowing world of the supernatural was destroyed, crushed. She said to herself that no one knew anything of celestial matters, nor could know anything. Many messages had gone from earth to heaven. None had gone from heaven to earth.

“But I will still believe in God,” she said, and clasped her hands as if still to hold fast the last and best.

“Your eyes, people of Diamante, are wild and evil,” said Father Gondo. “God is not in you. Antichrist has driven God away from you.”

Donna Micaela’s eyes again sought Gaetano’s. “Can you give a poor, doubting creature something on which to live?” they seemed to ask. His eyes met hers with proud confidence. He read in her beautiful, imploring eyes how her trembling soul clung to him for support. He did not doubt for a moment that he would be able to make her life beautiful and rich.

She thought of the joy that always met him wherever he showed himself. She thought of the joy that had roared about her that night in Palermo. She knew that it rose from the new faith in a happy earth. Could that faith and that joy take possession of her also?

She wrung her hands in anguish. Could that new faith be anything to her? Would she not always feel as unhappy as now?

Father Gondo bent forward over the fire.

“I say to you once more,” he cried, “if only one person comes and says that this image has saved his soul, I will not burn it.”

Donna Micaela had a sudden feeling that she did not wish the poor image to be destroyed. The memory of the most beautiful hours of her life was bound to it.

“Gandolfo, Gandolfo,” she whispered. She had just seen him beside her.

“Yes, Donna Micaela.”

“Do not let him burn the image, Gandolfo!”

The monk had repeated his question once, twice, thrice. No one came forward to defend the image. But little Gandolfo crept nearer and nearer.

Father Gondo brought the image ever closer to the fire.

Involuntarily Gaetano had bent forward. Involuntarily a proud smile passed over his face. Donna Micaela saw that he felt that Diamante belonged to him. The monk’s wild proceedings made Gaetano master of their souls.

She looked about in terror. Her eyes wandered from face to face. Was the same thing going on in all those people’s souls as in her own? She thought she saw that it was so.

“Thou, Antichrist,” said Father Gondo, threateningly, “dost thou see that no one has thought of his soul as long as thou hast been here? Thou must perish.”

Father Gondo laid the outcast on the pyre.

But the image had not lain there more than a second before Gandolfo seized him.

He caught him up, lifted him high above his head, and ran. Father Gondo’s pilgrims hurried after him, and there began a wild chase down Monte Chiaro’s precipices.

But little Gandolfo saved the image.

Down the road a big, heavy travelling-carriage came driving. Gandolfo, whose pursuers were close at his heels, knew nothing better to do than to throw the image into the carriage.

Then he let himself be caught. When his pursuers wished to hurry after the carriage, he stopped them. “Take care; the lady in the carriage is English.”

It was Signora Favara, who had at last wearied of Diamante and was travelling out into the world once more. And she was allowed to go away unmolested. No Sicilian dares to lay hands on an Englishwoman.

V
A FRESCO OF SIGNORELLI

A week later Father Gondo was in Rome. He was granted an interview with the old man in the Vatican and told him how he had found Antichrist in the likeness of Christ, how the former had entangled the people of Diamante in worldliness, and how he, Father Gondo, had wished to burn him. He also told how he had not been able to lead the people back to God. Instead, all Diamante had fallen into unbelief and socialism. No one there cared for his soul; no one thought of heaven. Father Gondo asked what he should do with those unfortunate people.

The old pope, who is wiser than any one now living, did not laugh at Father Gondo’s story; he was deeply distressed by it.

“You have done wrong; you have done very wrong,” he said.

He sat silent for a while and pondered; then he said: “You have not seen the Cathedral in Orvieto?”—“No, Holy Father.”—“Then go there now and see it,” said the pope; “and when you come back again, you shall tell me what you have seen there.”

Father Gondo obeyed. He went to Orvieto and saw the most holy Cathedral. And in two days he was back in the Vatican.

“What did you see in Orvieto?” the pope asked him.

Father Gondo said that in one of the chapels of the Cathedral he had found some frescoes of Luca Signorelli, representing “The Last Judgment.” But he had not looked at either the “Last Judgment” or at the “Resurrection of The Dead.” He had fixed all his attention on the big painting which the guide called “The Miracles of Antichrist.”

“What did you see in it?” asked the pope.

“I saw that Signorelli had painted Antichrist as a poor and lowly man, just as the Son of God was when he lived here on earth. I saw that he had dressed him like Christ and given him Christ’s features.”

“What more did you see?” said the pope.

“The first thing that I saw in the fresco was Antichrist preaching so that the rich and the mighty came and laid their treasures at his feet.

