Сельма Лагерлёф
The Miracles of Antichrist
IX
PALAZZO GERACI AND PALAZZO CORVAJA
At the time when the Normans ruled in Sicily, long before the family of Alagona had come to the island, the two magnificent buildings, Palazzo Geraci and Palazzo Corvaja, were built in Diamante.
The noble Barons Geraci placed their house in the square, high up on the summit of Monte Chiaro. The Barons Corvaja, on the other hand, built their home far down the mountain and surrounded it with gardens.
The black-marble walls of Palazzo Geraci were built round a square court-yard, full of charm and beauty. A long flight of steps, passing under an arch adorned with an escutcheon, led to the second story. Not entirely round the court-yard, but here and there in the most unexpected places, the walls opened into little pillared loggias. The walls were covered with bas-reliefs, with speckled slabs of Sicilian marble and with the coats of arms of the Geraci barons. There were windows also, very small, but with exquisitely carved frames; some round, with panes so small that they could be covered with a grape leaf; some oblong, and so narrow that they let in no more light than a slit in a curtain.
The Barons Corvaja did not try to adorn the court-yard of their palace, but on the lower floor of the house they fitted up a magnificent hall. In the floor was built a basin for gold-fish; in niches in the walls fountains covered with mosaic, in which clear water spouted into gigantic shells. Over it all, a Moorish vaulted roof, supported on slender pillars, with twining vines in mosaic. It was a hall whose equal is only to be seen in the Moorish palace in Palermo.
There was much rivalry and emulation during all the time of building. When Palazzo Geraci put forth a balcony, Palazzo Corvaja acquired its high Gothic bay-windows; when the roof of Palazzo Geraci was adorned with richly carved battlements, a frieze of black marble, inlaid with white a yard wide, appeared on Palazzo Corvaja. The Geraci house was crowned by a high tower; the Corvaja had a roof garden, with antique pots along the railing.
When the palaces were finished the rivalry began between the families who had built them. The houses seemed to breed hostility and strife for all who lived in them. A Baron Geraci could never agree with a Baron Corvaja. When Geraci fought for Anjou, Corvaja fought for Manfred. If Geraci changed sides, and supported Aragoni, Corvaja went to Naples, and fought for Robert and Joanna.
But that was not all. It was an understood thing that when Geraci found a son-in-law, Corvaja had to increase his power by a rich marriage. Neither of the families could rest. They had to vie with each other while eating, while amusing themselves, while working. The Geraci came to the court of the Bourbons in Naples, not out of desire of distinction, but because the Corvaja were there. The Corvaja on the other hand had to grow grapes and mine sulphur, because the Geraci were interested in agriculture and the working of mines. When a Geraci received an inheritance some old relative of the Corvaja had to lie down and die, so that the honor of the family should not be hazarded.
Palazzo Geraci was always kept busy counting its servants, in order not to let Palazzo Corvaja lead. But not only the servants, but the braid on the caps, the harnesses and the horses. The pheasant feather on the heads of the Corvaja leaders must not be an inch higher than that on the Geraci. Their goats must increase in the same proportion, and the Geraci’s oxen must have just as long horns as the Corvaja’s.
In our time one might have expected an end to the enmity between the two palaces. In our time there are just as few Corvaja in the one palace as there are Geraci in the other.
The Geraci court-yard is now a dirty hole, which contains donkey-stalls and pig-styes and chicken houses. On the high steps rags are dried and the bas-reliefs are broken and mouldy. In one of the passage-ways a trade in vegetables is carried on, and in the other shoes are made. The gate-keeper looks like the most ragged of beggars, and from cellar to attic live none but poor and penniless people.
It is no better in Palazzo Corvaja. There is not a vestige of the mosaic left in the big hall; only bare, empty arches. No beggars live there, because the palace is principally in ruins. It no longer raises its beautiful façade with the carved windows to the bright Sicilian sky.
