PART II (continued 3)

"God!" burst out Anania; "God commands you now to obey me. Don't dare to repeat that you won't stay here. Don't dare! Do you suppose I'm joking? You shan't move one step without my leave. If you disobey. I'm capable of——"

"It's for your good!" she insisted, meeting the young man's anger; "Listen, at least. Don't be cruel to me, who have been the victim of every human wickedness, while I know you are indulgent to that father of yours who was my ruin——"

"She's right!" said the widow.

"Hold your tongue!" shouted Anania.

Olì took courage.

"I don't know how to speak," she went on; "I don't know how to speak, because I am stupefied by misfortunes. But I ask you this one thing, shouldn't I have everything to gain by staying here? If I want to go away isn't it because I'm thinking of you? Answer me. Ah! now he won't even listen!" she cried in despair, turning to the widow.

Anania was again pacing the floor, and seemed really deaf to her words, but suddenly he shuddered and cried, "I'm listening!"

She went on humbly, content that at least he no longer threatened her.

"Why do you wish me to be here? Leave me to myself. As once I did you harm, so now suffer me to do you good. Let me go. I don't wish to be an impediment to you. Let me go—for your good."

"No!" he repeated.

"Let me go. I implore you. I'm still able to work for myself. You shall hear no more of me. I will vanish as a leaf down the wind——"

He turned round on himself. An insidious, a terrible temptation overtook him. Let her go! For a short moment wild joy shone in his soul. He might consider it all as an evil dream; one word and the dream would vanish and the sweet reality would be restored! But suddenly he was ashamed of the thought. His wrath flamed up again, his voice echoed through the gloomy kitchen.

"No!"

"You are a wild beast!" murmured Olì, "you are not a Christian. You are a wild animal which devours its own flesh. Let me go, child of God! Let me go!"

"I will not."

Olì fell back silent and seemingly vanquished; but Aunt Grathia spoke—

"Yes, indeed, a wild beast! What's the need to shout like that? No! no! no! If any one were to hear you, he'd think there was a wild bull shut up here. Are these the manners you learned at school?"

"Yes, at my school; and I learned other things too," he said, lowering his voice however. "I learned that a man must not acquiesce in disgrace, even at cost of his own life. But I suppose you can't understand! Well, let us cut it short, and be silent both of you."

"Can't understand? I understand perfectly," protested the old woman.

"Nonna! yes, you understand. Remember——But there—that'll do!" he cried, wringing his hands, worn out, sickened by himself and every one. He had been struck by the old woman's words, and now returned to himself, remembering that he had always prided himself on his superiority. His wish now was to end this painful and vulgar scene. He threw himself on a seat in the corner of the kitchen dropping his head in his hands.

"I've said No, and that's enough," he thought; and said brokenly, "Have done now. Have done."

But Olì perceived that now was the moment to fight on. She was not afraid, she dared anything.

"Listen," she cried humbly, "why do you wish to ruin yourself, my son?" (Yes she had courage to say "my son," nor did Anania protest.) "I know all. You are to marry a girl who is beautiful, who is rich, and if she knows that you haven't cast me off, you'll lose her. She'll be quite right, for a rose can't be mixed up with dirt. For her sake, let me go. Let her believe I am dead. She's an innocent soul, why is she to suffer? I'll go ever so far away. I'll change my name. I'll disappear, carried away by the wind. The evil I have done you without intention is enough. Yes, without intention! My son, I don't want to hurt you again. No, I don't. Ah! how can a mother wish evil to her son? Let me go!"

He wanted to cry, "All my life you have done me evil!" but he restrained himself. What was the use? It was useless and indecorous. He would cry aloud no more. Only with his head still pressed in his hands, with voice at once sorrowful and enraged, he repeated, "No! no! no!" At bottom he felt that Olì was right. He understood that she really desired his happiness. But precisely the idea that at that moment she was more generous and more reasonable than he, irritated him and made her seem odious.

Olì was transformed. Her illumined eyes watched him supplicatingly, lovingly. As she repeated, "Let me go," her still youthful voice vibrated with infinite tenderness, her countenance expressed untold grief. Perhaps a sweet dream, which never before had brightened the horror of her existence, had touched her heart; to stay! to live for him! to find peace!

But from the depths of her simple soul an instinct for good—the flame which lies hidden even in the flint—impelled her to disregard this dream. A thirst for sacrifice devoured her. Anania understood that in her own way she wished to fulfil her duty, just as in his way he wished to fulfil his.

But Anania was the stronger. He was resolved to conquer by any means, by force if necessary, by the cruelty of the surgeon who to heal the sufferer will open his flesh with steel. She threw herself on the ground. Again she wept, implored, supplicated.

Anania answered always No.

"Then what will become of me?" she sobbed, "Holy Mother! what shall I do? Must I again leave you by stratagem? do you good by force? Yes, I will leave you—I will go. You cannot compel me. I don't acknowledge your right—I am free—I will go."

He raised his head and surveyed her.

He was no longer angered, but his cold eyes and grey face grown suddenly old were terrible.

