Читать книгу Ashes (Cenere) - Grazia Deledda - Страница 4

It was the night of Midsummer Eve. Olì came forth from the white-walled Cantoniera[1] on the Mamojada road, and hurried away across the fields. She was fifteen, well-grown and beautiful, with very large, very bright, feline eyes of greenish grey, and a sensuous mouth of which the cleft lower lip suggested two ripe cherries. She wore a red petticoat and stiff brocade bodice sustaining and defining her bosom; from the red cap tied under her prominent chin, issued two braids of glossy black hair twisted over her ears. This hair-dressing and the picturesque costume gave the girl an almost Oriental grace. Her fingers were heavily ringed, and she carried long streamers of scarlet ribbon, with which to "sign the flowers of St John," that is, to mark those bunches of mullein, thyme, and asphodel which she must pick to-morrow at dawn for the compounding of charms and drugs. True, even were the signing omitted, there was small danger of anyone's touching Olì's selected plants; the fields round the Cantoniera, where she lived with her father and her little brothers, were completely deserted. Only one tumble-down house was in sight, emerging from a field of corn like a rock out of a green lake.

Everywhere in the country round, the wild Sardinian spring[2] was on its death-bed; the flowers of the asphodel, the golden balls of the broom were dropping; the roses showed pale in the thickets, the grass was already yellow; a hot odour of hay perfumed the heavy air. The Milky Way and the distant splendour of the horizon, which seemed a band of far off sea, made the night clear as twilight. The dark blue heaven and its stars were reflected in the scanty waters of the river. On its bank, Olì found two of her little brothers looking for crickets.

"Go home this moment!" she said, in her beautiful, still childish voice.

"No!" replied one of the little fellows.

"Then you won't see the heavens burst to-night. Good children on the night of St John see the heavens open, and then they can look into Paradise, and see the Lord, and the angels, and the Holy Spirit. What you'll see is a hobgoblin if you don't go straight back home!"

"All right," said the elder, impressed; and though the other protested, he allowed himself to be led away.

Olì, however, went on; beyond the river, beyond the path, beyond the dark copse of wild olive. Here and there she stooped over some plant, which she tied with her scarlet ribbons; then straightened herself and scanned the night with the sharp gaze of her cat-like eyes, her heart beating with anxiety, with fear, and with joy.

The fragrant night invited to love, and Olì was in love. She was fifteen, and on the excuse of "signing the flowers of St John," she was making her way to a love-tryst.

One night six months earlier a stranger had come to the Cantoniera to ask for some fire-kindling. He was a contadino or farm-labourer sent by the owner of the extensive fields round the tumble-down house, and had arrived for the sowing. He was young and tall, with long black curls and coal-black eyes so bright one could hardly look at them! Olì alone was not afraid to meet their gaze with her own fine eyes, which were never abashed by anyone.

The Cantoniere, a man, not old, though worn with hard work, poverty, and many troubles, received the young man kindly, gave him a flint, catechised him about his master, and invited him to look in whenever he liked. After this the farm-servant frequented the Cantoniera assiduously. He told stories to the children, and taught Olì where to look for the best mushrooms and edible herbs.

One day he took her to the ruined nuraghe[3] on the hill, half hidden by thickets of red-berried thorn trees, and told her that among the huge stones of the gigantic tomb there was a treasure hidden.

"And I know of several other hidden treasures," he said gravely, while Oh picked bunches of wild fennel; "I shall certainly manage to find one of them; and then——"

"Then what?" asked Olì half sceptical, raising her eyes, which reflected the green of the surrounding landscape.

"Then I will leave this place. If you will come with me, I'll take you to the continent. Oh, I know all about the continent! I'm not long home from my military service. I've been to Rome, to Calabria, to all sorts of places. Over there everything is splendid. If you'll come——"

Olì laughed softly. She was still a little ironical, but flattered and happy. Behind the ruin, hidden in the thicket, her two little brothers were whistling to lure a sparrow. No other human voice, no human step was heard in the whole green immensity. The young man's arm slipped round Olì's waist. He drew her to him and closed her eyes with kisses.

