Проспер Мериме
Colomba
CHAPTER XX
One afternoon, a few months after the double shot which, as the newspapers said, “plunged the village of Pietranera into a state of consternation,” a young man with his left arm in a sling, rode out of Bastia, toward the village of Cardo, celebrated for its spring, which in summer supplies the more fastidious inhabitants of the town with delicious water. He was accompanied by a young lady, tall and remarkably handsome, mounted on a small black horse, the strength and shape of which would have attracted the admiration of a connoisseur, although, by some strange accident, one of its ears had been lacerated. On reaching the village, the girl sprang nimbly to the ground, and, having helped her comrade to dismount, she unfastened the somewhat heavy wallets strapped to his saddle-bow. The horses were left in charge of a peasant. The girl, laden with the wallets, which she had concealed under her mezzaro, and the young man, carrying a double-barrelled gun, took their way toward the mountain, along a very steep path that did not appear to lead to any dwelling. When they had climbed to one of the lower ridges of the Monte Querico, they halted, and sat down on the grass. They were evidently expecting somebody, for they kept perpetually looking toward the mountain, and the young lady often consulted a pretty gold watch—as much, it may be, for the pleasure of admiring what appeared a somewhat newly acquired trinket, as in order to know whether the hour appointed for some meeting or other had come. They had not long to wait. A dog ran out of the maquis, and when the girl called out “Brusco!” it approached at once, and fawned upon them. Presently two bearded men appeared, with guns under their arms, cartridge-belts round their waists, and pistols hanging at their sides. Their torn and patched garments contrasted oddly with their weapons, which were brilliantly polished, and came from a famous Continental factory. In spite of the apparent inequality of their positions, the four actors in this scene greeted one another in terms of old and familiar friendship.
“Well, Ors’ Anton’,” said the elder bandit to the young man, “so your business is settled—the indictment against you has fallen through? I congratulate you. I’m sorry the lawyer has left the island. I’d like to see his rage. And how’s your arm?”
“They tell me I shall get rid of my sling in a fortnight,” said the young man. “Brando, my good friend, I’m going to Italy to-morrow—I wanted to say good-bye to you and to the cure. That’s why I asked you to come here.”
“You’re in a fine hurry,” said Brandolaccio. “Only acquitted yesterday, and you’re off to-morrow.”
“Business must be attended to,” said the young lady merrily. “Gentlemen, I’ve brought some supper. Fall to, if you please, and don’t you forget my friend Brusco.”
“You spoil Brusco, Mademoiselle Colomba. But he’s a grateful dog. You shall see. Here, Brusco,” and he held out his gun horizontally, “jump for the Barricini!”
The dog stood motionless, licking his chops, and staring at his master.
“Jump for the della Rebbia!” And he leaped two feet higher than he need have done.
“Look here, my friends,” said Orso, “you’re plying a bad trade; and even if you don’t end your career on that square below us,8 the best you can look for is to die in the maquis by some gendarme’s bullet.”
“Well, well,” said Castriconi, “that’s no more than death, anyhow; and it’s better than being killed in your bed by a fever, with your heirs snivelling more or less honestly all round you. To men who are accustomed to the open air like us, there’s nothing so good as to die ‘in your shoes,’ as the village folk say.”
“I should like to see you get out of this country,” said Orso, “and lead a quieter life. For instance, why shouldn’t you settle in Sardinia, as several of your comrades have done? I could make the matter easy for you.”
“In Sardinia!” cried Brandolaccio. “Istos Sardos! Devil take them and their lingo! We couldn’t live in such bad company.”
“Sardinia’s a country without resources,” added the theologian. “For my part, I despise the Sardinians. They keep mounted men to hunt their bandits. That’s a stigma on both the bandits and the country.9 Out upon Sardinia, say I! The thing that astounds me, Signor della Rebbia, is that you, who are a man of taste and understanding, should not have taken to our life in the maquis, after having once tried it, as you did.”
“Well,” said Orso, with a smile, “when I was lucky enough to be your guest, I wasn’t in very good case for enjoying the charms of your position, and my ribs still ache when I think of the ride I took one lovely night, thrown like a bundle across an unsaddled horse that my good friend Brandolaccio guided.”