"Listen," he said firmly. "We must end this. It's all settled—there's no more to be said. You will not move one step without my knowledge. Listen, and keep my words in mind as if they were the words of one dead. Till now, I have endured the dishonour and the grief of your shameful life, because I was not able to prevent it, and because I hoped some day to put a stop to it. But from to-day it is different. If you attempt to go away from here, I shall follow you. I'll kill you. I'll kill myself! I shall not wish to go on living!"

Olì looked at him in fear. He was like her father. Uncle Micheli, when he had driven her away from the Cantoniera. He had the same cold look, the same calm and terrible countenance, the same hollow voice, the same inexorable tone. She seemed looking at the old man's ghost, risen up to punish her; and she felt the whole horror of death. She spoke no further word, but crouched upon the floor, trembling with terror and despair.

A sad night fell upon the wind-shaken hamlet.

Anania had not been able to get a horse that evening, so he was obliged to spend another night at Fonni, sleeping a strange sleep like the sleep of a convict on the day he has been sentenced.

Aunt Grathia and Olì sat up a long time over the fire. Olì had the cold fit which is precursor of fever; her teeth chattered, she yawned and groaned. As in the nights of long ago, the wind roared through the kitchen, stirring the black relics of the bandit. By the firelight the widow worked at her spinning, her face pallid and impassive as that of a spectre. But she told her guest no stories of her dead husband, nor did she dare to offer consolation. Only now and then she vainly implored the sufferer to go to bed.

"I'll go, if you'll do me one kindness," said Olì at last.

"What is it?"

"Go and ask him if he still has the rezetta which I gave him the day we left this. Beg him to let me look at it."

The old woman promised and Olì got up. She shook all over, and yawned so wide that her jaws cracked.

That night she was light-headed, her temperature very high. Now and then she demanded the rezetta, and grumbled childishly because Aunt Grathia, who lay beside her, would not ask Anania for it.

In her delirium a doubt crossed her mind; if Anania were not her son? Surely, he was not her son! he was too cruel, too unfeeling. She had been tormented all her life by all the people she had known; now, she could not believe that her son could torture her more even than the rest.

Still delirious, she told Aunt Grathia of the little packet she had tied round Anania's neck, that she might recognize him when he should be grown up and well-to-do.

"I meant to go to him some day when I should be very old and walking with a stick. Rat-tat-tat! I should knock at his door, and say, 'I am Most Holy Mary disguised as a beggar.' My son's servants would laugh and call their master. 'Old woman, what do you want?' 'Sir, I know you have a little packet, like this and this—I know who gave it to you.' To-day you have all these tancas and servants and cattle, but you owe them all to that poor soul who is now reduced to seven little ounces of dust. Good-bye. Give me a slice of bread and some honey. And forgive that poor soul.' 'Servants,' he would say, 'cross yourselves. This old woman who knows everything is Most Holy Mary.' Ah! ah! ah! The rezetta! I want the rezetta. That man is not my son! The rezetta! The rezetta!"

When it was light. Aunt Grathia went to Anania and told him what Olì had said.

"That's the one thing wanting," he said smiling bitterly, "that she should doubt me! I'll soon prove to her that I am—myself."

"Son, don't be unnatural. Content her at least in this one small matter."

"But I haven't got the thing. I threw it away. If I can find it again, I'll send it."

Aunt Grathia wished further to know the result of Anania's disclosures to his betrothed.

"If she cares for you she'll be pleased by your good action," she said consolingly. "No, no, she won't give you up because you can't disown your mother. Ah! true love cares nothing for the prejudices of the world. I loved my husband madly when all the world was against him."

"We shall see," said Anania. "I'll write to you."

"For pity's sake, jewel of gold, don't write! I can't read, and I don't want to make your affairs public property."

"Well then——"

"Send me a token. If she sticks to you, send the rezetta wrapped in a white handkerchief. If you lose her, send it in a coloured handkerchief."

He promised.

"And when will you come back yourself?"

"I don't know. Soon, certainly. As soon as I have settled my affairs."

He left without seeing Olì again, for the poor thing had at last dropped asleep. He was in deep dejection. The journey seemed eternal, though he had no wish to arrive at his destination. Still, he was drawn by a slender thread of hope.

"Margherita loves me," he thought; "perhaps she loves me as Nonna loved her husband. Her family will scorn and drive me away, but she will say, 'I'll wait for you. I will love you always.' That's what she will say; but what shall I be able to promise her? My career is destroyed."

Another hope, not to be confessed, was, however, fermenting in the bottom of his heart: that Olì would make her escape. He dared not reveal this hope clearly to himself, but he felt it, felt it; in spite of himself it ran in his blood like a drop of poison. He was ashamed of it; he understood its meanness, but it was impossible to drive it away.

At the moment when he had cried, "I will kill you, I will kill myself," he had meant what he said, but now the words, the whole scene felt like some horrible nightmare. As he saw again the landscape, the street, which three days ago, he had seen with so much gladness in his soul, as he approached Nuoro, the sense of present reality pressed upon him more and more tightly.