From that day the two young things loved each other fiercely, trusting the secret of their passion to the silent riverside thickets, to the dark hiding-places of the solitary nuraghes. All her life Olì had been oppressed by loneliness and poverty. She loved this man for all be represented to her imagination, for the wondrous things and places he had seen, for the town from which he had come, for the wealthy master he served, for the plans he had traced for the future. He loved Olì for her beauty and for the fire of her temperament. Both were thoughtless and without conscience. Primitive, impulsive, self-pleasing, they loved because life was exuberant in their bosoms, and enjoyment a necessity.

The girl's mother had, it seemed, been just such another ardent and fantastic woman.

"She was of well-to-do family," explained Olì, "and had titled relations. They wanted to marry her to an old man who had a great deal of land. My grandfather, my mother's father, was a poet. He could improvise three or four songs in one evening, and the songs were so beautiful that when he sang them in the street everybody got them by heart. Oh yes! my grandfather was a very great poet! I know some of his poetry myself. My mother taught it to me. Let me repeat some to you."

Olì recited a few verses in the dialect of Logudoro; then went on: "My mother's brother, Uncle Merziòro Desogos, used to do painting in the churches, and he carved pulpits. But at last he killed himself because he had got into prison. Yes, my mother's relations belonged to the nobility and were educated people. But she didn't choose to marry that rich old man! She had seen my father, who at that time was as handsome as a banner in a procession." She fell in love with him and they ran away together. I remember her saying, "My father has cast me off, but I don't care! Some folk love riches; I love my Micheli, and that's enough for me!"

One day the Cantoniere went to Nuoro the town, to buy wheat. He came back more melancholy even than usual.

"Olì, mind yourself. Olì!" he said, threatening his daughter with his finger, "bad luck to that farm-servant if he sets foot in here again! He has deceived us, even as to his name. He told us his name was Quirico; but it isn't, it's Anania. He comes from Argosolo. The people of Argosolo are a race of goshawks, of thieves and jail-birds! Mind yourself, young woman! He's a married man."

Olì wept, and her tears fell with the wheat into the great coffer of black wood. But scarcely was the coffer shut down and Uncle Micheli[4] gone away to his work, than the girl was off to her lover.

"Your name is Anania! You are married!" she said, her eyes flashing with rage.

Anania had just completed his sowing and still carried his grain-bag. Blackbirds sang, swinging on the olive branches. Great white clouds made the blue of the sky more intense. All was sweetness, silence, oblivion.

"Listen," said the young man; "it's unfortunately true I have a wife—an old woman. They forced her upon me (as they tried to force that rich old man upon your mother), because I was poor and she had a great deal of money. What does it matter? She's quite old and will soon die. We are young, Olì, and I care for no one but you I If you give me up, it will kill me!"

Olì was touched, and she believed all he said.

"But what are we to do?" she asked; "my father will beat me if we go on loving each other."

"Have patience, my little lamb. My wife will die very soon. And even if she doesn't, I am sure to find the treasure and then we'll go off together to the continent."

Olì protested; wept. She had no great faith in the treasure, but she let the love-making continue.

The sowing season was over, but Anania still came frequently to the farm, to watch the corn coming up, to hoe, and to weed. At the hour of siesta he did not sleep, but amused himself pulling down the nuraghe. He said he wanted stones for a wall; really he was looking for the treasure.

"If it isn't here, then it's there, and I intend to find it," he said to Olì. "You know at Maras a labourer like me found a bundle of bars of gold. He didn't know they were gold and handed them over to the blacksmith. The idiot! I'd have known quick enough! Giants used to live in the nuraghes," he went on, "and they had all their utensils of gold. Even the nails in their shoes were gold. Oh! treasures can always be found if one looks for them! When I was in Rome I saw a place where they keep gold coins and things once hidden away by those old giants. In some parts of the world there are giants alive still, and they are so rich that their scythes and their ploughs are all made of silver."

He spoke seriously, his eyes shining with golden dreams. But he could not have told what exactly he intended to do with the treasure when he had found it. He looked no further than to the flight with Olì. Beyond that all was vague.

About Easter the girl herself had occasion to go to Nuoro. She sought information about Anania's wife, and learned that the woman was elderly but by no means old, and not rich at all.

