Chapter II: Part I: I (2)

"Don't move till I come back. I'm going to find the friend at whose house we shall sleep."

He remained alone at the bottom of the church. It was alarming, but he encouraged himself looking at the people, the candles, the flowers, the saints. Also he had the charm hidden on his breast. That was a comfort. Suddenly he remembered his father. Where was he? Why ever didn't they go and find him?

Olì soon returned. She waited till the service was over, then took her boy's hand and led him out by a side door. They walked down several streets. At last they got beyond the houses. It was late, it was cold; Anania was hungry and thirsty. He felt sad, and thought of Aunt Grathia's hearth, of the roast chestnuts, and of Zuanne's chatter. They were in a lane bordered by hedges; the mountains, which seemed so small to the child, were visible.

"Look here," said Olì, and her voice shook, "did you notice the last house with the big open door?"

"Yes."

"Your father's in there. You want to see him, don't you? Turn back and go in at the big door. You'll find another door straight before you. It will be open. Go in by that door, and look about you. It's a press where they make oil. A tall man with his sleeves turned up and his head bare is walking behind the horse. That is your father."

"Aren't you coming too?" asked the boy.

Olì shuddered. "I'll come presently. You must go in first. When you see him, say, 'I am the son of Olì Derios!' Do you understand? Come along!"

They turned back. Anania felt his mother's hand shake and he heard her teeth chatter. They stopped at the big door; she bent down, arranged the charm round the child's neck and kissed him. "Go on," she said, giving him a push.

Anania entered. He saw the other door, faintly illuminated, and went on. He found himself in a black, black place, lighted only by a red furnace upon which a cauldron was seething. A black horse went round and round, turning a large, heavy, very oily wheel in a sort of round vat. A tall man, bareheaded, with his sleeves turned up and all his clothes stained black with oil, followed the horse, stirring the crushed olives in the vat with a wooden pole. Two other men moved backwards and forwards, pushing a screw fixed in a press, from which flowed the black and steaming oil. Before the fire sat a boy with a red cap.

It was this boy who first saw the stranger child.

"Get out!" he shouted.

Anania, frightened, but encouraged by the thought of his amulet, did not speak. He gazed about him, bewildered, and expecting his mother to come in. The man with the pole looked at him with shining eyes, then asked--

"What do you want?"

Could this be his father? Anania looked at him shyly, then pronounced the words his mother had taught him.

"I am the son of Olì Derios."

The two men who were turning the screw stopped suddenly and one of them cried--

"Your brat!"

The tall man threw his pole down, approached the child, stared, shook him and asked--

"Who has sent you here? What do you want? Where's your mother?"

"She's outside. She's coming."

The oil-miller rushed out, followed by the boy with the red cap. But Olì had disappeared; and nothing more was heard of her.

Learning what had occurred, Aunt Tatàna, the oil-miller's wife, came to the mill. She was a woman not young, but still beautiful, fair and plump, with soft, warm brown eyes surrounded by little wrinkles. On her upper lip was a very faint golden moustache. Her manner was quiet, but cheerful and kind. She put her hands on Anania's shoulders, bent down and examined him.

"Don't cry, poor little man!" she said gently. "Mother will come in a few minutes! Be quiet, you!" she added, turning to the men and the boy, who were inclined to meddle.

Anania wept inconsolably and answered no questions. The boy kept staring at him with wicked blue eyes and a mocking smile on his round rosy face.

"Where has she gone? Isn't she coming? Where shall I find her?" sobbed the deserted child desperately. Something must have happened to his mother; she had been frightened; where could she be? Why didn't she come? And this horrible, oily, rough man--was this his father?

But the coaxing and gentle words of Aunt Tatàna comforted him a little. He stopped crying, and rubbed the tears all over his cheeks in his usual way; then thought of flight.

The woman, the oil-miller, the two men, and the boy were all talking loud. They swore, laughed, disputed.

"He's your own child. He's just like you!" said the woman, turning to her husband. But the miller cried--

"I don't want him! I tell you I don't want him!"

"Have you no heart? Holy Saint Catharine! can men be so cruel?" said Aunt Tatàna, jesting but serious. "Ah, Anania, that's you all over! You are always yourself!"

"Who else would you have me be?" he growled, "Well, I'm going for the police."

"You shan't go for the police, stupid! Wash your dirty linen at home, please!"

He insisted, so she said, temporising, "Well, well, go for the police to-morrow. At present finish your work; and remember the words of King Solomon about leaving the evening wrath till the morning."

The three men returned to their work; but while the miller stirred the olives under the wheel, he muttered and swore, and the others laughed. The woman said quietly--

"You are making bad worse. You have only yourself to blame. By Saint Catharine it's I who ought to be offended! Remember, Anania, that God doesn't leave wages till Saturday!"

Then she turned to the child who was crying again.

"Hush! little son!" she said, "we'll set it all right to-morrow. There! don't you know little birds always leave the nest when they get wings?"

"But did you know of this little bird's existence?" laughed one of the men; and the boy crowded on Anania and said teasingly, "Why has your mother run away? What sort of a woman is she?"

"Bustianeddu!" thundered the miller, "if you don't go this moment I'll kick you out!"

"Try!" said the boy impudently.

"You can tell him the sort of woman she is!" cried one of the men, and the other laughed till his sides shook and he neglected the screw of the press.

Aunt Tatàna was fondling the child, examining his poor clothes and asking him questions. He answered in an uncertain, lamentable voice interrupted by sobs.