The moment he arrived at home he looked for the amulet; and possessed by the superstition that things prearranged do not come to pass, he wrapped it up in a coloured handkerchief. Then he remembered that the sad occurrences of these few days he had always foreseen and expected, and he was vexed by his own childishness.

"And why should I send the rezetta at all? Why should I want to please her?"

He tossed the little packet against the wall, then picked it up again, softening. "For Aunt Grathia," he thought.

Then he told himself, "At four o'clock I will go to Signor Carboni and tell him the whole thing. I must get it over this very day. Margherita! Margherita! Suppose I see her to-night instead? She will bid me say nothing to her father. She will tell me to wait—to go on as usual. No, I won't be such a coward. At four o'clock I will go to Signor Carboni."

At the determined hour he did indeed pass the door of Margherita's home, but he could not bring himself to stop, to ring. He passed by; despising himself, thinking he would return later; convinced at bottom that never would he succeed in addressing his godfather.

Two days, two nights, he wasted thus in a vain battle of thoughts, which changed and dissolved like agitated waves. He had altered nothing in his habits or daily life. He read with young students, he studied, he ate, he lingered under Margherita's window, and if he saw her, he gazed at her passionately. But at night Aunt Tatàna heard him tramp about his room, descend to the court, go out, return, wander hither and thither. He seemed a soul in torment, and the kind woman feared he was ill.

What was he expecting? What did he hope?

The day after his return home, he saw a man from Fonni cross the street and he grew deadly pale.

Yes, he was expecting something—something dreadful; the news that she had again disappeared. He understood his cowardice, yet at the same time was ready to execute his threat, "I will follow you, I will kill you, I will kill myself."

Then it seemed to him that nothing was real; at the widow's house was no one but the widow herself, with her legends and her long black phantasmal cloak. Nothing, no one else.

The second night he heard Aunt Tatàna telling her old story to a little boy from a neighbouring house.

"The woman ran—ran—throwing down the nails; and they grew and grew till they filled the whole plain. Uncle Hobgoblin followed her, followed her, but he never could catch her up, because the nails stuck in her feet——"

What anguished pleasure that story had given Anania in his childhood, especially in the first days after his mother's desertion! To-night he dreamed that the man from Fonni had brought news she was gone, that he set out to follow—to follow—across a plain sown with nails. Look! there she is! far on the horizon! Soon he will catch her up and kill her, but he is afraid—afraid—because it is not Olì at all, but a goatherd, that same goatherd who had passed down the street while Aunt Tatàna was with Signor Carboni. Anania runs—runs—the nails don't prick; he wishes they would prick; and Olì has changed into the goatherd and is singing those lines of Lenau's:

There! now he has caught her, he is going to kill her, and the frost of death has stiffened his arm—

He woke, bathed in cold perspiration. His heart had stopped; he wept.

The third day. Margherita, surprised that he did not write, invited him to the usual tryst. He went. He told of his excursion up the Gennargentu. He abandoned himself to her caresses, as a tired wayfarer abandons himself on the grass, under the shadow of a tree. But not a word could he utter of the dark secret which was consuming him.

"September 18th. 2 A.M.

"MARGHERITA,—I have come in after roaming wildly through the streets. Every minute I think I am going mad. It is this very fear moves me, after long and miserable indecision—to confide to you the grief which is killing me. I will cut it short.

"Margherita, you know what I am; the son of a sin, deserted by a mother who was more sinned against than sinning. I was born under a bad star, and I have to expiate sins which were not my own. I have dragged with me into a gulf from which I can never escape, that creature whom I love more than all the rest of the world. Thee, Margherita! Forgive me! forgive me! This is my greatest grief which I shall feel for the rest of my life. Listen. My unhappy mother is alive; after an existence of misery and sin, she has risen again before me like a ghost. She is wretched, ill, grown old with suffering and privation. My duty, you yourself will say it at once, is to redeem her. I have resolved to live with her, to sacrifice, if need be, life itself to fulfil my duty. Margherita, what more can I say? Never as at this moment have I felt the need of showing you all my soul. It is like a stormy sea, and words fail me at this moment which is the turning point of my life. I have your kisses still on my lips, and I tremble with love and with grief. Margherita, I am in your hands. Have pity on me and on yourself too. Be what I have always dreamed you are. Think how short life is, and that love is the only reality of life, and that no one in the world will love you as I do. Don't tread out our happiness for the sake of worldly prejudices, prejudices invented by envious men to make all equally unhappy. You are good, you are above me. Say to me one word of hope for the future. And remember, whatever may happen, I shall be yours for all eternity. Write to me at once.

ANANIA."

"September 19th.

"ANANIA,—Your letter seems a horrid dream. I also have no words to express myself. Come to-night at the usual time and we will decide our fate together. It is I who should say 'my life is in your hands.' Come. I wait for you anxiously.

MARGHERITA."

"September 19th.