"Well," he said, when Olì reproached him for having deceived her, "she's poor now, but when I married her she had money. After the wedding I had to go to my military service, and I got ill and spent a lot. My wife was ill too. Oh you don't know how expensive a long illness is! Besides, we lent money and couldn't get it back. And I'll tell you what I suspect! While I was away my wife sold some land and has hidden the money she got for it. There! I'll take my oath that's it!"

He spoke seriously, and again Olì believed. She believed because she wished to believe, and because Anania had got her into the habit of believing anything. He was carried away himself by his imaginations. For instance, in his master's kitchen-garden he found a big ring of reddish metal, and at once concluded it was gold.

"There must be a treasure here also!" he thought, and hurried to tell his new fancy to Olì.

Spring now reigned over the wild country. Elderflowers were reflected in the blue river; voluptuous fragrance rose from the warm grass. In the clear moonlit nights, so soft, so silent, it seemed as though the vibrating air were an intoxicating love-philtre. Olì roamed hither and thither, her eyes misty with passion. In the long luminous twilight, in the dazzling noons, when the distant mountains melted into the sky, her pensive look followed her little brothers, who, half naked and dark as bronze statuettes, made the meadows merry with their bird-like pipings; and she thought of the day when she must leave them to go forth with Anania. For she had seen the gold ring of his finding, and she was filled with hope, and her blood boiled with the poison of the spring.

"Olì!" called Anania from the depths of the thicket. She trembled, advanced cautiously, fell into the young man's arms. They seated themselves on the warm grass, beside bushes of pennyroyal and wild laurel which exhaled strong perfume.

"I was almost prevented coming!" said the youth; "the mistress has been brought to bed of a daughter; and my wife has gone up to help, and wanted me to stay at home. 'No,' I told her, 'I've got to pick the pennyroyal and the laurel to-night. Have you forgotten it's Midsummer Eve?' So here I am."

He fumbled at his breast, while Olì touched the laurel and asked what it was good for.

"Don't you know? Laurel gathered to-night is for medicine, and has other virtues too. If you strew leaves of laurel here and there round the wall of a vineyard or a sheepfold, no wild animal can get in to gnaw the grapes or to carry off the lambs."

"But you aren't a shepherd, are you?"

"I want it for my master's vineyard; for the threshing-floor too, or the ants will steal the grain. Won't you come when I'm beating out the grain? There'll be lots of people: it's a holiday, and at night there'll be singing."

"Oh, my father wouldn't let me go," she said with a sigh.

"How stupid of him! it's clear he doesn't know my wife. She's decrepit—worn out like these stones! Wherever have I put it?" said Anania, still fumbling.

"Put what? your wife?" laughed Olì.

"A cross. I've found a silver cross this time."

"A silver cross? Where you found the ring? And you never told me?"

"Ah, here it is! See, it's real silver!" He drew a packet from his arm hole. Olì opened it, touched the little cross, and asked anxiously—

"Is it really silver? Then the treasure must be there!"

She looked so pleased that Anania, who had found the cross in quite a different place, thought it best to leave her to her illusion.

"Yes, there in the garden. Who knows all the precious things there may be! I shall have a search at night."

"But won't the treasure belong to your master?"

"No, it belongs to any one who finds it," replied Anania, and as if to enforce his argument, he folded Olì in his arms and kissed her.

"When I find the treasure, then you'll come?" he asked, trembling. "Say you will, my flower! It's clear I must find it at once, for I can't go on living without you. When I look at my old wife, I'd like to die; but when I'm with you, Olì, then I want to live a thousand years. My flower!"

Olì listened, and she also trembled. Around them was deepest silence; the stars shone like pearls, like eyes smiling with love; ever sweeter on the air was the scent of the laurel.

"My wife must die very soon," said Anania; "what's the good of old people in the world? In a year we shall probably be married."

"San Giovanni grant it!" sighed Olì. "But it's wrong to wish any one's death. And now let me go home."

"Ah, stay a little longer!" he supplicated. "Why should you go so soon? What's to become of me without you?"

But she rose, all tremulous.

"Perhaps we'll see each other to-morrow morning. I shall be picking my flowers before sunrise. I'll make you a charm against temptations."

But he was not thinking about temptations. He knelt, clasping Olì in his arms, and began to cry.