“The second thing I saw was a sick man brought to Antichrist and healed by him.

“The third thing I saw was a martyr proclaiming Antichrist and suffering death for him.

“The fourth thing I saw in the great wall-picture was the people hastening to a great temple of peace, the spirit of evil hurled from heaven, and all men of violence killed by heaven’s thunderbolts.”

“What did you think when you saw that?” asked the pope.

“When I saw it, I thought: ‘That Signorelli was mad. Does he mean that in the time of Antichrist evil shall be conquered, and the earth become holy as a paradise?’”

“Did you see anything else?”

“The fifth thing I saw depicted in the painting was the monks and priests piled up on a big bonfire and burned.

“And the sixth and last thing I saw was the Devil whispering in Antichrist’s ear, and suggesting to him how he was to act and speak.”

“What did you think when you saw that?”

“I said to myself: ‘That Signorelli is not mad; he is a prophet. Antichrist will certainly come in the likeness of Christ and make a paradise of the world. He will make it so beautiful that the people will forget heaven. And it will be the world’s most terrible temptation.’”

“Do you understand now,” said the pope, “that there was nothing new in all that you told me? The Church has always known that Antichrist would come, armed with the virtues of Christ.”

“Did you also know that he had actually come, Holy Father?” asked Father Gondo.

“Could I sit here on Peter’s chair year after year without knowing that he has come?” said the pope. “I see starting a movement of the people, which burns with love for its neighbor and hates God. I see people becoming martyrs for the new hope of a happy earth. I see how they receive new joy and new courage from the words ‘Think of the earth,’ as they once found them in the words ‘Think of heaven.’ I knew that he whom Signorelli had foretold had come.”

Father Gondo bowed silently.

“Do you understand now wherein you did wrong?”

“Holy Father, enlighten me as to my sin.”

The old pope looked up. His clear eyes looked through the veil of chance which shrouds future events and saw what was hidden behind it.

“Father Gondo,” he said, “that little child with whom you fought in Diamante, the child who was merciful and wonder-working like Christ, that poor, despised child who conquered you and whom you call Antichrist, do you not know who he is?”

“No, Holy Father.”

“And he who in Signorelli’s picture healed the sick, and softened the rich, and felled evil-doers to the earth, who transformed the earth to a paradise and tempted the people to forget heaven. Do you not know who he is?”

“No, Holy Father.”

“Who else can he be but the Antichristianity, socialism?”

The monk looked up in terror.

“Father Gondo,” said the pope, sternly, “when you held the image in your arms you wished to burn him. Why? Why were you not loving to him? Why did you not carry him back to the little Christchild on the Capitolium from whom he proceeded?

“That is what you wandering monks could do. You could take the great popular movement in your arms, while it is still lying like a child in its swaddling clothes, and you could bear it to Jesus’ feet; and Antichrist would see that he is nothing but an imitation of Christ, and would acknowledge him his Lord and Master. But you do not do so. You cast Antichristianity on the pyre, and soon he in his turn will cast you there.”

Father Gondo bent his knee. “I understand, Holy Father. I will go and look for the image.”

The pope rose majestically. “You shall not look for the image; you shall let him go his way through the ages. We do not fear him. When he comes to storm the Capitol in order to mount the throne of the world, we shall meet him, and we shall lead him to Christ. We shall make peace between earth and heaven. But you do wrong,” he continued more mildly, “to hate him. You must have forgotten that the sibyl considered him one of the redeemers of the world. ‘On the heights of the Capitol the redeemer of the world shall be worshipped, Christ or Antichrist.’”

“Holy Father, if the miseries of this world are to be remedied by him, and heaven suffers no injury, I shall not hate him.”

The old pope smiled his most subtle smile.

“Father Gondo, you will permit me also to tell you a Sicilian story. The story goes, Father Gondo, that when Our Lord was busy creating the world, He wished one day to know if He had much more work to do. And He sent San Pietro out to see if the world was finished.

“When San Pietro came back, he said: ‘Every one is weeping and sobbing and lamenting.’

“‘Then the world is not finished,’ said Our Lord, and He went on working.

“Three days later Our Lord sent San Pietro again to the earth.

“‘Everyone is laughing and rejoicing and playing,’ said San Pietro, when he came back.

“‘Then the world is not finished,’ said Our Lord, and He went on working.

“San Pietro was dispatched for the third time.

“‘Some are weeping and some are laughing,’ he said, when he came back.

“‘Then the world is finished,’ said Our Lord.

“And so shall it be and continue,” said the old pope. “No one can save mankind from their sorrows, but much is forgiven to him who brings new courage to bear them.”

THE END