"MARGHERITA,—Your little letter has frozen my heart. My fate is already decided, but a thread of hope still guides me. No, I dare not come. I will not come unless you first give me a word of hope. Then I will fly to you, kneel at your feet, and thank you and worship you as a saint. But now—no, I cannot. I will not. I abide by what I wrote to you yesterday. Write to me, do not kill me with this terrible suspense.—Your most unhappy.

ANANIA."

"September 19th. Midnight.

"ANANIA, MY NINO,—I have waited for you till this moment trembling with grief and love; but you have not come. Perhaps you are never coming any more, and I write to you at this sweet hour of our meetings with death in my heart and tears in my eyes which have not yet wept themselves out. The pale moon is sinking in a clouded heaven, the night is sad, it seems to me that all creation is oppressed by the ill-fortune which has crushed our love.

"Anania, why did you deceive me?

"As you say, I knew what you were, and I loved you just because I am above vulgar prejudice, and I wished to make up to you for the injustice of fate. But I believed you also were superior to prejudice, and were giving up all for me as I had given up all for you. Now, it seems, I have been deceived. You have deceived me, hiding your real sentiments. I believed and I still believe, that you knew your mother was alive and even where she was, and what sort of life she was leading (indeed, every one knew that!) but that you had no affection for this unnatural mother, who had deserted you, and was your misfortune and dishonour. You considered her dead for you and for every one. And I was quite sure that if ever she thrust herself upon your notice, which I suppose is what has happened, you would not condescend even to look at her. But on the contrary, you want to drive away her who has loved you so many years and will always love you, and to sacrifice your life and your honour to one, who (if she hadn't had an easy place to drop you into) was quite ready to kill you, or to leave you in a wood or a wilderness, a prey to starvation and terror, just that she might set herself free!

"But why should I write all this? Surely you know it? Why do you try to deceive me? Why do you appeal to sentiments which I can't possibly entertain, and which I don't believe you entertain yourself? You aren't going to do this stupid thing out of affection or out of generosity—I'm sure you really hate the woman—but just out of regard to these same vulgar prejudices which 'were invented by men to make all equally miserable.' Yes, yes! You want to sacrifice yourself and to ruin me, only for the glory of saying, 'I've done my duty!' You are a silly boy, your dreams are dangerous, and what's worse, ridiculous. People may praise you to your face; behind your back they will laugh at your simplicity.

"Anania, be yourself, be kind to yourself and to me. Be a man! No, I don't bid you abandon your mother if she's weak and unhappy (though she abandoned you). We can help her, give her some money, but we must keep her at arm's length. I won't have her coming between us and upsetting our life. I won't. You see I don't deceive you, Anania. I can't in the most distant way admit the possibility of living with her. It would be hideous, a daily tragedy. Better to die once for all, and have done with it, than die daily of resentment and disgust. I might pity the wretched creature, but I should never love her. If you persist in this mad idea, you'll make me loathe her even worse than before. This is my last word; aid her, but keep her far away, so that I may never lay eyes on her, so that our world in which we live may ignore her existence.

"I daresay she'll prefer to be out of your sight. Your presence ought to mean to her continual remorse. You say she has grown old with grief and privation, that she's poor and ill. Well, it's all her own fault. It's much better for you and for herself that she should be like that; for then she can't go roaming about the world and inflicting more disgrace upon you. But she, who didn't hesitate to outrage you when she was young and strong, mustn't now make a weapon of her weakness and want to destroy your happiness. No! no! you must never permit such a thing. No, no, it's impossible you should act upon such a fatal aberration! Unless it is that you don't love me any longer, and seek an excuse to——But I am not going to doubt you and your loyalty and your love. Don't be so wicked and cruel to me, when I have sacrificed to you all my youth, and all my dreams, and all my future.

"There! I tell you I'm crying as I write. Remember our love, our first kiss, our oaths, our plans—all—all. Don't reduce all that to a handful of ashes; don't kill me with disappointments, don't act so that afterwards you will repent your madness. If you won't listen to me, consult any sensible persons, and they'll all tell you not to be ungrateful and wicked and vain-glorious.

"Why, only yesterday you told me you had called my name from the summit of the Gennargentu, and proclaimed your love eternal and superior to all other human passion! Were you lying? and only yesterday? Why do you treat me like this? What have I done to deserve it? Have you forgotten that I love you? Have you forgotten that evening when I stood at the window and you threw me a flower after kissing it? I keep that flower to sew it into my wedding-dress, and I say keep, because I am sure that you really are going to be my bridegroom, and that you don't intend to kill your Margherita (remember your sonnet), and that we are going to be so happy alone together in our own little house.

"It is I, who am waiting for a word of hope from you at once. Tell me it's all a horrid dream. Tell me you have recovered your reason, and are sorry for having made me suffer.

"To-morrow night, or rather this night, for its already morning, I shall expect you. Don't fail me. Come, my adored one, my darling, my beloved bridegroom, come! I shall expect you as a flower expects the dew after a day of burning sun. Come! revive me, make me forget. My lips shall be laid on yours like——"

"No! no! no!" cried Anania convulsively, crumpling the letter before he had read the last lines, "I won't come! You are bad! bad! bad! I shall die, but I shan't see you again!"