"No, my flower, don't go! don't go! Stay a little longer, Olì, my little lamb! You are my life. See, I kiss the ground where you put your feet. Stay a little, or, indeed, indeed, I shall die!"

He groaned and shook; and his voice moved Oh even to tears.

She stayed.

Not till autumn did Uncle Micheli perceive that his daughter had gone wrong. Then fierce anger overpowered this wearied and suffering man, who had known all the griefs of life except dishonour. That was unbearable. He took Olì by the arm, and cast her out. She wept, but Uncle Micheli was implacable. He had warned her a thousand times. He had trusted her. Had her lover been a free man he might have forgiven. But this—No! this, he could never pardon.

For some days Olì found shelter in the tumble-down house round which Anania had sown his corn. The little brothers brought her scraps of food, till Uncle Micheli found it out and beat them.

Now autumn was covering the heavens with great livid clouds; it rained ceaselessly; the thickets were blown by damp winds, or they glittered with cold hoar frost. Olì made her way to Nuoro to ask help from her lover. Perhaps he had a presentiment of her coming, for outside the town he met her. He was kind, he comforted her, he wrapped her in his own jacket; he took her to Fonni, a mountain village above Mamojada.

"Don't be frightened," said the young man; "I have a relation at Fonni, and you'll be all right with her. Trust me, my little lamb! I will never desert you."

So he took her to his kinswoman, a widow with a little boy of four. When Olì saw this child, dirty, ragged, all eyes and ears, she thought of her little brothers and she wept. Ah! who now would care for the little motherless ones? Who would bake their bread, or wash their little garments in the river? And whatever would become of her father, the poor widower, so feverish and unhappy? Ah, well——Olì cried for a day and a night. Then she raised her head and looked about her with darkened eyes.

Anania had gone away. The widow, pale and thin, with the face of a spectre framed by a yellow handkerchief, sat spinning before a wretched fire of twigs. All round was misery, rags, dirt. Great cobwebs hung trembling from the smoke-blackened tiled roof. A few sticks of wooden furniture gave scanty comfort. The boy with the big ears never spoke or laughed. He was already dressed in the costume of the place with a sheepskin cap. His only amusement was roasting chestnuts in the hot ashes.

"Have patience, daughter; it's the way of the world!" said Aunt Grathia the widow, not raising her eyes from her distaff. "Oh! you'll see far worse things if you live. We are born to suffer. When I was a girl I also laughed; then I cried; now both laughing and crying are over."

Olì felt her heart freeze. Oh, what griefs! what immense griefs!

Outside, night was falling. It was bitter cold. The wind roared in the chimney with the voice of a stormy sea. In the murky brightness of the fire, the widow went on with her spinning, her mind busy with memory. Olì crouched on the ground, and she too remembered—the warm night of San Giovanni—the scent of the laurel—the light of the smiling stars. Little Zuanne's chestnuts burst among the ashes which strewed the hearth—the wind battered furiously at the door, like a monster scouring the night. After a long silence the widow again spoke.

"I also belong to a good family. This boy's father was called Zuanne. Sons, you know, should always have their father's name, so that they may grow up like them. Ah, yes! my husband was a very distinguished man. He was tall as a poplar tree. Look, there's his coat hanging against the wall."

Olì looked round, and there, on the earthen wall, she saw a long cloak of orbace,[5] among whose folds the spiders had woven their dusky veil.

"I shall never take it down," continued the widow, "not though I am dying of cold. My sons may wear it when they are as clever as their father."

"But what was their father?" asked Olì.

"Well," said the widow, not changing her voice, but with some animation on her spectral countenance, "he was a robber. For ten years he was a robber—yes, ten. He took to the country a few months after our wedding. I used to go and visit him up there on the mountain of Gennargentu. He hunted eagles and vultures and strayed sheep. Every time I went to see him we used to roast a good haunch of mutton. We slept out of doors, in the wind, on the tops of the mountains. We covered ourselves with that cloak, and my husband's hands were always burning even when it snowed. He kept company with——"

"With whom?" asked Olì, forgetting her own troubles. The child was listening too, his great ears pricked till he seemed a hare listening to the voice of a distant fox.