“And the delight of escaping from your pursuers,” rejoined Castriconi; “is that nothing to you? How can you fail to realize the charm of absolute freedom in such a beautiful climate as ours? With this to insure respect,” and he held up his gun, “we are kings of everything within its range. We can give orders, we can redress wrongs. That’s a highly moral entertainment, monsieur, and a very pleasant one, which we don’t deny ourselves. What can be more beautiful than a knight-errant’s life, when he has good weapons, and more common sense than Don Quixote had? Listen! The other day I was told that little Lilla Luigi’s uncle—old miser that he is—wouldn’t give her a dowry. So I wrote to him. I didn’t use threats—that’s not my way. Well, well, in one moment the man was convinced. He married his niece, and I made two people happy. Believe me, Orso, there’s no life like the bandit’s life! Pshaw! You’d have joined us, perhaps, if it hadn’t been for a certain young Englishwoman whom I have scarcely seen myself, but about whose beauty every one in Bastia is talking.”
“My future sister-in-law doesn’t like the maquis,” laughed Colomba. “She got too great a fright in one of them.”
“Well,” said Orso, “you are resolved to stay here? So be it! But tell me whether there is anything I can do for you?”
“Nothing,” said Brandolaccio. “You’ve heaped kindnesses upon us. Here’s little Chilina with her dowry ready, so that there’ll be no necessity for my friend the cure to write one of his persuasive letters to insure her marrying well. We know the man on your farm will give us bread and powder whenever we need them. So fare you well! I hope we shall see you back in Corsica one of these days.”
“In case of pressing need,” said Orso, “a few gold coins are very useful. Now we are such old friends, you won’t refuse this little cartouche.10 It will help you to provide cartridges of another kind.”
“No money between you and me, sir,” said Brandolaccio resolutely.
“In the world money is everything,” remarked Castriconi, “but in the maquis, all a man need care for is a brave heart, and a gun that carries true.”
“I don’t want to leave you without giving you something to remember me by,” persisted Orso. “Come, Brandolaccio, what can I leave with you?”
The bandit scratched his head and cast a sidelong glance at Orso’s gun.
“By my faith, if I dared—but no! you’re too fond of it.”
“What would you like?”
“Nothing! ‘Tisn’t anything at all. It’s knowing how to use it as well. I keep thinking of that devil of a double-shot of yours—and with only one hand, too! Oh! that never could happen twice over!”
“Is it the gun you fancy? I bought it for you. But see you don’t use it more than you are obliged.”
“Oh, I won’t promise to make as good use of it as you. But make your mind easy. When any other man has it, you may be certain it’s all over with Brando Savelli.”
“And you, Castriconi—what am I to give you?”
“Since you really insist on giving me some tangible keepsake, I’ll simply ask you to send me the smallest Horace you can get. It will amuse me, and prevent me from forgetting all my Latin. There’s a little woman who sells cigars on the jetty at Bastia. If you give it to her, she’ll see I get it.”
“You shall have an Elzevir, my erudite friend. There just happens to be one among some books I was going to take away with me. Well, good friends, we must part! Give me your hands. If you should ever think of Sardinia write to me. Signor N., the notary, will give you my address on the mainland.”
“To-morrow, lieutenant,” said Brando, “when you get out in the harbour, look up to this spot on the mountain-side. We shall be here, and we’ll wave our handkerchiefs to you.”
And so they parted. Orso and his sister took their way back to Cardo, and the bandits departed up the mountain.
CHAPTER XXI
One lovely April morning, Sir Thomas Nevil, his daughter, a newly made bride—Orso, and Colomba, drove out of Pisa to see a lately discovered Etruscan vault to which all strangers who came to that part of the country paid a visit.
Orso and his wife went down into the ancient building, pulled out their pencils, and began to sketch the mural paintings. But the colonel and Colomba, who neither of them cared much for archaeology, left them to themselves, and walked about in the neighbourhood.
“My dear Colomba,” said the colonel, “we shall never get back to Pisa in time for lunch. Aren’t you hungry? There are Orso and his wife buried in their antiquities; when once they begin sketching together, it lasts forever!”
“Yes,” remarked Colomba. “And yet they never bring the smallest sketch home with them.”
“I think,” proceeded the colonel, “our best plan would be to make our way to that little farm-house yonder. We should find bread there, and perhaps some aleatico. Who knows, we might even find strawberries and cream! And then we should be able to wait patiently for our artists.”
“You are quite right, colonel. You and I are the reasonable members of this family. We should be very foolish if we let ourselves by martyrized by that pair of lovers, who live on poetry! Give me your arm! Don’t you think I’m improving? I lean on people’s arms, wear fashionable hats and gowns and trinkets—I’m learning I don’t know how many fine things—I’m not at all a young savage any more. Just observe the grace with which I wear this shawl. That fair-haired spark—that officer belonging to your regiment who came to the wedding—oh, dear! I can’t recollect his name!—a tall, curly-headed man, whom I could knock over with one hand–”
“Chatsworth?” suggested the colonel.
“That’s it!—but I never shall be able to say it!—Well, you know he’s over head and ears in love with me!”