"Poor little one! Poor little dear! Little bird without wings! without wings and without a nest!" said the kind soul, "be quiet, my little pet. Aren't you rather hungry? Come! we'll go in and Aunt Tatàna will give you some nice supper, and then we'll put you to bed, with the guardian angel; and to-morrow it will all come right!"

After this promise he allowed himself to be led to a little house beside the olive-mill. Here she gave him white bread and cheese, and an egg and a pear. Never had Anania supped so well! The pear worked wonders, added to Aunt Tatàna's sweet words and motherly caresses.

"To-morrow!" said the woman.

"To-morrow!" accepted the child.

While he ate, Aunt Tatàna moved about preparing her husband's supper. She talked to Anania and gave him good counsels which she said she had herself been taught by King Solomon and Holy Saint Catharine.

Suddenly the round visage of the boy Bustianeddu appeared at the window.

"Get away, little frog!" she said, "it's cold."

"Yes, it's cold," he returned, "so please let me come in."

"Why aren't you at the mill?"

"They've sent me away. There's such a crowd there."

"Well, come in," said the woman, opening the door. "Come in, poor orphan, you also are without a mother! What's Uncle Anania doing? Is he angry still?"

"Oh I suppose so!" said Bustianeddu, sitting down and gnawing the core of the stranger child's pear.

"They've all arrived," he went on, discoursing and gesticulating like a grown person; "my father, and Maestro Pane, and Uncle Pera, and that liar Franziscu Carchide, and Aunt Corredda, every single one of them----"

"What are they saying?" asked the woman, with quick interest.

"They're saying you'll have to adopt the kid. Uncle Pera laughs and says, who will Uncle Anania leave his goods to, if he has no child? Uncle Anania ran at him with the pole. Then they all laughed like mad."

Aunt Tatàna's interest was overpowering. Telling Bustianeddu to mind the child, she went back to the mill.

At once Bustianeddu began confidentially to his charge--

"My father has 100 _lire_ in the chest of drawers, and I know where he keeps the key. We live close here, and have some land for which we pay taxes. One day the Commissioner came and seized the barley. What's in that saucepan making that cra--cra--cra--? Don't you think it's burning? I'd better look in." (he lifted the cover) "The devil! Potatoes! I thought it was something better. I'm going to taste them!"

With two fingers he hooked out a boiling lump, blew on it and ate it up. Then he took another.

"What are you doing?" said Anania shocked, "if the woman comes back----"

"We know how to make macaroni, my father and I," said the imperturbable youngster, "do you know? And tomato sauce----"

"No, I don't know," said Anania absently.

He was thinking of his mother, his mind besieged by sad questions. Where had she gone? Why hadn't she come into the mill? Why had she gone away and forgotten him? Now that he had eaten and was warm, Anania would have liked to run away. To run away and look for his mother. To run away and find his mother. This idea took firm roots and would not leave him.

After a while Aunt Tatàna came back. She brought with her a ragged woman with uncertain step, a red nose, and a large hanging mouth; a horrible-looking person.

"And this--this is the little bird?" she said stammering and looking lovingly at the foundling. "Let me see your little face, to bless you! By God's truth, he's as pretty as a star! And the man doesn't want him? Well Tatàna Atonzu, it's for you to pick him up--to pick him up like a sugar-plum----"

She came nearer and kissed Anania. He turned away, for she smelt of drink.

"Aunt Nanna," said the incorrigible Bustianeddu, pretending to drain a glass, "have you had enough for to-day?"

"Eh? Eh? What? What do you mean? What are you doing here, you little fly, you p--poor little orphan? Go home to your b--bed."

"You'd better go to bed yourself," said Aunt Tatàna, "take yourselves off, both of you."

She gave the woman a gentle push, but before going away Nanna begged for a drop of something. Bustianeddu offered her water; she snatched at the glass eagerly, but after one sip shook her head and set it down. Then she moved unsteadily away. Aunt Tatàna sent Bustianeddu after her, and shut the door.

"You are tired, my pet," she said to Anania, "come, I will put you to bed."

She took him to a big room behind the kitchen and undressed him, coaxing him with sweet words.

"Don't be frightened, my little one. Mother will come to-morrow; or else we'll go together and look for her. Do you know how to cross yourself? Can you say your _Credo_? Yes, every night we ought to say the _Credo_! I'll teach it to you, and some nice prayers; especially one by San Pasquale which will prepare you for the hour of death. Ah! I see you have a _Rezetta_! What a pretty one! That is nice! San Giovanni will take care of you. Yes, he was once a little naked boy like you, though afterwards he baptized our Lord Jesus. Go to sleep, my pet. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen."

Anania found himself in a great bed with red pillows. Aunt Tatàna covered him up; then she went away, leaving him in the dark. He held his amulet very tight, shut his eyes, and did not cry. However he could not sleep.

To-morrow! To-morrow! But oh dear! how many years had passed since they had started from Fonni? What ever would Zuanne think? Strange fancies, confused thoughts passed through the little mind; among them all, the figure of his mother remained distinct. Where had she gone? Was she cold? To-morrow he would see her again. To-morrow. If they didn't take him to find her he would go by himself. To-morrow----

Anania heard the olive-miller come in. He disputed with his wife. He cried, "I don't want the child! I don't want him!"

Then there was silence. But, suddenly, someone opened the door, came into the room, walked on tip-toe to the bed, cautiously lifted the quilt. A bristly moustache touched Anania's cheek. He was pretending to be asleep, but he opened his eyes, a tiny, tiny bit, and saw that the person who had kissed him was his father!

