The Miracles of Antichrist

II

IN PALERMO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the students march down to the harbor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Palermo is burning,” say the seamen.

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

Then the sailors see the fires on the mountains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mysteries of life and death dwell within that head.

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

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

III

THE HOME-COMING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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