With the letter crushed in his hand, he threw himself on his bed, burying his face in the pillow, biting it, restraining the sobs which rose in his throat. A shudder of passion ran through him, rising like a wave from his feet to his head. The last lines had filled him with tumultuous desire for Margherita's kisses, a desire as violent as it was despairing.

Little by little he regained self-control and knew what he was experiencing. He had seen the naked Margherita, and he felt for her a delirious love, and a disgust so great as to annihilate that very love.

How mean, how despicable she was! and consciously. The goddess, veiled in majesty and goodness, had thrown off her golden robes, and appeared naked, daubed with egotism and unkindness. The taciturn minerva had opened her lips to curse. The symbolic image had burst like a fruit rosy without, black and poisonous within. She was complete woman with all her savage wiles.

But the worst torment was the thought that Margherita guessed his secret sentiments. That she was right in reproving his deceptions, in asking the fulfilment of his duties of gratitude and love.

"It's all over!" he thought. "It was bound to end like this."

He got up and reread the letter. Every word offended and humiliated him. Margherita had loved him out of compassion, believing him as despicable as she was herself. Probably she had meant him to be just an instrument of her pleasure, a complacent servant, a humble husband. No, probably she had not thought of anything like that, but had loved him by mere instinct, because he had been the first to kiss her, to speak to her of love.

"She has no soul!" thought the poor boy. "When I raved, when I rose to the stars and swelled with superhuman joy, she was silent because in her there was emptiness. And I was adoring her silence, and thinking it divine! She spoke only when her senses were awaked. She speaks now because she's menaced with the vulgar annoyance of being given up. She has no soul, no heart! Not one word of pity! Not the modesty to conceal her selfishness. And she's ignorant too. Her letter is copied and recopied, yet even so it's badly expressed. But the last lines—there's her art! She knew the effect they'd produce. She knows me perfectly, and I am only now beginning to understand her. She wants to allure me to the meeting, because she thinks she can intoxicate me. Deceit! deceit! But I see through her now. Ah! not one kind word, not a single generous impulse, nothing! nothing! How horrible!"—(again, he crumpled the letter)—"I hate all women! I shall always hate them! I'll become bad myself! I'll grind you all to powder and spit upon you. I'll make you all suffer! I'll kill you, tear you to pieces! I'll begin this instant!"

He took the rezetta still wrapped in the coloured handkerchief, rolled it in a newspaper, sealed and despatched it to Aunt Grathia. "It's all over," he repeated. And he seemed to be walking through emptiness, over the cold clouds as on the ascent of Gennargentu. But now vainly he looked down or around him; there was no path of escape, all was cloud, infinite giddiness. During the day he thought of suicide, a hundred times.

He went up and took information as to what examinations and public posts were open to him, and how soon he could present himself as a candidate. He went to the tavern and seeing the handsome Agata (now betrothed to Antonino) he kissed her. Whirlwinds of hate and of love for Margherita shook his soul. The more he read her letter, the more he felt her paltriness; the more he felt himself alienated from her, the more he loved and desired her. Kissing Agata, he remembered what excitement the beautiful peasant's kiss had roused in him on that former occasion. Then Margherita had been so far above him, a whole world of mystery and poetry had divided them; and this same world, fallen to ruins, divided them now.

"What's up with you?" asked Agata, making no objection to his kiss. "Have you quarrelled with? What are you kissing me for?"

"Because I like it, because you're coarse——"

"You've been drinking!" laughed Agata. "Well if that's your fancy in women, you can have Rebecca. But suppose Margherita hears of it——"

"Hold your tongue! Don't dare to mention her name!"

"Why not? She's going to be my sister-in-law. Is she any different from me? She's a woman like the rest of us. I doubt she's even rich. If she was certain she'd be rich, she'd only keep you on till she found a better match."

"If you don't hold your tongue I'll strike you!" said Anania furiously.

"Oh, you're drunk! Get away! go to Rebecca!" repeated Agata.

Her insinuations completed Anania's torment; he now believed Margherita capable of anything.

He went to bed early that evening, complaining of imaginary fever. He thought of staying in bed to-morrow, hoping that Margherita would hear he was ill. He even arrived at imagining that she, believing him very ill indeed, would come secretly to visit him. This dream melted him completely; he shook with emotion thinking of the scene that would follow. Then suddenly the dream appeared what it was, childish sentimentality. He was ashamed of himself, got up and went out. At the accustomed hour, he stood before Margherita's door. She opened it herself. They embraced, and both were moved to tears. But as soon as Margherita began to speak, he felt an immense displeasure; then a sense of frost, much as he had felt in looking at his mother.

No! no! he no longer loved her! He no longer desired her! He rose and went away without uttering a word.

At the end of the street he turned back, leaned against her door, and called—

"Margherita!"

But the door remained shut.

IX

"September 20th. Midnight.

"Your behaviour last night has finally revealed your character. I should suppose it needless to declare that all is over between us, were it not that you take my silence for a sign of humiliating expectancy. Good-bye, then, for ever.

