Page:The International - Volume 1.djvu/172

162 until I found myself by the spring. Carmenio, there where the almond trees bloom down below. It seemed to me that I saw Him again under the trees. Christ our Lord. He was like the morning sun. I threw myself at His feet. That was how I fell. But, Father Ambrosio, I did not know what I was doing, I did not feel the pain in my limbs as I feel it now. I raised my hands to Him and in mortal agony cried: ′Have mercy on me!′ And His eyes in which I expected to see reproof, were full of goodness, and He raised His hand, not as if wishing to destroy me, or drive me away, but as though commanding me to arise. The light shining in His eyes was like the dawn, that meant mercy. ′You forgive me?′ I asked, and He bowed His head. "

Phenicia was silent, and a bloody foam appeared upon her lips. Carmenio wiped it off with his handkerchief. Then spoke the priest in a low voice, "My daughter, it was an illusion."

"Perhaps," she replied, a strange smile playing about her lips, "perhaps so, Father Ambrosio, but I know that He forgave me."

"And so do I in His name," said the priest, solemnly. "Amen," exclaimed Carmenio, and burst into tears.

Phenicia closed her eyes. A stream of blood flowed from her mouth; her mind began to wander, and she did not regain her consciousness, although she breathed and suffered greatly for a whole day and night. Uncle Petrone wanted to send to Taormin for a physician, but Aunt Pina objected, saying it was of no use; and she was right. "And who will pay the bill?" she added, and that settled it, for Uncle Petrone was very close with his savings.

They carried her from the little chamber into which the light passed through the foliage of the passion flowers, and laid her away to rest in the picturesque little cemetery situated between Mount Venera and Mount Ætna. In the evening, when it is very quiet, one may hear the music of the spring there, as it falls ringing against the rocks, and losing itself in the green grass.

After Phenicia's death, Archangelo placed his lamenting mother upon a mule, and moved to Messina. He would live no longer in Taormin. Other people moved to the Corvejo palace. That pale Christ, upon whom Phenicia's eyes had gazed in mortal agony, was bought by that same English woman to whom, years before, Venera had refused to sell it. This time she sold him well, consequently did not reproach herself for being a Judas. That Christ now hangs in an old English monastery, in one of the western counties, among faded Gobelins, pearl-covered icons, gilded images of Buddha dreaming upon the lotus leaf, and other curiosities; and it seems as if in England, beneath that gloomy sky, covered with eternal clouds, he is homesick for sunny Sicily.

In Taormin no one of the family remained except poor Carmenio. He still sits before the Corvejo palace, beating at his kettles, and thinking of Phenicia. They say that since her death he is somewhat deranged. They shake their heads dubiously when he, at times, begins to relate to them how Christ appeared to his sister, beneath the blossoming almond trees.

"She expected the lightnings of his wrath, and he threw her a rose," is the usual end of his story. Thus a legend has been formed in his poor, weak head. If he notices an incredulous smile he grumbles out," You think with that old priest up in Mola, that it was merely an illusion? Of course, of course. He cannot appear to us poor, unfortunate ones, can He? He never comforted those whom the world scorned? He broke the bruised reed, did He not? An illusion, an illusion, when Phenicia saw Him." And he bangs away at the kettle.

"Who can say that it is not so?" says old Nunziata, taking his part.

I agreed with old Nunziata, still sitting, I hope, beneath her fig tree, and with her dry, faded fingers, spinning an uneven thread.

"Who can say that it is not so," I thought, as seated upon the porch in my home in Taormin, one evening, after my return from Mola, I sketched this simple tale, as it was related to me by that simple folk.