"Oh, well, with other robbers. They were all most intelligent men, sharp, active, ready for anything, ready especially for death. Do you suppose brigands are bad folk? You are wrong, my dear sister. They are men who live by their wits, that's all. My husband used to say, 'In the old days men made war on each other; that's over now, but they still need to fight. They organize thefts, highway robberies, bardanas,[6] not to do harm, but to make use of their ability and strength.'"

"A fine sort of ability!" said Olì; "why don't they knock their heads against a wall if they've nothing to do?"

"You don't understand, my daughter," said the widow, proud and sad; "it's all a matter of Fate. If you like, I will tell you how my husband made himself a brigand." She said "made himself a brigand" with great dignity.

"Yes, tell me," answered Olì, shuddering a little. The shadows had grown denser; the wind howled with a continuous thunder rumble; they seemed in a hurricane-pervaded forest. The words, the cadaverous face of the woman in that black surrounding, now and then momently illuminated by a flash of livid flame, excited Olì to a childish voluptuousness of terror. She seemed involved in one of those fearful legends which Anania used to relate for her little brothers; and she herself, she with her infinite wretchedness, was a part of the hideous story.

The widow went on—

"We had been married a few months. We were well off, my dear. We had corn, potatoes, chestnuts, vines, land, houses, a dog, and a horse. My husband was a landowner. But often he had nothing to do, and then he got bored. He used to say, 'I must set up a shop, I can't stand this idleness. When I'm idle I get bad thoughts.' But we hadn't capital enough to start a shop. Then one day a friend said to him, 'Zuanne Atonzu, will you join in a bardana? There'll be a lot of us, and a clever fellow as guide, and we're going to a distant village to attack the house of a man who has three chests of money and silver. The man who's to show the way came here to Capo di Sopra[7] on purpose to tell us of it and to suggest a bard. We've got to cross mountains, rivers, and forests. Come with us.' My husband told me of the invitation. 'Well,' I said, 'what do you want with the rich man's silver?' He answered, 'I snap my fingers at the trifle I may get of the booty; but I like the idea of mountains and forests and new things to see. I'm curious to know how they manage these bardanas, and there'll be plenty of other fellows going just to show their pluck and to pass the time. Isn't it worse to have me sit in the tavern and get drunk?' I cried, I implored," said the widow, twisting her thread with her skinny finger and following the motion of her spindle with hollow eyes, "I supplicated, but he went. He gave out he was gone to Cagliari on business; but he went on the bardana. I stayed at home, for I was in the family way. Afterwards he told me all about it. There were about sixty of them, and they travelled in little groups, meeting at appointed places to consult. Corleddu was the captain, a Goliath, strong as the lightning, with eyes of fire and his chest covered with red hair. For the first few days there was rain, hurricanes were unchained, torrents rose in flood, one of the company was struck by a thunderbolt. They marched at night by torchlight. At last they reached a forest near the mountain of the Seven Brothers. There the Captain said, 'Brethren, the signs of the sky are not propitious. The affair will go badly. Moreover, I smell treachery. I believe our guide is a spy. Let us disband; and put the thing off for another time.' Many approved, but Pilatu Barras, the robber from Orani, (his nose had been shot off and lie wore a silver one) got up and said, 'Brothers in God' (he always used that expression), 'I can't have this. Rain is no sign that heaven is against us. On the contrary annoyances are good, and teach the young to put off softness. If the guide betrays us, we'll kill him. Come on, donkeys!' Corleddu shook his head, and another cried out, 'Pilatu can't smell!' Then Barras shouted, 'Brothers in God, it is dogs who smell, not Christians. My nose is of silver and can't smell, but yours is a bone of the dead! What I say is that if we disband, we smell of cowardice. There are young men among us on their first expedition. If you send them away, they'll go back to sit by the ashes of their hearths, idle, and good for nothing. Come on, donkeys!' They went on. Corleddu was right, the guide was a traitor. Soldiers were waiting in the rich man's house. There was a fight and many of the robbers were wounded; others were recognized, one was killed. Lest he should be recognized, his comrades stripped him, cut off his head, and buried it and his clothes far away in the forest. My husband was recognized, so after that he had to become a bandit. I lost my baby."