A few minutes later Aunt Tatàna came in and lay down in the great bed beside Anania. He heard her praying a long time, whispering and sighing--then he fell asleep.

[Footnote 8: Carabinieri--The country police.]

[Footnote 9: _La Rezetta_, an amulet containing prayers written on paper, flowers gathered on St John's night, relics, etc.]

III

No one reported to the police that a child had been deserted. Olì was able to disappear unhindered. It was never exactly known whither she had gone. Someone said he had seen her on the steamer from Sardinia to Civita Vecchia. Later, a Fonni shopkeeper, who had been to the continent on business, declared he had met Olì in Rome, smartly dressed and accompanied by other women of obvious character.

These things were told at the olive-mill, the child being present. He listened eagerly. Like some little wild animal which has apparently been tamed, he continually meditated escape. At Fonni, while living with his mother, he had thought of running away to find his father; now he was with his father and he thought of running away to look for Olì. She might be far off, she might be beyond the sea--no matter; he felt capable of finding her by himself. Not that he loved her! No, he could not love one who had given him more blows than kisses, one who had deserted him! Instinctively he felt that was shameful. But then neither did he love his father. Anania could not forget his first impression, the terror and repulsion with which the dark, oily, angry man had inspired him, the man who had kissed him in secret while before the world he stormed at and insulted him.

But Aunt Tatàna--ah, she loved him! She washed and brushed and dressed him; she taught him prayers and the precepts of King Solomon. She took him to church, and gave him nice things to eat, and let him sleep with her. Little by little Anania gave her his affection. In a short time he was another boy. He grew fat and gave himself airs; he had forgotten his rough Fonni costume, and wore a nice little suit of dark fustian. He acquired the Nuoro accent, and was knowing and sharp like Bustianeddu.

Yet his little heart remained unchanged. It could not change. Dreams of flight, of adventure, of wondrous accidents, were blended in his childish soul with nostalgic yearning for his native place, for the people and the things he knew, for the liberty he had enjoyed, for the unkind mother who had become to him an object of pity and of shame. Though he was better off, the little wild creature suffered under the dislocation of all his habits. He wanted he knew not what. He thought he wanted his mother--because everyone had a mother! because to have lost his mother was not so much grief as humiliation. He understood that his mother could not be with the olive-miller, because he had another wife; well, then, he would rather be left with his mother. He belonged to her; perhaps also he instinctively felt her the weaker and became her champion.

As time passed, all these thoughts, these instincts grew fainter, but they did not disappear from his little soul; so also her physical image was transformed in his memory, never obliterated.

One day he learned something unexpected about Bustianeddu, whose friendship he had so far endured rather than courted.

"My mother's not dead," said this boy, almost boastingly, "she's away on the continent like yours. She ran away one time when my father was in prison. When I'm grown up, I'll go and find her. I swear it. I've an uncle on the continent too. He's a schoolmaster. He wrote that he'd seen my mother in a street and was going to beat her, but the people held him off. It was my uncle gave me this red cap."

This story was quite comforting to Anania, and drew him into intimacy with Bustianeddu. For years they were companions, at the olive-mill, in the streets, beside Aunt Tatàna's fire. Bustianeddu was much the age of Zuanne, Anania's lost brother. At bottom he was warmhearted and generous. He said he attended school; but often the schoolmaster asked the boy's father for his invisible pupil. The father was a small dealer in skins and fleeces; when these inquiries reached him, he tied his son up with a rope of undressed leather, locked him in, and bade him learn his lessons. Like older criminals, Bustianeddu came out of prison more reckless and cunning than before. But his father was often away from home; and then the boy, weighted with responsibility, became very serious. He swept the house, washed the linen, cooked the dinner. Anania was delighted to help him. In return Bustianeddu gave him advice and taught him many things good and evil. They were often at the olive-mill where "Big Anania" (so called to distinguish him from his son) worked for his master the rich Signor Daniele Carboni. Big Anania called Signor Carboni "_Master_," because he had served him for years--as olive-miller, field-labourer, gardener, vine-dresser, according to season; he was, however, very independent, and his work though well paid was not without its risks.

On one side of the olive-mill was the courtyard through which Anania had entered that first night; on the other a garden which sloped down to the high road. It was a beautiful garden, partly orchard, partly wild, with rocky boulders among which straggled bushes of white thorn, Indian figs, almond trees, and peaches. There was one oak tree with rugged stem, harbouring nests of great locusts, caterpillars, and all sorts of birds. The garden belonged to Signor Carboni, and was the envy of all the boys in the neighbourhood. The old gardener, Uncle Pera _Sa Gattu_ (the cat), carried a cudgel to keep them out. From this garden the strong, beautiful Nuoro girls could be seen going to the fountain, amphoras on their heads, like the women of the Bible. Uncle Pera ogled them while he sowed his peas and beans, putting three peas in each hole, and shouting to scare the sparrows.

Anania and Bustianeddu watched him from the mill window, anxious themselves to get into the sunny orchard, and waiting till the gardener should take himself off. Uncle Pera, a dried-up little man, clean-shaven, his face the colour of brick-dust, was too fond of his vegetables to desert them often. Not till nightfall did he go up to the mill to warm himself and to gossip.