M."

"P.S. I wish my letters returned, and I'll send you yours."

"NUORO, September 20th.

"MY DEAR GODFATHER,—I intended to visit you and explain by word what now I must write to you, for at this moment, I have received from Fonni news of my mother's dangerous illness, and I must go to her at once. This, therefore, is what I have to tell you.

"Your daughter informs me that she withdraws her promise of marriage, which we had arranged together, with your consent. If she has not already done so, she will explain to you her reason for this decision, which, of course, I accept. Our characters are too unlike for us to be united. Fortunately, for us and for those who love us, we have made this sad discovery in time. It may make us unhappy now, but it will prevent an error which would be the misfortune of our whole lives. Your daughter will surely attain the happiness which she deserves, and will meet some man who is worthy of her. No one will wish her greater happiness than I do. As for me—I will follow my destiny.

"Ah! dear godfather! when you have had the explanation from Margherita, don't, don't accuse me of ingratitude and of pride, whatever happens. Whether or not I am allowed to fulfil grave duties to an unhappy mother, I know every relation between me and you, or any of your family, is at an end. I renounce all favours, which indeed would now be absurd and humiliating to us all, but in my heart I shall retain as long as I live the sincerest gratitude for all your goodness to me. In this sad hour of my life, when circumstances make me despair of everything and everybody, and especially of myself, I still look up to you, my godfather, and remember your kindness and charity which has guided me from the first hour I knew you, and which still preserves my faith in human goodness. And the duty of gratitude to you, makes me still wish to live, though the light of life is failing me on all sides. I have no more to add; the future will explain to you the real nature of my thoughts, and will, I hope, prevent your repenting of your kindness, to—Your ever most grateful.

"ANANIA ATONZU."

At three o'clock, Anania was already on his way to Fonni, riding on an old horse blind of an eye, which did not travel so fast as the occasion demanded. But alas! why hide the truth? Anania was not in a hurry, although the driver of the coach, Aunt Grathia's messenger, had said.

"You must start at once; it is possible you may find the woman already dead."

For a time Anania could think of nothing but the letter which he had himself consigned to Signor Carboni's servant.

"He'll be angry with me," thought Anania, "when Margherita tells him of my strange excuses, he'll think she's in the right. Of course, any girl would have done what she has done. I suppose I am quite wrong, but still who ever the girl was, I should have acted the same. Perhaps I ought to have said in my letter that I was to blame, but that I simply couldn't do anything else. But no, they wouldn't understand, just as they won't be able to forgive. It's all over."

Suddenly he felt an impulse of joy at the fact that his mother was dying; but at once he tried to shudder at himself.

"I'm a monster!" he thought; but his relief was so great, so cruel, that the very word "monster" seemed farcical, almost amusing. However, after a few minutes he was really shocked at himself.

"She's dying; and it's I who have killed her. She's dying of fear, remorse, suffering. I saw her sink down that day, with her eyes full of despair. My words hurt her worse than a blow. What a lurid thing is the human heart! I'm rejoicing in my crime; I'm rejoicing like a prisoner who has gained his freedom by murdering his gaoler, while I'm thinking Margherita despicable, because she says bluntly that she can't love a bad woman. I am far worse, a hundred times worse than Margherita. But can I alter my feelings? What whirlwind of contradictions, what malign force is it that draws and contorts the human soul? Why can we not overcome this force even when we recognize and hate it? The God which governs the universe is Evil! a monstrous God, living in us as the thunderbolt lives in the air, ready to burst forth at any moment. And that infernal power which oppresses and derides us—Good Lord! perhaps it will make the poor wretch better and entirely cure her, to punish me for rejoicing at the expectation of her death!"

This idea depressed him for some moments, and he felt the horror of his depression as he had felt the horror of his joy, but was powerless to conquer it.

Sunset enfolded him as he ascended from Mamojada to Fonni; great peace overspread the rose-tinted landscape. The shadows, lengthening on the golden carpet of the stubble, suggested persons asleep, and the glowing mountains blended with the glowing sky, in which the moon already showed its shell of pearl. Anania felt his heart softening. His spirit raised itself towards the pure and mystic heaven.

"Once I imagined I was kind-hearted," he thought; "delusion—mere delusion. I exalted myself when I thought of her, and when I thought of Margherita too. I fancied I loved my mother, and could redeem her, and thus make my existence some use. Instead of that, I have killed her! What must I do now? How shall I use my freedom, my miserable tranquillity? I shall never be happy again. I shall never again believe in myself or in any one else. Now truly I know what man is—a vain though fiery flame, which passes over life and reduces everything to ashes, and goes out when there is nothing left for it to destroy."

