Listen to what is told of them.
What is a woman, O signore? Her foot is so little that she goes through the world without leaving a trace behind her. For man she is like his shadow. She has followed him through his whole life without his having noticed her.
Not much can be expected of a woman. She has to sit all day shut in like a prisoner. She cannot even learn to spell a love-letter correctly. She cannot do anything of permanence. When she is dead there is nothing to write on her tombstone. All women are of the same height.
But once a woman came to Diamante who was as much above all other women as the century-old palm is above the grass. She possessed1 lire by thousands, and could give them away or keep them, as she pleased. She turned aside for no one. She[194] was not afraid of being hated. She was the greatest marvel2 that had ever been seen.
Of course she was not a Sicilian. She was an Englishwoman. And the first thing she did when she came was to take the whole first floor of the hotel for herself alone. What was that for her? All Diamante would not have been enough for her.
No, all Diamante was not enough for her. But as soon as she had come she began to govern the town like a queen. The syndic had to obey her. Was it not she who made him put stone benches in the square? Was it not at her command that the streets were swept every day?
When she woke in the morning all the young men of Diamante stood waiting outside her door, to be allowed to accompany her on some excursion. They had left shoemaker’s awl3 and stone-cutter’s chisel4 to act as guides to her. Each had sold his mother’s silk dress to buy a side-saddle for his donkey, so that she might ride on it to the castle or to Tre Castagni. They had divested5 themselves of house and home in order to buy a horse and carriage to drive her to Randazzo and Nicolosi.
We were all her slaves. The children began to beg in English, and the old blind women at the hotel door, Donna Pepa and Donna Tura, draped themselves in dazzlingly white veils to please her.
Everything moved round her; industries and trades grew up about her. Those who could do nothing else dug in the earth for coins and pottery6 to offer her. Photographers moved to the town and began to work for her. Coral merchants and hawkers of tortoise-shell grew out of the earth about her. The priests of Santa Agnese dug up the old Dionysius[195] theatre, that lay hidden behind their church, for her sake; and every one who owned a ruined villa7 unearthed8 in the darkness of the cellar remains9 of mosaic10 floors and invited her by big posters to come and see.
There had been foreigners before in Diamante, but they had come and gone, and no one had enjoyed such power. There was soon not a man in the town who did not put all his trust in the English signorina. She even succeeded in putting a little life into Ugo Favara. You know Ugo Favara, the advocate, who was to have been a great man, but had reverses and came home quite broken. She employed him to take care of her affairs. She needed him, and she took him.
There has never been a woman in Diamante who has done so much business as she. She spread out like green-weed in the spring. One day no one knows that there is any, and the next it is a great clump11. Soon it was impossible to go anywhere in Diamante without coming on her traces. She bought country houses and town houses; she bought almond-groves and lava-streams. The best places on Etna to see the view were hers as well as the thirsting earth on the plain. And in town she began to build two big palaces. She was to live in them and rule her kingdom.
We shall never see a woman like her again. She was not content with all that. She wished also to fight the fight with poverty, O signore, with Sicilian poverty! How much she gave out each day, and how much she gave away on feast-days! Wagons12, drawn13 by two pairs of oxen, went down to Catania and came back piled up with all sorts of clothing.[196] She was determined14 that they should have whole clothes in the town where she reigned15.
But listen to what happened to her; how the struggle with poverty ended and what became of the kingdom and the palace.
She gave a banquet for the poor people of Diamante, and after the banquet an entertainment in the Grecian theatre. It was what an old emperor might have done. But who has ever before heard of a woman doing such a thing?
She invited all the poor people. There were the two blind women from the hotel-door, and old Assunta from the Cathedral steps. There was the man from the post-house, who had his chin bound up in a red cloth on account of cancer of the face; and there was the idiot who opens the iron doors of the Grecian theatre. All the donkey-boys were there, and the handless brothers, who exploded a bomb in their childhood and lost their fingers; and the man with the wooden leg, and the old chair-maker who had grown too old to work, both were there.
It was strange to see them creep out of their holes, all the poor in Diamante. The old women who sit and spin with distaffs in the dark alleys16 were there, and the organ-grinder, who has an instrument as big as a church-organ, a wandering young mandolinist from Naples with a body full of all possible deviltries. All those with diseased eyes and all the decrepit17; those without a roof over their heads; those who used to collect sorrel by the roadside for dinner; the stone-cutter, who earned one lira a day and had six children to provide for,—they had all been invited and were present at the feast.