This was a good olive year and the press was at work night and day. Two _ettolitri_ of olives produced about two _litri_ of oil. Near the door stood a tin for oil to feed the lamps of this or that Madonna; pious persons poured into it a few drops from each load of olives. All round the press the floor was crowded with barrels and tubs, with sacks of black, shining olives, with heaps of steaming refuse. The whole place was dark, hot, dirty. The cauldron was always boiling, the wheel turned by the big bay horse was always in motion, always distilling oil. The smell of the husks, though too strong, was not exactly disagreeable. The furnace sent out a fine heat, and round it in the long chilly evenings were gathered all the coldest persons of the neighbourhood. Beside the miller and his staff, five or six people came regularly. Efès Cau, once a man of means, now reduced by drink to extreme poverty, slept almost nightly at the mill, contaminating the corner where he lay, to the great annoyance of cleaner persons.

Anania and Bustianeddu sat in a corner on a heap of hot husks, amused by the talk of their elders, delighted by the absurdities of the drunken Efès.

Uncle Pera offered him wine; but Franziscu Carchide, the handsome young shoemaker, interposed.

"No, no, Efès, if you don't dance, you don't drink. You must sing too. Come!"

"'When Amelia so pure and so pale----'"

Anania and Bustianeddu laughed till their sides ached, squatting on the husks like a pair of chickens.

"Let's put pins where he sleeps," suggested Bustianeddu.

"What for?" asked the more kindly Anania.

"To prick him, of course. Then he'll dance with a vengeance. I've brought the pins."

"All right," said the other, unwillingly.

The sot was still dancing, singing, reeling, stretching his hand to the glass. The people and the children laughed.

Then came Nanna, the drunken woman, cleaner and more sober than usual.

"Aren't you ashamed?" she said, seizing Efès by the arm; "don't you see all these beggars, these filthy persons are mocking you? And what are they laughing at me for? I've been out working to-day. Good Lord, how I have worked! Ah, Efès, Efès! have you forgotten how rich your house used to be? Your mother had gold buttons as big as my fist. Your house was like a church, so clean, so full of fine things. If you had kept from the drink, everyone would have treasured you like a sugar plum. Now you're a laughing-stock, like a dancing bear. What are they laughing at now? By the Lord, they must be all drunk! Come, miller, spare me a drop of oil to eat with my supper. Your wife is a saint, miller, but upon my word you are a devil. When are you going to find that treasure you talk about?"

Meanwhile Efès, seated on a sack, wept, thinking of his mother and the rich home of his youth. Carchide strove to console him with another glass, but Efès wept on, even while he drank.

A farmer from a neighbouring village, and Bustianeddu's father, a young man with blue eyes and red beard, conspired together to make Nanna drunk. She told scandalous stories of Uncle Pera, and Uncle Pera swore at the two men who worked the screw of the olive press, and told them they were lazy good-for-nothings.

Maestro Pane, the humpbacked carpenter, who wore his grey moustache at one side only of his toothless mouth, sat under the window beating his fist on his knee and talking very loud. No one, however, listened, for he was in the habit of talking to himself.

Under the influence of the wine. Nanna was becoming loquacious.

"Yes, that old gardener waits every morning till the girl comes down to the fountain. Then he calls her in, promising to give her some lettuce----"

"Ah, you tipsy wretch!" cried Uncle Pera, jumping up with his cudgel.

"Well, what harm am I saying? I say that when she comes in for the lettuce you teach her the Ave Maria."

They all laughed, even little Anania, though he could not imagine why Uncle Pera should teach the Ave Maria by force to the girl who was going to the fountain.

That night when Anania was safe in Aunt Tatàna's big bed he could not sleep, but turned and twisted as if pins were pricking him.

"What's the matter, child?" asked Aunt Tatàna in her gentle way, "have you the stomachache?"

"No, no."

"Then what is it?"

After a few minutes he revealed his remorse.

"We put pins in the place where Efès sleeps."

"You naughty boys! Why did you do that?"

"Because he gets drunk----"

"Holy Saint Catharine!" sighed the good woman, "how wicked boys are nowadays! Suppose someone put pins in your bed? Would you like it? No? Wouldn't you? Then you are more wicked than Efès. All people in the world are wicked, my little lamb, but we must have pity on one another. If we don't pity each other we shall be like the fishes in the sea which devour their brothers. King Solomon said no one must judge but God. Do you understand?"

Anania thought of his mother, his mother who had been so wicked and had deserted him; and he felt sad--so sad!

IV

One day in March, Bustianeddu invited Anania to dine with him. The skin-dealer was away on his business, and the boy, after two days' imprisonment for truancy, was alone at home. On his right cheek was the mark of a heavy blow administered by his irate parent.

"They want to make a scholar of me," he said to Anania, spreading out his hands like a man discussing some matter of importance, "but I don't intend to be a scholar. I intend to be a pastry-cook. Why shouldn't I?"

"Yes, why not?" echoed Anania.

"Because they think it _disgraceful_!" said the other, drawling the word contemptuously, "they think learning a trade is disgraceful when one might be a scholar. That's what my relations say. But I've got a joke ready for them! Just you wait a bit."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll tell you afterwards. Now we'll have dinner."

He had prepared macaroni; at least he gave this name to certain lumps, greasy, and hard as almonds, seasoned with dried tomatoes. The boys ate in company with a grey cat, which snatched morsels from the dish with his paw, and ate them furtively in a corner.

"How clever he is!" said Anania, following the creature with his eyes; "our cat has been stolen!"

"Lots of ours have been stolen. They disappear and we don't know what becomes of them."

"All the cats in the place disappear. What do the people who take the poor things do with them?"

"They roast them. Cat is good, you know; just like hare. On the continent they sell cats as hares. So my father says."

"Has your father been to the Continent?"

"Yes; and I intend to go myself."

"_You_?" said Anania, laughing enviously.