But the enmity between Geraci and Corvaja is not over. In the old days it was not only the noble families themselves who competed with one another; it was also their neighbors and dependents. All Diamante is to this day divided into Geraci and Corvaja. There is still a high, loop-holed wall running across the town, dividing the part of Diamante which stands by the Geraci from that which has declared itself for the Corvaja.
Even in our day no one from Geraci will marry a girl from Corvaja. And a shepherd from Corvaja cannot let his sheep drink from a Geraci fountain. They have not even the same saints. San Pasquale is worshipped in Geraci, and the black Madonna is Corvaja’s patron saint.
A man from Geraci can never believe but that all Corvaja is full of magicians, witches, and werewolves. A man from Corvaja will risk his salvation that in Geraci there are none but rogues and pick-pockets.
Donna Micaela lived in the Geraci district, and soon all that part of the town were partisans of her railway. But then Corvaja could do no less than to oppose her.
The inhabitants of Corvaja specially disliked two things. They were jealous of the reputation of the black Madonna, and therefore did not like to have another miracle-working image come to Diamante. That was one thing. The other was that they feared that Mongibello would bury all Diamante in ashes and fire if any one tried to encircle it with a railway.
A few days after the bazaar Palazzo Corvaja began to show itself hostile. Donna Micaela one day found on the roof-garden a lemon, which was so thickly set with pins that it looked like a steel ball. It was Palazzo Corvaja, that was trying to bewitch as many pains into her head as there were pins in the lemon.
Then Corvaja waited a few days to see what effect the lemon would have. But when Donna Micaela’s people continued to work on Etna and stake out the line, they came one night and pulled everything up. And when the stakes were set up again the next day, they broke the windows in the church of San Pasquale and threw stones at the Christ-image.
There was a long and narrow little square on the south side of Monte Chiaro. On both the long sides stood dark, high buildings. On one of the short sides was an abyss; on the other rose the steep mountain. The mountain wall was arranged in terraces, but the steps were crumbled and the marble railings broken. On the broadest of the terraces rose the stately ruins of Palazzo Corvaja.
The chief ornament of the square was a beautiful, oblong water-basin which stood quite under the terraces, close to the mountain wall. It stood there white as snow, covered with carvings, and full of clear, cold water. It was the best preserved of all the former glories of the Corvaja.
One beautiful and peaceful evening two ladies dressed in black came walking into the little square. For the moment it was almost empty. The two ladies looked about them, and when they saw no one they sat down on the bench by the fountain, and waited.
Soon several inquisitive children came forward and looked at them, and the older of the two began to talk to the children. She began to tell them stories: “It is said,” and “It is told,” and “Once upon a time,” she said.
Then the children were told of the Christchild who turned himself into roses and lilies when the Madonna met one of Herod’s soldiers, who had been commanded to kill all children. And they were told the legend of how the Christchild once had sat and shaped birds out of clay, and how he clapped his hands and gave the clay pigeons wings with which to fly away when a naughty boy wished to break them to pieces.
While the old lady was talking, many children gathered about her, and also big people. It was a Saturday evening, so that the laborers were coming home from their work in the fields. Most of them came up to the Corvaja fountain for water. When they heard that some one was telling legends they stopped to listen. Both the ladies were soon surrounded by a close, dark wall of heavy, black cloaks and slouch hats.
Suddenly the old lady said to the children: “Do you like the Christchild?” “Yes, yes,” they said, and their big, dark eyes sparkled. – “Perhaps you would like to see him?” – “Yes, we should indeed.”
The lady threw back her mantilla and showed the children a little Christ-image in a jewelled dress, and with a gold crown on his head and gold shoes on his feet. “Here he is,” she said. “I have brought him with me to show you.”
The children were in raptures. First they clasped their hands at the sight of the image’s grave face, then they began to throw kisses to it.
“He is beautiful, is he not?” said the lady.
“Let us have him! Let us have him!” cried the children.