It was poverty marshalling its troops for the English[197] signorina. Who has such an army as poverty? But for once the English signorina could conquer it.
She had something to fight with too and to conquer with. She filled the whole square with loaded tables. She had wine-skins arranged along the stone bench that lines the wall of the Cathedral. She had turned the deserted18 convent into a larder19 and kitchen. She had all the foreign colony in Diamante dressed in white aprons20, to serve the courses. She had all of Diamante who are used to eating their fill, wandering to and fro as spectators.
Ah, spectators, what did she not have for spectators? She had great Etna and the dazzling sun. She had the red peaks of the inland mountains and the old temple of Vulcan, that was now consecrated21 to San Pasquale. And none of them had ever seen a satisfied Diamante. None of them had ever before happened to think how much more beautiful they themselves would be if the people could look at them without hunger hissing23 in their ears and trampling24 on their heels.
But mark one thing! Although that signorina was so wonderful and so great, she was not beautiful. And in spite of all her power, she was neither charming nor attractive. She did not rule with jests, and she did not reward with smiles. She had a heavy, clumsy body, and a heavy, clumsy disposition25.
The day she gave food to the poor she became a different person. A chivalrous26 people live in our noble island. Among all those poor people there was not one who let her feel that she was exercising charity. They worshipped her, but they worshipped her as a woman. They sat down at the table as[198] with an equal. They behaved to her as guests to their hostess. “To-day I do you the honor to come to you; to-morrow you do me the honor to come to me. So and not otherwise.” She stood on the high steps of the town-hall and looked down at all the tables. And when the old chair-maker, who sat at the head of the table, had got his glass filled, he rose, bowed to her and said: “I drink to your prosperity, signorina.”
So did they all. They laid their hands on their hearts and bowed to her. It would have perhaps been good for her if she had met with such chivalry27 earlier in life. Why had the men in her native land let her forget that women exist to be worshipped?
Here they all looked as if they were burning with a quiet adoration28. Thus are women treated in our noble island. What did they not give in return for the food and the wine that she had offered them? They gave youth and light-heartedness and all the dignity of being worth coveting29. They made speeches for her. “Noble-hearted signorina, you who have come to us from over the sea, you who love Sicily,” and so on, and so on. She showed that she could blush. She no longer hid her power to smile. When they had finished speaking, the lips of the English signorina began to tremble. She became twenty years younger. It was what she needed.
The donkey-boy was there, who carries the English ladies up to Tre Castagni, and who always falls in love with them before he parts from them. Now his eyes were suddenly opened to the great benefactress. It is not only a slender, delicate body and a soft cheek that are worthy30 to be adored, but[199] also strength and force. The donkey-boy suddenly dropped knife and fork, leaned his elbows on the table, and sat and looked at her. And all the other donkey-boys did the same. It spread like a contagion31. It grew hot with burning glances about the English signorina.
It was not only the poor people who adored her. The advocate, Ugo Favara, came and whispered to her that she had come as a providence32 to his poor land and to him. “If only I had met such a woman as you before,” he said.
Fancy an old bird which has sat in a cage for many years and become rough and lost all the gloss33 of his feathers. And then some one comes and straightens them out and smooths them back. Think of it, signore!
There was that boy from Naples. He took his mandolin and began to sing his very best. You know how he sings; he pouts34 with his big mouth and says ugly words. He usually is like a grinning mask. But have you seen the angel in his eyes? An angel which seems to weep over his fall and is filled with a holy frenzy35. That evening he was only an angel. He raised his head like one inspired by God, and his drooping36 body became elastic37 and full of proud vitality38. Color came into his livid cheeks. And he sang; he sang so that the notes seemed to fly like fireflies from his lips and fill the air with joy and dance.
When it grew dark they all went over to the Grecian theatre. That was the finishing touch to the entertainment. What did she not have to offer there!
She had the Russian singer and the German[200] variété artists. She had the English wrestlers and the American magician. But what was that compared to all the rest: the silvery moonlight and the place and its memories? Those poor people seemed to feel like the Greeks and leaders of fashion when they once more took their places on the stone-benches of their own old theatre and from between the tottering39 pillars looked out at the most beautiful panorama40.
Those poor people did not stint41; they shared all the pleasure they received. They did not spare jubilation42; there was no stopping their hand-clapping. The performers left the platform with a wealth of praise.
Some one begged the English signorina to appear. All the adoration was meant for her. She ought to stand face to face with it and feel it. And they told her how intoxicating43 it was, how elevating, how inflaming44.