Bustianeddu thought the moment had come for telling his plans. "I can't stay here," he said pompously. "I intend to go away. I'll find my mother and be a pastry-cook. If you like, you may come with me."

Anania grew red with excitement. His heart beat very loud.

"But we've no money," he observed.

"We'll take the hundred lire which are in that chest of drawers. If you like, we'll take them now. Only we must hide them for a while, for if we set out at once my father will guess we've got them. We'll wait till the cold weather's over. Then we'll go. Come here."

He led Anania to a dirty room where was great confusion of evil smelling lamb's skins. He found a key in a hiding-place and opened a drawer with it. The drawer contained a red note for a hundred lire, some silver and a few smaller notes. The little thieves took the red note, shut the drawer and put back the key in its place.

"Now you keep it," said Bustianeddu, "and when it's dark we'll hide it down the hole of the oak tree in the garden behind the mill. Then we'll wait."

Before he had time to object, Anania found the note thrust into his bosom, and rubbing against his precious amulet. He passed a day of intolerable anxiety; fevered with remorse and terror, hope and the wildest of projects.

To escape! to escape! How and whither he knew not, but his dream was to come true. He was sick with alarm and joy. A hundred seemed a treasure inexhaustible; but for the present he felt himself guilty of a grave crime, and the hour which was to deliver him from the stolen property seemed to be never coming.

It was by no means the first time the boys had trespassed in Uncle Pera's garden; it was easy to jump down from the window of the unused mill stable. But never had they ventured in at night and it was some time before they could screw up their courage for the deed. The evening was clear and cold. A full moon rose behind the black crags of Orthobene and flooded the garden with gold. The two children, flattening their noses against the window pane, heard a long despairing wail, a human or superhuman lament.

"Whatever's that?" said Anania; "it must be a devil! I won't go. I'm frightened."

"Then stay here, silly. It's only a cat!" said Bustianeddu scornfully, "I'm going. I'll hide the money in the oak, where Uncle Pera won't think of looking. Then I'll come back. You stay here and keep watch. If any danger comes, whistle."

What this danger might be the two friends did not know, but the mere imagination sufficed to make the adventure delightful; the fantastic moonlight, even the long drawn lamentation of the cat, added to its flavour. Bustianeddu jumped down into the orchard, Anania stayed at the window, all eyes and ears, trembling a little with fear. Hardly had his companion vanished in the direction of the oak tree, when two black shadows passed close to the window. Anania shuddered, whistled faintly, and crouched to conceal himself. What spasms of alarm and strange enjoyment did he not feel. How ever would Bustianeddu escape? What was actually happening down there in the dark? Oh! the lament of the torn-cat was more horrible than ever! It ended in a wild and lacerating shriek; then ceased. Silence. What mystery! What horror! Anania's heart was bursting in his bosom. What had befallen his friend? Had he been seized? arrested? He would be taken off to prison, and Anania himself would have his part in the woeful punishment!

He had no idea of running away. He waited under the window courageously.

"Anania! Where the devil are you gone to?"

Anania leaned out, extended a hand to his friend, marvellously preserved.

"The devil!" repeated Bustianeddu, panting, "I managed that admirably."

"Did you hear me whistle? I whistled very loud."

"I didn't hear you at all. But I did hear two men coming. I hid under the cabbages. Who do you suppose they were? Uncle Pera and Maestro Pane. What do you suppose they were doing? They were snaring cats. The caterwauler got caught and Uncle Pera killed him with his stick. Maestro Pane put the beast under his cloak and said quite jolly, 'What a fat one!' 'Not so bad,' said Uncle Pera, 'the last was as thin as a tooth-pick.' Then they went away."

"Oh!" cried Anania open-mouthed.

"When they go in they'll roast him. Then they'll have supper. Now we know what becomes of our cats. They snare 'em--those two. It's a mercy they didn't see me."

"And the money?"

"That's all right. Hidden. We'll go in now, Ninny. You're no good."

Anania was not offended. He shut the window and they went back to the olive-mill. The usual scene was in progress. Efès, leaning against the wall was singing his accustomed song:--

"When Amelia so pure and so pale----"

and Carchide was relating his adventures in a neighbouring town.

"----the _Sindaco_ was a friend of my father's when we were rich," said the handsome young man whose family had always been in the direst poverty; "when I arrived he was there to meet me. He invited me to his house. Damn those rich folk! Thirty men-servants, if you please, and seven women. We crossed two courts, one within the other; very high walls, iron gates, the window all barred----"

"Why were they barred?" asked the miller.

"Thieves, my dear fellow, thieves. The man's as rich as the king----"

"Bah!" cried the man who was working the press.

"What do you know about it?" asked Carchide scornfully; "at their father's death the Syndic and his brothers weighed out their gold by the pound. The Syndic's wife has eight _tancas_[10] in a row--all watered by streams; with more than a hundred fountains. They say his father had found a treasure. The King of Spain hid more than 100,000 gold ducats there at the time he was making war on Eleonora of Arborea, and the Syndic's father found it."

"Ah, ha!" said the olive-miller, leaning on his black pole while a shiver of excitement ran through him.

"Those are what I call rich men," continued Carchide; "here at Nuoro you're all snoozers."

"My master is wealthy," protested the miller, "he's got more in one corner of a field than your scrubby Syndic in all his _tancas_ together."

"I like that!" said the young man with a gesture of scorn, "you don't know what you're talking about!"

"No more do you."

"Your master's all debts. We'll soon see the end of him."

"Strike you blind first!"

"Go to the devil!"