As he ascended, the marvel of the sunset increased; he stopped his horse that he might contemplate what seemed a symbolic picture. The mountains had become violet; a long cloud of the same colour made a darkness above the horizon; between the mountains and the cloud a great sun, rayless and blood-red was going down in a heaven of gold. At that moment, he knew not why, Anania felt good; good, but sorrowful. He had arrived at sincerely desiring his mother's recovery. He felt a measureless pity for her; and the beautiful childish dream of a life of sacrifice dedicated to the unhappy one's redemption, shone in his soul, great and terrible like that dying sun. But suddenly he perceived that this dream was only for his own comfort; and he compared his belated generosity to a rainbow curved over a country devastated by storm; it was splendid, but altogether useless.

"What shall I do?" he repeated in new despair, "I shall love no more, I shall believe no more. The romance of my life is ended; ended at twenty-two, the age when most men are beginning theirs!"

When he reached Fonni it was already night. The outline of the tiled roofs showed black against the stainless moonlit sky. The air was perfumed and very fresh. The tinkle of the goats returning from pasture, could be heard, the step of the herdsman's horse, the bark of his dogs. Anania thought of Zuanne and of his distant childhood, more tenderly than when he had been at Fonni a few days ago.

He dismounted at the widow's door, inquisitive heads appeared at the windows, the low doors, the wooden balconies of the opposite houses. He seemed expected, a mysterious whisper ran around, and he felt himself wrapped in it, straitened as by a cold and heavy chain.

"She must be dead!" he thought, and stood motionless beside his horse.

Aunt Grathia came to the door, a lamp in her hand. She was even more ghastly than usual, her small, bloodshot eyes sunk in great livid circles.

Anania looked at her anxiously.

"How is she?"

"Ah! she is well. She has finished her penitence in this world," replied the old woman with tragic solemnity. Anania understood that his mother was dead. He could not feel sad, but neither did he feel the expected sense of relief.

"Good God! Why didn't you send for me sooner? When did she die? Let me see her!" he said, with anxiety exaggerated, but partly sincere. He entered the kitchen which was illuminated by a great fire.

Seated at the hearth Anania saw a peasant who looked like an Egyptian priest, with a long square black beard, and wide opened, round, black eyes. In his hands he held a large black rosary, and he looked at the new-comer ferociously. Anania began to feel a mysterious disquiet. He recalled the embarrassed air of the man who had brought him the news of his mother's danger. He remembered that a few days ago he had left her suffering but not gravely ill. He suspected they were trying to conceal something from him. A terrible idea flashed through his mind. All this in one moment while the widow who remained at the door was saying to the black bearded man—

"Fidele, see to the horse. The straw is there. Make haste."

"At what o'clock did she die?" asked Anania, turning also to the peasant whose black eyes, round like holes, impressed him strangely.

"At two," answered a voice of the deepest bass.

"At two? That was the hour when I got the news. Why was I not told sooner?"

"You could have done nothing," said Aunt Grathia, who was still guarding the horse. "Make haste, son Fidele!" she repeated impatiently.

"Why didn't you warn me," said Anania, stooping mechanically to take off his spur. "What was the matter with her? What did the doctor say? God knows I had no idea——Well, I'm going up to see her."

He straightened himself and moved towards the stair, but Aunt Grathia still holding the lamp hastily prevented him.

"What, my son? The thing you will see is a corpse!" she cried in horror-struck tones.

"Nonna! Do you suppose I'm afraid? Come with me."

"Very well."

The old woman preceded him up the wooden stair. Her deformed shadow as tall as the roof, trembled on the wall.

At the door of the room where the dead woman lay. Aunt Grathia stopped and hesitated. Again she pressed Anania's arm. He noticed that the old woman was shivering; and, he knew not why, he shuddered himself.

"Son," said the widow, in a whisper "don't be shocked."

He grew pale; the thought deformed and monstrous, like the shadows trembling on the wall, took form and filled his soul with terror.

"What is it?" he cried, guessing the fearful truth.

"The Lord's will be done."

"She killed herself?"

"Yes."

"My God! How horrible!"

He cried thus twice; it seemed as if his hair rose on his head; he heard his voice resounding in the funereal silence of the house. Then he collected himself and pushed the door.

On the pallet bed where a few night's ago he had himself slept, he saw the corpse delineated under the sheet which covered it. Through the open window entered the fresh evening air; and the flame of a wax candle burning by the bedside seemed to wish to fly away, to escape into the fragrant night.

Anania approached the bed; cautiously as if fearing to wake her, he uncovered the corpse. A handkerchief covered with spots of darkened blood, already dry, swathed the neck, passed under the chin, over the ears, and was knotted among the thick black hair. Within this tragic circle the face was drawn in grey, the mouth still contorted with the death spasm. The vitreous line of the eyes was visible through the heavy, half-shut lids.

Anania understood that she had severed the carotid artery. Horrified by the spots of blood, he at once recovered the dead face; leaving, however, the hair, which was twisted high on the pillow, partly exposed. His eyes had darkened with horror, his mouth writhed as if in mimicry of the contortion of the dead woman's lips.

"My God! my God! this is awful!" he said, wringing his hands, and twisting his fingers. "Blood! She has shed her blood! How did she do it? How was she able to do it? She has cut her throat! How horrible! How wrong, how wrong I have been. Oh! my God! No, Aunt Grathia, don't shut the window! I am stifled. It was I who bade her kill herself!"