But now a big, rough workman, a dark man with a bushy, black beard, pushed forward. He wished to snatch away the image. The old lady had barely time to thrust it behind her back.
“Give it here, Donna Elisa, give it here!” said the man.
Poor Donna Elisa cast one glance at Donna Micaela, who had sat silent and displeased the whole time by her side. Donna Micaela had been persuaded with difficulty to go to Corvaja and show the image to the people there. “The image helps us when it wills,” she said. “We shall not force miracles.”
But Donna Elisa had been determined to go, and she had said that the image was only waiting to be taken to the faithless wretches in Corvaja. After everything that he had done, they might have enough faith in him to believe that he could win them over also.
Now she, Donna Elisa, stood there with the man over her, and she did not know how she could prevent him from snatching the image away.
“Give it to me amicably, Donna Elisa,” said the man, “otherwise, by God, I will take it in spite of you. I will hack it to small pieces, to small, small pieces. You shall see how much there will be left of your wooden doll. You shall see if it can withstand the black Madonna.”
Donna Elisa pressed against the mountain wall; she saw no escape. She could not run, and she could not struggle. “Micaela!” she wailed, “Micaela!”
Donna Micaela was very pale. She held her hands against her heart, as she always did when anything agitated her. It was terrible to her to stand opposed to those dark men. These were they of the slouch hats and short cloaks of whom she had always been afraid.
But now, when Donna Elisa appealed to her, she turned quickly, seized the image and held it out to the man.
“See here, take it!” she said defiantly. And she took a step towards him. “Take it, and do with it what you can!”
She held the image on her outstretched arms, and came nearer and nearer to the dark workman.
He turned towards his comrades. “She does not believe that I can do anything to the doll,” he said, and laughed at her. And the whole group of workmen slapped themselves on the knee and laughed.
But he did not take the image; he grasped instead the big pick-axe, which he held in his hand. He drew back a few steps, lifted the pick over his head, and stiffened his whole body for a blow which was to crush at once the entire hated wooden doll.
Donna Micaela shook her head warningly. “You cannot do it,” she said, and she did not draw the image back.
He saw that nevertheless she was afraid, and he enjoyed frightening her. He stood longer than was necessary with uplifted pick.
“Piero!” came a cry shrill and wailing.
“Piero! Piero!”
The man dropped his pick without striking. He looked terrified.
“God! it is Marcia calling!” he said.
At the same moment a crowd of people came tumbling out of a little cottage which was built among the ruins of the old Palazzo Corvaja. There were about a dozen women and a carabiniere, who were fighting. The carabiniere held a child in his arms, and the women were trying to drag the child away from him. But the policeman, who was a tall, strong fellow, freed himself from them, lifted the child to his shoulder, and ran down the terrace steps.
The dark Piero had looked on without making a movement. When the carabiniere freed himself, he bent down to Donna Micaela and said eagerly: “If the little one can prevent that, all Corvaja shall be his friend.”
Now the carabiniere was down in the square. Piero made a sign with his hand. Instantly all his comrades closed in a ring round the fugitive. He turned squarely round. Everywhere a close ring of men threatened him with picks and shovels.
All at once there was terrible confusion. The women who had been struggling with the carabiniere came rushing down with loud cries. The little girl, whom he held in his arms, screamed as loud as she could and tried to tear herself away. People came running from all sides. There were questionings and wonderings.
“Let us go now,” said Donna Elisa to Donna Micaela. “Now no one is thinking of us.”
But Donna Micaela had caught sight of one of the women. She screamed least, but it was instantly apparent that it was she whom the matter concerned. She looked as if she was about to lose her life’s happiness.
She was a woman who had been very beautiful, although all freshness now was gone from her, for she was no longer young. But hers was still an impressive and large-souled face. “Here dwells a soul which can love and suffer,” said the face. Donna Micaela felt drawn to that poor woman as to a sister.
“No, it is not the time to go yet,” she said to Donna Elisa.