The young shoemaker and the miller were near blows, but their quarrel was interrupted by Efès Cau falling into a fit. He sank on the heap of husks, twisted, writhed, wriggled like a worm, his eyes rolling, his face convulsed.

Anania fled to a corner screaming with terror, but Bustianeddu was all curiosity and he joined the persons who tried to restrain the poor wretch. Presently Efès returned to himself and sat up, still trembling and glaring.

"Who--who knocked me down? Why did you strike me? Am I not enough punished by God without your interfering?" Then he began to cry.

They laid him down again and he huddled himself up and called on his mother and dead sister.

Anania watched; pitying, but still terrified. He would have liked to help, but could not restrain his disgust; the man had once been rich--now he was a heap of stinking rags flung on the refuse like an unclean thing.

Bustianeddu had run for Aunt Tatàna. She came, leaned over the sufferer, touched him, spoke to him kindly, put a sack under his head.

"He must have some broth," she said; "Ah! this sin of his! this sin! Run, little son," she went on, turning to Anania, "run to the _Signor padrone_, and beg a little soup for Efès Cau. Look! do you see the result of sin? There, take this bowl and run!"

Anania went gladly, Bustianeddu accompanying him. The _padrone_'s house was at no great distance, and the boy had often been sent there to fetch fodder, lamp-oil, and other trifles.

The streets were lighted in patches by the moon. Groups of peasants went by, singing wild and melancholy choruses. Before Signor Carboni's white house, there was an enclosed square court with high walls. Entrance was through a large red door. The boys hammered loudly. At last the door opened and Anania handed in the bowl, explaining the sad case of Efès Cau.

"Sure the soup's not for yourselves?" asked the servant girl suspiciously.

"Go to the devil, Maria _Iscorronca_,[11]" said Bustianeddu; "we don't want your dirty broth!"

"Little animal, I'll pay you out!" said the girl chasing him into the street. Bustianeddu scampered off, but Anania made his own way into the moonlit court.

"What is it? What do those boys want?" asked a faint little voice from the shadow near the kitchen-door.

Anania went forward. "It's only me!" he said, "Efès Cau is fearfully bad. He's at the mill, and _Mother_ wants the mistress to send him a cup of soup."

"Come in!" said the voice.

The servant who had failed to catch Bustianeddu, now made an attack upon Anania. But the little girl who had said "Come in," sprang to the rescue of the boy from the mill.

"Let him alone. What harm has he done? Go and fetch him the soup at once--this minute!" said the young lady, dragging the maid by her skirt.

This protection, this piping-tone of authority, this plump, rosy little person dressed in blue woollen, with an important little turned up nose, very round cheeks, eyes shining in the moonlight between two curls of auburn hair--pleased Anania immensely. He recognized the _padrone_'s daughter Margherita Carboni, known by sight to all the children who frequented the olive-mill. Once or twice Margherita had handed the barley or the lamp-oil to Anania when he had been sent for them. He often saw her in the orchard garden, and sometimes her father had brought her to the mill. Never had he imagined that this rosy young lady with the superb air, could be so affable and pleasant.

The maid went for the soup, and Margherita asked all about Efès Cau's seizure.

"He had his dinner here--in this very courtyard," she said very seriously, "he seemed perfectly well."

"It's because he drinks;" said Anania also very serious, "he twisted about like a cat!"

Then Anania's face grew red; he had suddenly remembered the torn cat which Uncle Pera had caught in the snare, and that reminded him of the hundred lire stolen and hidden in the oak tree in the garden. Stolen! The hundred lire stolen! Whatever would Margherita Carboni say, if she knew that he, Anania, the son of the olive-miller, the foundling, the dependent with whom the little lady was deigning to be so pleasant and affable--had stolen a hundred lire and that these hundred lire were at this moment hidden in her own garden! A thief! He was a thief; and he had thieved an enormous sum. Now he perceived the full shame of his evil deed. Now he felt humiliation, grief, remorse.

"Like a _cat_?" echoed Margherita setting her teeth and twisting her little nose; "dear me! dear me! It would be better he died."

The maid came back, bringing the soup. Anania could not say another word. He took the bowl and moved away carrying it carefully. He was near crying and when he came up with Bustianeddu at the turn of the street, he repeated the words "It would be better he died."

"Who? Is the broth hot? I'm going to taste," said Bustianeddu, putting his face to the bowl. Anania was furious.

"Get away! You're wicked. You'll get like Efès Cau! What did you steal that money for? It's a mortal sin, to steal. Go and get the money and put it back in the drawer."

"Pouf! Are you gone mad?"

"Well then I'll tell my _mother_."

"Your _mother_! That's good! Go and find your mother!"

They were walking very slowly. Anania much afraid of spilling the soup.

"We are _thieves_!" he whispered.

"The money is _my_ father's, and you're a ninny. Well! I'll go away alone, _alone_," replied Bustianeddu energetically.

"All right, go, and never come back," said Anania, "but I shall tell--Aunt Tatàna!" He was afraid to call her his mother again.

"Sneak!" burst out Bustianeddu doubling his fist; "if you tell I'll kill you like a lizard. I'll smash your teeth with a stone. I'll gouge out your eyes!"

Anania still afraid for the soup, bent his shoulders to receive the violence of his friend, but he did not withdraw the threat of telling Aunt Tatàna.

"What devil did you meet in that courtyard," continued the other furiously, "what did that horrid maid say to you? Speak!"

"She didn't say anything. But I don't wish to be a thief."

"You're a bastard anyhow! That's what you are! Well I shall go off at once, with the money, and without you."