“O Colomba, you’re growing a terrible flirt! We shall have another wedding before long.”
“I! Marry! And then who will there be to bring up my nephew—when Orso provides me with a nephew? And who’ll teach him to talk Corsican? Yes, he shall talk Corsican, and I’ll make him a peaked cap, just to vex you.”
“Well, well, wait till you have your nephew, and then you shall teach him to use a dagger, if you choose.”
“Farewell to daggers!” said Colomba merrily. “I have a fan now, to rap your fingers with when you speak ill of my country.”
Chatting thus, they reached the farm-house, where they found wine, strawberries, and cream. Colomba helped the farmer’s wife to gather the strawberries, while the colonel drank his aleatico. At the turning of a path she caught sight of an old man, sitting in the sun, on a straw chair. He seemed ill, his cheeks were fallen in, his eyes were hollow, he was frightfully thin; as he sat there, motionless, pallid, staring fixedly in front of him, he looked more like a corpse than like a living creature. Colomba watched him for some minutes, and with a curiosity so great that it attracted the woman’s attention.
“That poor old fellow is a countryman of yours,” she said. “For I know you are from Corsica by the way you talk, signorina! He has had great trouble in his own country. His children met with some terrible death. They say—you’ll excuse me, signorina—that when they quarrel, your compatriots don’t show each other very much mercy. Then the poor old gentleman, being left all alone, came over to Pisa, to a distant relation of his, who owns this farm. Between his misfortunes and his sorrow, the good man is a little cracked. . . . The lady found him troublesome—for she sees a great deal of company. So she sent him out here. He’s very gentle—no worry at all. He doesn’t speak three words the whole day long. In fact, his brain’s quite gone. The doctor comes to see him every week. He says he won’t live long.”
“There’s no hope for him, then!” said Colomba. “In such a case, death will be a mercy.”
“You might say a word to him in Corsican, signorina. Perhaps it would cheer him up to hear the speech of his own country.”
“I’ll see!” said Colomba, and her smile was mysterious.
She drew nearer to the old man, till her shadow fell across his chair. Then the poor idiot lifted his head and stared at Colomba, while she looked at him, smiling still. After a moment, the old man passed his hand across his forehead, and closed his eyes, as though he would have shut out the sight of Colomba. He opened them again, desperately wide this time. His lips began to work, he tried to stretch out his hands, but, fascinated by Colomba’s glance, he sat, nailed, as it were, to his chair, unable to move or utter a word. At last great tears dropped from his eyes, and a few sobs escaped from his heaving chest.
“‘Tis the first time I’ve seen him like this,” said the good woman. “This signorina belongs to your own country; she has come to see you,” said she to the old man.
“Mercy!” he cried in a hoarse voice. “Mercy! Are you not content? The leaf I burned. How did you read it? But why did you take them both? Orlanduccio! You can’t have read anything against him! You should have left me one, only one! Orlanduccio—you didn’t read his name!”
“I had to have them both!” answered Colomba, speaking low and in the Corsican dialect. “The branches are topped off! If the stem had not been rotten, I would have torn it up! Come! make no moan. You will not suffer long! I suffered for two years!”
The old man cried out, and then his head dropped on his breast. Colomba turned her back on him, and went slowly into the house, humming some meaningless lines out of a ballata:
“I must have the hand
that fired, the eye that aimed, the heart
that planned.”
While the farmer’s wife ran to attend on the old man, Colomba, with blazing eyes and brilliant cheeks, sat down to luncheon opposite the colonel.
“What’s the matter with you?” he said. “You look just as you did that day at Pietranera, when they fired at us while we were at dinner.”
“Old Corsican memories had come back to me. But all that’s done with. I shall be godmother, sha’n’t I? Oh! what fine names I’ll give him! Ghilfuccio—Tomaso—Orso—Leone!”
The farmer’s wife came back into the room.
“Well?” inquired Colomba, with the most perfect composure. “Is he dead, or had he only fainted?”
“It was nothing, signorina. But it’s curious what an effect the sight of you had on him.”
“And the doctor says he won’t last long?”
“Not two months, very likely.”
“He’ll be no great loss!” remarked Colomba.
“What the devil are you talking about?” inquired the colonel.
“About an idiot from my own country, who is boarded out here. I’ll send from time to time to find out how he is. Why, Colonel Nevil, aren’t you going to leave any strawberries for Lydia and my brother?”
When Colomba left the farm-house and got into the carriage, the farmer’s wife looked after her for a while. Then, turning to her daughter:
“Dost see that pretty young lady yonder?” she said. “Well, I’m certain she has the evil eye!”