The widow had stopped spinning, her spindle fell on her lap and she spread out her hands to the fire. Olì shuddered with cold, with horror, with a fearful pleasure. How dreadful, how poetic, was all this the widow was telling! Olì had always imagined robbers were wicked. No, they were brave, wise, pushed by destiny; just as she herself was being pushed——

"Now we'll have supper!" said the widow, rousing herself. She got up, lighted a rude lamp of blackened iron, and prepared the meal; potatoes, always potatoes, for two days Olì had eaten nothing but potatoes, and a couple of chestnuts.

"Anania is your relation?" asked the girl, after they had eaten for some time in silence.

"Yes, a distant relation of my husband's. He's from Argosolo, not Fonni. But," said the widow, shaking her head contemptuously, "Anania's not at all like the blessed one! My man would have hung himself from an oak tree sooner than do this vile action of Anania's, my poor sister!"

Olì burst into tears. She retired to the chimney corner, and when little Zuanne seated himself near her, she drew his head to her knee, and held one of his little hard, dirty hands, thinking of her lost little brothers.

"They are like little naked birds," she cried, "left in the nest when their mother is shot and doesn't come back. Oh, who will feed them? The little one can't even undress himself!"

"Then he can sleep in his clothes," said the widow grimly; "what are you crying for, idiot? You should have thought of all that before; it's useless now. You must be patient. The Lord God doesn't forget even the birds in the nest."

"What a storm! What a storm!" lamented Olì; then asked suddenly, "Do you believe in ghosts, Aunt Grathia?"

"I?" said the widow, putting out the lamp and resuming her spindle, "I believe neither in the dead nor in the living."

Zuanne lifted his head and said softly, "I'm here," then hid his face again in Olì's lap.

The widow continued her recital.

"After that I had a son. His name is Fidele, and he's eight years old and has gone to work at a sheepfold. Then I had this one. We are very poor now, sister. My husband wasn't dishonest, you know; he had lived on his own property, and that's why we had to sell everything except just this house."

"How did he die?" asked the girl, caressing the head of the apparently sleeping child.

"How did he die? Oh, on one of his expeditions. He never got into prison," said the widow, proudly, "though the police were after him like hunters after a boar. He was clever at hiding, and when the police were looking for him on the mountains, he would be spending the night here—yes, here, at this hearth where you are sitting now."

The child looked up, his two great ears suddenly on fire; then sank again on Olì's lap.

"Yes, I tell you, here. One day, two years ago, he learned that a patrol was searching the hills for him, and he sent to tell me, 'While they are busy at that I'm going to take part in a job; on the way back, I'll stop with you, little wife. Look out for me.' I looked out three nights, four. I span a whole hank of black wool."

"Where was he?"

"Don't you understand? On a bardana, of course!" cried the widow impatiently. Then she dropped her voice. "I waited four nights, but I was anxious. Every step I heard set my heart beating. The fourth night passed. My heart had shrunk, till it was as little as an almond. Then I heard a beating at the door. I opened. 'Woman, wait no longer,' said a man with a mask over his face. And he gave me my husband's cloak. Ah——" the widow gave a sigh which was almost a groan. Then she was silent.

Olì watched her a long time. Suddenly her gaze was attracted to the frightened gaze of the little Zuanne, whose hands, hard and brown as the claws of a bird, were clenching themselves, and fingering the wall.

"What is it? What do you see?"

"Dead man!" lisped the child.

"What? A dead man?" said Olì laughing.

But when she was in bed, alone in a grey, cold garret, round whose roof the wind screeched ever louder, searching and hammering the rafters, Olì thought of the widow's story; of the mask who had said, 'Woman, wait no more'; of the long black cloak hanging on the wall; of the child who had seen the dead man. And she thought of the little naked birds in the deserted nest; of her poor little neglected brothers; of Anania's treasure; of midsummer night; and of her dead mother. She was afraid—she was sad, so sad that though she believed herself doomed to hell, she longed to die.

[1]The man in charge of a portion of the high road is called the Cantoniere, and lives in the Cantoniera.

[2]Primavera: we should call it, in June, early summer.

[3]Prehistoric ruin.

[4]In Sardinia the older persons are given the titles of Uncle and Aunt.

[5]Coarse woollen stuff.

[6]Brigandage committed by a large number in concert.

[7]The province of Sassari.