The carabiniere asked and asked if they would not let him come out.
No, no, no! Not until he let the child go!
It was the child of Piero and his wife, Marcia. But they were not the child’s real parents. The trouble arose from that.
The carabiniere tried to win the people over to his side. He tried to convince, not Piero nor Marcia, but the others. “Ninetta is the child’s mother,” he said; “you all know that. She has not been able to have the child with her while she was unmarried; but now she is married, and wishes to have her child back. And now Marcia refuses to give her the boy. It is hard on Ninetta, who has not been able to have her child with her for eight years. Marcia will not give him up. She drives Ninetta away when she comes and begs for her child. Finally Ninetta had to complain to the syndic. And the syndic has told us to get her the child. It is Ninetta’s own child,” he said appealingly.
But it had no great effect on the men of Corvaja.
“Ninetta is a Geraci,” burst out Piero, and the circle stood fast round the carabiniere.
“When we came here to fetch the child,” said the latter, “we did not find him. Marcia was dressed in black, and her rooms were draped with black, and a lot of women sat and mourned with her. And she showed us the certificate of the child’s death. Then we went and told Ninetta that her child was in the church-yard.
“Well, well, a while afterwards I went on guard here in the square. I watched the children playing there. Who was strongest, and who shouted the loudest, if not one of the girls? ‘What is your name?’ I asked her. ‘Francesco,’ she answered instantly.
“It occurred to me that that girl, Francesco, might be Ninetta’s boy, and I stood quiet and waited. Just now I saw Francesco go into Marcia’s house. I followed, and there sat the girl Francesco and ate supper with Marcia. She and all the mourners began to scream when I appeared. Then I seized Signorina Francesco and ran. For the child is not Marcia’s. Remember that, signori! He is Ninetta’s. Marcia has no right to him.”
Then at last Marcia began to speak. She spoke in a deep voice which compelled every one to listen, and she made only a few, but noble gestures. Had she no right to the child? But who had given him food and clothing? He had been dead a thousand times over if she had not been there. Ninetta had left him with La Felucca. They knew La Felucca. To leave one’s child to her was the same as saying to it: “You shall die.” And, moreover, right? right? What did that mean? The one whom the boy loved had a right to him. The one who loved the boy had a right to him. Piero and she loved the boy like their own son. They could not be parted from him.
The wife was desperate, the husband perhaps even more so. He threatened the carabiniere whenever he made a movement. Yet the carabiniere seemed to see that the victory would be his. The people had laughed when he spoke of “Signorina Francesco.” “Cut me down, if you will,” he said to Piero. “Does it help you? Will you retain the child for that? He is not yours. He is Ninetta’s.”
Piero turned to Donna Micaela. “Pray to him to help me.” He pointed to the image.
Donna Micaela instantly went forward to Marcia. She was shy and trembled for what she was venturing, but it was not the time for her to hold back. “Marcia,” she whispered, “confess! Confess, – if you dare!” The startled woman looked at her. “I see it so well,” whispered Donna Micaela; “you are as alike as two berries. But I will say nothing if you do not wish it.” “He will kill me,” said Marcia. “I know one who will not let him kill you,” said Donna Micaela. “Otherwise they will take your child from you,” she added.
All were silent, with eyes fixed on the two women. They saw how Marcia struggled with herself. The features of her strong face were distorted. Her lips moved. “The child is mine,” she said, but in so low a voice that no one heard it. She said it again, and now it came in a piercing scream: “The child is mine!”
“What will you do to me when I confess it?” she said to the man. “The child is mine, but not yours. He was born in the year when you were at work in Messina. I put him with La Felucca, and Ninetta’s boy was there too. One day when I came to La Felucca she said, ‘Ninetta’s boy is dead.’ At first I only thought: ‘God! if it had been mine! Then I said to La Felucca: ‘Let my boy be dead, and let Ninetta’s live.’ I gave La Felucca my silver comb, and she agreed. When you came home from Messina I said to you: ‘Let us take a foster child. We have never been on good terms. Let us try what adopting a child will do.’ You liked the proposal, and I adopted my own child. You have been happy with him, and we have lived as if in paradise.”