She liked the proposal. She immediately agreed. She had sung in her youth, and the English never seem to be afraid to sing. She would not have done it if she had not been in a good mood, and she wished to sing for those who loved her.
She came as the last number. Fancy what it was to stand on such an old stage! It was where Antigone had been buried alive and Iphigenia had been sacrificed. The English signorina stepped forward there to receive every conceivable honor.
It stormed to meet her as soon as she showed herself. They seemed to wish to stamp the earth to pieces to honor her.
It was a proud moment. She stood there with Etna as a background and the Mediterranean45 as[201] wings. Before her on the grass-grown benches was sitting conquered poverty, and she felt that she had all Diamante at her feet.
She chose “Bellini,” our own “Bellini.” She too wished to be amiable46 and so she sang “Bellini,” who was born here under Etna; “Bellini” whom we know by heart, note for note.
Of course, O signore, of course she could not sing. She had mounted the tribune only to receive homage47. She had come in order to let the love of the people find an outlet48. And now she sang false and feebly. And the people knew every note.
It was that mandolinista from Naples. He was the first to grimace49 and to take a note as false as that of the English signorina. Then it was the man with the cancer, who laughed till he laughed his neckcloth off. Then it was the donkey-boy, who began to clap his hands.
Then they all began. It was madness, but that they did not understand. It is not in the land of the old Greeks that people can bear barbarians50 who sing false. Donna Pepa and Donna Tura laughed as they had never done before in their lives. “Not one true note! By the Madonna and San Pasquale, not one true note!”
They had eaten their fill for once in their lives. It was natural that intoxication52 and madness should take hold of them. And why should they not laugh? She had not given them food in order to torture their ears with files and saws. Why should they not defend themselves by laughing? Why should they not mimic53 and hiss22 and scream? Why should they not lean backward and split their sides with[202] laughter? They were not the English signorina’s slaves, I suppose.
It was a terrible blow to her. It was too great a blow for her to understand. Were they hissing her? It must be something happening among them; something that she could not see. She sang the aria51 to its end. She was convinced that the laughter was for something with which she had nothing to do.
When she had finished a sort of storm of applause roared over her. At last she understood. Torches and the moonlight made the night so bright that she could see the rows of people twisting with laughter. She heard the scoffs54 and the jests now, when she was not singing. They were for her. Then she fled from the stage. It seemed to her that Etna itself heaved with laughter, and that the sea sparkled with merriment.
But it grew worse and worse. They had had such a good time, those poor people; they had never had such a good time before, and they wished to hear her once again. They called for her; they cried: “Bravo! Bis! Da capo!” They could not lose such a pleasure. She, she was almost unconscious. There was a storm about her. They screamed; they roared to get her in. She saw them lift their arms and threaten her to get her in. All at once it was all turned into an old circus. She had to go in to be devoured55 by monsters.
It went on; it went on; it became wilder and wilder. The other performers were frightened and begged her to yield. And she herself was frightened. It looked as if they would have killed her if she did not do what they wished.
[203]
She dragged herself on the stage and stood face to face with the crowd. There was no pity. She sang because they all wished to be amused. That was the worst. She sang because she was afraid of them and did not dare not to. She was a foreigner and alone, and she had no one to protect her, and she was afraid. And they laughed and laughed.
Screams and cries, crowing and whistling accompanied the whole aria. No one had mercy on her. For the first time in her life she felt the need of mercy.
Well, the next day she resolved to depart. She could not endure Diamante any longer. But when she told the advocate, Favara, he implored56 her to stay for his sake and made her an offer of marriage.
He had chosen his time well. She said yes, and was married to him. But after that time she built no more on her palaces; she made no struggle against poverty; she cared nothing to be queen in Diamante. Would you believe it? She never showed herself on the street; she lived indoors like a Sicilian.
Her little house stood hidden away behind a big building, and of herself no one knew anything. They only knew that she was quite changed. No one knew whether she was happy or unhappy; whether she shut herself in because she hated the people, or because she wished to be as a Sicilian wife ought to be.
Does it not always end so with a woman? When they build their palaces they are never finished. Women can do nothing that has permanence.
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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awl
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| n.尖钻 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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16
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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20
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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21
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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22
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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24
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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28
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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29
coveting
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
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30
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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31
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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34
pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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36
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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39
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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40
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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41
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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42
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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43
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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44
inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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45
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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46
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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47
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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48
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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49
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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50
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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51
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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52
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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53
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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54
scoffs
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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56
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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