He went away running, leaving Anania overwhelmed with grief. A thief, a bastard, a foundling, and now left behind by his friend. It was too much, too much! He began to cry and his tears fell into the soup.

"When, when shall I be able to go?" he sobbed, "when shall I be able to find _her_?"

"When I'm grown up," he answered himself, more cheerfully, "for the present--it can't be helped."

Having given the soup to Aunt Tatàna, he went to the stable window. Silence. No one was to be seen, nothing was to be heard, in the great garden, damp and moonlit. The mountains showed faintly blue against the vaporous heaven. All was silence and peace. Suddenly from the mill came the voice of Bustianeddu.

"Then he hasn't gone? he hasn't taken the money? He hasn't been into the garden? Suppose I go myself?"

But his courage was not equal to this. He went into the mill and hovered round Aunt Tatàna who was ministering to Efès. She asked him her usual question. "What's the matter with you? Have you the stomachache?"

"Yes! Do let us go in," said Anania.

She saw the child wanted to speak to her and she took him home.

"Jesus! Jesus! Holy Saint Catharine!" cried the good woman when Anania had made his confession, "what has happened to the world? Even the little birds, even the chickens in the egg, go wrong!"

Anania never knew the means by which Aunt Tatàna persuaded Bustianeddu to restore the stolen money. But ever after the friends were on strained terms. They slanged each other and fought about every trifle.

The winter passed; but the olive press was at work even in April, for never had there been such abundance of olives. At last the day came when Anania the elder shut down the press, and went into the country to look after his master's wheat. He took the little boy with him, having intentions of making him an agriculturist. Anania liked to be useful. He carried the implements and the provision wallet proudly and ran by his father's side all day. The cornfields extended over a wide undulating plain, across which two tall pine-trees, voiceful as torrents, threw long shadows. It was a sweet and melancholy landscape, bare of trees, here and there spread with isolated vines. The human voice lost itself echoless, as if swallowed up by the lonely murmur of the pines, the thick foliage of which seemed to assimilate the grey blue colour of the far mountains.

While his father worked his hoe, bending over the transparent green of the young wheat, Anania wandered about the naked and melancholy fields, crying with the birds, hunting for herbs and mushrooms. Sometimes the father looking up, saw him in the distance, and his heart tightened; for the place, the occupation, the child's small figure, all reminded him of Olì, of her little brothers, of their sin, of all the love and the happiness they had enjoyed together. Where was Olì? Who could tell? She was lost, she had vanished like the birds of the fields. Well--so much the worse for her. Anania the olive-miller thought he was doing all anyone could expect, in bringing up the child. If ever he found the treasure of his dreams, he would put the boy to school. At least he would make a farmer of him. What more could he do? What about the men who didn't acknowledge their children, who instead of taking them home and bringing them up like Christians, left them to misery and an evil life? Yes, some quite rich men, gentlemen, behaved like that. Yes, even his master, even Signor Carboni. Thus "big Anania" consoled himself; yet still the oppression of sadness remained in his heart.

Looking out over the distance he thought he saw the _nuraghe_ near Olì's old home. At meal-times, or during the midday rest, when they stretched themselves under the sounding pine-trees, he questioned his son about his life at Fonni. Anania was shy with his father and seldom dared to meet his eyes; but once pushed into the path of recollection, he chattered willingly, abandoning himself to the homesick pleasure of telling about the past. He remembered everything, the village, the widow's house and her stories, Zuanne of the big ears, the _carabiniere_, the friars, the convent court, the chestnuts, the goats, the mountains, the candle factory. But in spite of the miller's suggestions he spoke little of his mother.

"Well, did she beat you?"

"Never! Never!"

"I'm sure she beat you."

The child perjured himself swearing he spoke truth.

"Tell me, what did she do all day?"

"She went out to work."

"Did the _carabiniere_ want to marry her?"

"Oh, no. He said to me, 'Tell your mother to come here. I want to talk to her.'"

"What did she say when you told her?" asked the man with some anxiety.

"She was as mad as a dog."

"Ah!"

He sighed. He was relieved hearing she had not gone to talk to the _carabiniere_. Yes; he was still fond of her. He still remembered her clear and burning eyes; he remembered her little brothers; he remembered her father so sorrowful and so poor. But what could he do? Had he been free he'd have married her. As it was, he had to desert her. It was vain to think any more about it. They finished their frugal meal; then he said to the child:

"Run down there to that fig tree, look and you'll see a very very old house. Root about in the ground there. Perhaps you'll find something!"

The boy sped away, glad to leave the grave, toil-stained man. And the father thought:

"Innocents find treasures easily. If we could find a treasure, then I'd hand over a good lot to Olì, and if my wife were to die, I'd marry her. It was I who made her go wrong."

But Anania found nothing. Towards evening, father and son went slowly home, following the broad white road, the depth of which was flooded with twilight gold. Aunt Tatàna had hot supper waiting for them and a fire crackling on the dean swept hearth. She blew Anania's nose, washed his eyes, told her husband the events of the day.

Nanna had tumbled into the fire, Efès had a new pair of shoes, Uncle Pera had beaten a boy. Signor Carboni had been to the mill to look at the horse.

"He says the beast has grown terribly thin."

"That's all the work he has done. What does the _padrone_ expect? Even animals are flesh and blood."

After supper the olive-miller had forgotten all about Olì and her woes. He went to the tavern. Aunt Tatàna got her distaff, and told stories to the son of her adoption. Bustianeddu came to listen also.