Before she finished speaking the carabiniere put the child down on the ground. The dark men silently opened their ranks for him, and he went his way. A shiver went through Donna Micaela when she saw the carabiniere go. He should have stayed to protect the poor woman. His going seemed to mean: “That woman is beyond the pale of the law; I cannot protect her.” Every man and woman standing there felt the same: “She is outside of the law.”
One after another went their way.
Piero, the husband, stood motionless without looking up. Something fierce and dreadful was gathering in him. Rage and suffering were gathering within him. Something terrible would happen as soon as he and Marcia were alone.
The woman made no effort to escape. She stood still, paralyzed by the certainty that her fate was sealed, and that nothing could change it. She neither prayed nor fled. She shrank together like a dog before an angry master. The Sicilian women know what awaits them when they have wounded their husbands’ honor.
The only one who tried to defend her was Donna Micaela. Never would she have begged Marcia to confess, she said to Piero, if she had known what he was. She had thought that he was a generous man. Such a one would have said: “You have done wrong; but the fact that you confess your sin publicly, and expose yourself to my anger to save the child, atones for everything. It is punishment enough.” A generous man would have taken the child on one arm, put the other round his wife’s waist, and have gone happy to his home. A signor would have acted so. But he was no signor; he was a bloodhound.
She talked in vain; the man did not hear her; the woman did not hear her. Her words seemed to be thrown back from an impenetrable wall.
Just then the child came to the father, and tried to take his hand. Furious, he looked at the boy. As the latter was dressed in girl’s clothes, his hair smoothly combed and drawn back by the ears, he saw instantly the likeness to Marcia, which he had not noticed before. He kicked Marcia’s son away.
There was a terrible tension in the square. The neighbors continued to go quietly and slowly away. Many went unwillingly and with hesitation, but still they went. The husband seemed only to be waiting for the last to go.
Donna Micaela ceased speaking; she took the image instead and laid it in Marcia’s arms. “Take him, my sister Marcia, and may he protect you!” she said.
The man saw it, and his rage increased. It seemed as if he could no longer contain himself till he was alone. He crouched like a wild beast ready to spring.
But the image did not rest in vain in the woman’s arms. The outcast moved her to an act of the greatest love.
“What will Christ in Paradise say to me, who have first deceived my husband, and then made him a murderer?” she thought. And she remembered how she had loved big Piero in the days of her happy youth. She had not then thought of bringing such misery upon him.
“No, Piero, no, do not kill me!” she said eagerly. “They will send you to the galleys. You shall be relieved of seeing me again without that.”
She ran towards the other side of the square, where the ground fell away into an abyss. Every one understood her intention. Her face bore witness for her.
Several hurried after her, but she had a good start. Then the image, which she still carried, slipped from her arms and lay at her feet. She stumbled over it, fell, and was overtaken.
She struggled to get away, but a couple of men held her fast. “Ah, let me do it!” she cried; “it is better for him!”
Her husband came up to her also. He had caught up her child and placed him on his arm. He was much moved.
“See, Marcia, let it be as it is,” he said. He was embarrassed, but his dark, deep-set eyes shone with happiness and said more than his words. “Perhaps, according to old custom, it ought to be so, but I do not care for that. Look, come now! It would be a pity for such a woman as you, Marcia.”
He put his arm about Marcia’s waist, and went towards his house in the ruins of Palazzo Corvaja. It was like a triumphal entry of one of the former barons. The people of Corvaja stood on both sides of the way and bowed to him and Marcia.
As they went past Donna Micaela, they both stopped, bowed deep to her, and kissed the image which some one had given back to her. But Donna Micaela kissed Marcia. “Pray for me in your happiness, sister Marcia!” she said.