He sobbed fearlessly—suffocated by remorse and horror. "She has died in despair, and I did not say to her one word of comfort. She was my mother after all, and she suffered in bringing me into the world! And I—have killed her, and I—still live!"

Never as at that moment before the terrible mystery of death had he felt all the greatness, all the value of life. To live! Was it not enough to live—to move, to feel the perfumed breeze of the serene night—in order to be happy? Life! the most beautiful, the most sublime thing which an eternal and infinite will could create! And he lived; and he owed his life to the miserable creature who lay before him, deprived of this highest good! How was it he had never thought of that? Ah! he had never understood the value of life, because he had never seen the horror and the emptiness of death. And now she, she alone, had taken upon herself the task of revealing to him, by the shock of her death, the supreme joy of Life. She, at the price of her own life, had given him birth a second time; and this new moral life was immeasurably greater than the first.

A veil fell from his eyes. He saw the contemptibleness of his passions, of his past griefs and hatreds. Had he suffered because of his mother's sin? Fool! What did that matter? What mattered a fact so trifling in comparison with the greatness of life? And because Olì had given him life, must she not represent to him the kindest of human creatures, to whom he must be eternally grateful, whom he must always love?

He sobbed still, his heart filled with strange anguish through which came to him the joy of mere life. Yes, he suffered; therefore he lived.

The widow drew to his side, took his wrung hands in hers, comforted and encouraged him.

"We'll come downstairs, son; we'll come down. No, don't torment yourself. She has died because she had to die. You did your duty; and she—perhaps, she also did hers—although truly the Lord gave us life or repentance, and bade us live——Let us come down, my son."

"She was still young!" said Anania, somewhat calmed, his eyes resting on the dead woman's black hair, "No, Aunt Grathia, I am not upset, let us stay here a moment. How old was she? Thirty—eight? Tell me," he asked again, "at what hour did she die? How did she do it? Tell me all about it."

"Come downstairs, then I'll tell you. Come!" repeated Aunt Grathia.

But he did not move. He was still looking at the dead woman's hair, marvelling that it was so abundant and so black. He would have liked to cover it with the sheet, but felt a strange fear of again touching the corpse.

The widow performed this act of reverence, then taking Anania's hand, led him away. His eye fell on the small table against the wall, at the foot of the bed; but they went out and sat together on the staircase, the lamp set on the boards by their side.

The widow narrated a long history, of which Anania ever retained in his memory these sad fragments.

"She kept saying, 'Oh, I'll go! You'll see I shall go, whether he likes it or not. I've harmed him enough, Aunt Grathia, now I must set him free, and in such fashion that he shall never again so much as hear my name. I'll desert him a second time to expiate the sin of my first desertion.' Then she sharpened the knife on the grindstone, poor thing! When we got the rezetta in the coloured handkerchief, she grew so pale; and she tore the packet and wept——Oh yes, she cut her throat. Yes, this very morning at six, when I had gone to the fountain. When I came back, I found her in a pool of blood. She was still alive—her eyes horribly wide open.

"All the officials, the colonel, the Prætor, the Town-Clerk, they all invaded the house. It was like hell! People crowded in the street, the women cried like children. The Prætor took the knife and looked at me with terrible eyes. He asked if you had ever threatened your mother. But then I saw he also was in tears.

"She lived till midday. It was agony for everyone. Son, you know that in my life, I have seen terrible things—never anything like this. No, one doesn't die of sorrow and pity, for you see I am still alive. Ah! why are we born?" she ended with tears.

Anania was deeply moved. This strange old woman, who had long seemed petrified by griefs, wept; but he, he who only last night had wept for love in Margherita's arms, he could not weep; remorse and anguish were tearing at his heartstrings.

He got up and moved again towards the death-chamber.

"I want to look at something," he said tremulously.

The widow raised her lamp, reopened the door, let the young man pass in, and waited. So sad she was, so black with that antique iron lantern in her hand, she looked like the figure of death, vigilantly waiting.

Anania approached the little table on tip-toe. On it he had seen the amulet and the little torn packet, laid on a sheet of glass. He looked at it, almost superstitiously. Then he took it up and opened it.

There was in it only a yellow pebble, and some ashes; ashes blackened by time.

Ashes!

Several times Anania touched those black ashes, which perhaps were the relics of some love token of his mother's; those ashes which long ago she had placed upon his breast that they might feel its deepest throbs.

And in that memorable hour of his life, the whole solemn significance of which he knew he did not yet feel, it seemed to him that little heap of Ashes was a symbol of destiny. Yes, all was Ashes; life, death, the human kind; destiny itself which had produced them.

And yet in that supreme hour, shadowed by that figure of aged Fate, which seemed Death in waiting,—in the presence of the remains of that most wretched of all the daughters of men, who, after doing and suffering wrong in all its manifestations, had died for another's good,—Anania felt that among the ashes lurks the spark, the seed of the luminous and purifying flame; and Hope returned to him, and he felt that he loved life still.