"Once upon a time there was a king with seven golden eyes on his forehead like stars;" and so forth.

Or she told the story of Marieddu and the Hobgoblin. Marieddu had escaped from the Hobgoblin's house. "She ran and ran, all the time dropping nails which as fast as she dropped them began to multiply. They multiplied until they filled the whole plain. Uncle Hobgoblin followed her, followed her, but he never could catch her up because the nails kept sticking into his feet."

Dear! what shudders of delight this story of Marieddu gave the two children! What a difference between the dark cottage, the figure, the stories of the widow of Fonni, and the dear kitchen, the warmth, the sweet face and the enchanting legends of Aunt Tatàna. Yet there were times when Anania was bored. Or at least he did not experience the wild emotion which the widow's narratives had awaked in him. Perhaps it was because the good Zuanne, the beloved brother, was not there and in his place was Bustianeddu, who was so naughty and so cruel, who pinched him and called him names even when people were listening and in spite of Aunt Tatàna's admonitions.

One evening Bustianeddu called him "bastard" in the hearing of Margherita Carboni, who had come with her servant bringing a message to the miller. Aunt Tatàna pushed Bustianeddu away, and silenced him, but it was too late. Margherita had heard, and Anania felt unspeakable distress. Aunt Tatàna got bread and honey and set him and Margherita to eat it together; she gave none to Bustianeddu. But what was the good of bread and honey, when he had been dubbed "bastard" before Margherita Carboni? The little girl was dressed in green; her stockings were violet, and round her neck was a scarf of vivid rose colour. It lent colour to her soft cheeks and brought out the blue of her shining eyes. That night Anania saw her in his dreams; lovely, and coloured like the rainbow. Even in his dream he felt the grief of having been called "bastard" before her.

That year Easter was not till the end of April. The olive miller fulfilled his Easter duty, and his confessor bade him legitimize his son. At Easter too, Anania, now eight years old, was confirmed. Signor Carboni was his godfather. The confirmation was a great event not only for the boy but for the whole place. Monsignore Demartis, the beautiful and imposing bishop, convened everybody to the Cathedral and publicly bestowed the Chrism on a hundred children. Through the open doors, which seemed enormous to Anania, spring, with its sunshine and fragrance, penetrated into the church. It was crowded with women in their purple dresses, with fine ladies, and wondering children. Signor Carboni, stout, florid, with blue eyes and reddish hair, wore a velvet waist-coat crossed by a huge gold chain. He was greeted, saluted, sought after by all the most conspicuous persons, by the peasants both male and female, by the fine ladies and the crowding children. Anania was proud and happy to have such a godfather. True, Signor Carboni was standing sponsor for seventeen others, but that did not detract from the importance of this singular honour done to each of the eighteen.

After the ceremony the eighteen children with their respective parents adjourned to their godfather's house, and Anania was able to admire Margherita's drawing-room of which he had heard marvels. It was a great room with red walls and huge eighteenth century chairs; cabinets adorned with wax flowers under glass shades, with marble dishes of fruit, and plates with slices of cheese and sausage, all of marble. Liqueurs, coffee, cakes and pastry were handed round, and the lovely Signora Carboni who had deep dimples in her cheeks, black hair drawn very tight on her temples, and a pretty muslin gown with flounces and little spots of pink and blue, was most amiable with everybody and kissed all the eighteen god-children, giving each of them a present.

Anania long remembered these details. He remembered too, how ardently and how vainly he had wished that Margherita would come and look at his new clothes, which were of yellow fustian, and as stiff as the skin of the devil. And he remembered that Signora Cecita Carboni had kissed him, and with her jewelled hand had tapped lightly on his little head (cropped horrible close) and said to the miller:

"Ah, gossip, why have you shorn him like this? He seems quite bald!"

"Never mind, gossip," replied Big Anania, carrying on the agreeable jest of this lady who was not exactly his fellow sponsor, "this chicken's feathers were as thick as a wood----"

"Well," interrupted the lady, "have you done your duty?"

"Yes, yes."

"I'm so glad. Believe me, it's only legitimate sons who are the support of their father in his old age."

Then Signor Carboni came over, and said, looking at his godson.

"What demon eyes this young highlander has! Well, youngster, what are you hiding them for? Laughing at me, eh? you little devil!"

Anania was laughing for joy at being publicly addressed by his godfather and favourably regarded by Signora Carboni.

"What are you going to do with yourself, little devil?"

Anania hung his head, then looked up with the bright eyes which Aunt Tatàna's ministrations had quite cured of their weakness. Then he tried to hide behind his parent.

"Well, answer your godfather!" said the miller, shaking him. "What do you intend to do with yourself?"

"Will you be a miller?" suggested the lady.

He shook his head vigorously.

"You don't like that? A farmer perhaps?"

Still no.

"Well, perhaps you want to become a scholar," said his father, diplomatically.

"Yes."

"Bravo!" said Signor Carboni. "You intend to be a scholar. A priest, I suppose?"

"No."

"A lawyer?" prompted the miller.

"Yes."

"The deuce! I said he had bright eyes! So you intend to be a lawyer, little mouse?"

"Ah, my boy, we're too poor," said the miller with a sigh.

"If the child has the wish. Providence will assist him," said the _padrone_.

"----will assist him," repeated the Signora like an echo. These words decided Anania's destiny, and he never forgot them.

The olive press was shut down for the year and the miller turned into a farmer.

Fierce sunshine was making the grass yellow. Bees and wasps buzzed round Aunt Tatàna's little house; the elder tree in the courtyard wore the wondrous lace of its tiny flowers.