Orso found Colomba in a state of considerable anxiety because of his prolonged absence. But as soon as she saw him she recovered her usual serene1, though sad, expression. During the evening meal the conversation turned on trivial subjects, and Orso, emboldened2 by his sister’s apparent calm, related his encounter with the bandits, and even ventured on a joke or two concerning the moral and religious education that was being imparted to little Chilina, thanks to the care of her uncle and of his worthy3 colleague Signor Castriconi.
“Brandolaccio is an upright man,” said Colomba; “but as to Castriconi, I have heard he is quite unprincipled.”
“I think,” said Orso, “that he is as good as Brandolaccio, and Brandolaccio is as good as he. Both of them are at open war with society. Their first crime leads them on to fresh ones, every day, and yet they are very likely not half so guilty as many people who don’t live in the maquis.”
A flash of joy shone in his sister’s eyes. “Yes,” he continued, “these wretches4 have a code of honour of their own. It is a cruel prejudice, not a mean instinct of greed, that has forced them into the life they are leading.”
There was a silence.
“Brother,” said Colomba, as she poured out his coffee, “perhaps you have heard that Carlo-Battista Pietri died last night. Yes, he died of the marsh-fever.”
“Who is Pietri?”
“A man belonging to this village, the husband of Maddalena, who took the pocket-book out of our father’s hand as he was dying. His widow has been here to ask me to join the watchers, and sing something. You ought to come, too. They are our neighbours, and in a small place like this we can not do otherwise than pay them this civility.”
“Confound these wakes, Colomba! I don’t at all like my sister to perform in public in this way.”
“Orso,” replied Colomba, “every country pays honour to its dead after its own fashion. The ballata has come down to us from our forefathers5, and we must respect it as an ancient custom. Maddalena does not possess the ‘gift,’ and old Fiordispina, the best voceratrice in the country, is ill. They must have somebody for the ballata.”
“Do you believe Carlo-Battista won’t find his way safely into the next world unless somebody sings bad poetry over his bier? Go if you choose, Colomba—I’ll go with you, if you think I ought. But don’t improvise6! It really is not fitting at your age, and—sister, I beg you not to do it!”
“Brother, I have promised. It is the custom here, as you know, and, I tell you again, there is nobody but me to improvise.”
“It costs me a great deal to sing in this way. It brings back all our own sorrows to me. I shall be ill after it, to-morrow. But I must do it. Give me leave to do it. Brother, remember that when we were at Ajaccio, you told me to improvise to amuse that young English lady who makes a mock of our old customs. So why should I not do it to-day for these poor people, who will be grateful to me, and whom it will help to bear their grief?”
“Well, well, as you will. I’ll go bail8 you’ve composed your ballata already, and don’t want to waste it.”
“No, brother, I couldn’t compose it beforehand. I stand before the dead person, and I think about those he has left behind him. The tears spring into my eyes, and then I sing whatever comes into my head.”
All this was said so simply that it was quite impossible to suspect Signorina Colomba of the smallest poetic9 vanity. Orso let himself be persuaded, and went with his sister to Pietri’s house. The dead man lay on a table in the largest room, with his face uncovered. All the doors and windows stood open, and several tapers10 were burning round the table. At the head stood the widow, and behind her a great many women, who filled all one side of the room. On the other side were the men, in rows, bareheaded, with their eyes fixed11 on the corpse12, all in the deepest silence. Each new arrival went up to the table, kissed the dead face, bowed his or her head to the widow and her son, and joined the circle, without uttering a word. Nevertheless, from time to time one of the persons present would break the solemn silence with a few words, addressed to the dead man.
“Why has thou left thy good wife?” said one old crone. “Did she not take good care of thee? What didst thou lack? Why not have waited another month? Thy daughter-in-law would have borne thee a grandson!” A tall young fellow, Pietri’s son, pressed his father’s cold hand and cried: “Oh! why hast thou not died of the mala morte?[*] Then we could have avenged13 thee!”
[*] La mala morte, a violent death.
These were the first words to fall on Orso’s ear as he entered the room. At the sight of him the circle parted, and a low murmur14 of curiosity betrayed the expectation roused in the gathering15 by the voceratrice’s presence. Colomba embraced the widow, took one of her hands, and stood for some moments wrapped in meditation16, with her eyelids17 dropped. Then she threw back her mezzaro, gazed fixedly18 at the corpse, and bending over it, her face almost as waxen as that of the dead man, she began thus:
“Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul! . . . To live is to suffer! Thou goest to a place . . . where there is neither sun nor cold. . . . No longer dost thou need thy pruning-hook . . . nor thy heavy pick. . . . There is no more work for thee! . . . Henceforward all thy days are Sundays! . . . Carlo-Battista! May Christ receive thy soul! . . . Thy son rules in thy house. . . . I have seen the oak fall, . . . dried up by the libeccio. . . . I thought it was dead indeed, . . . but when I passed it again, its root . . . had thrown up a sapling. . . . The sapling grew into an oak . . . of mighty19 shade. . . . Under its great branches, Maddele, rest thee well! . . . And think of the oak that is no more!”
Here Maddalena began to sob20 aloud, and two or three men who, on occasion, would have shot at a Christian21 as coolly as at a partridge, brushed big tears off their sunburnt faces.
For some minutes Colomba continued in this strain, addressing herself sometimes to the corpse, sometimes to the family, and sometimes, by a personification frequently employed in the ballata, making the dead man himself speak words of consolation23 or counsel to his kinsfolk. As she proceeded, her face assumed a sublime24 expression, a delicate pink tinge25 crept over her features, heightening the brilliancy of her white teeth and the lustre26 of her flashing eyes. She was like a Pythoness on her tripod. Save for a sigh here and there, or a strangled sob, not the slightest noise rose from the assembly that crowded about her. Orso, though less easily affected27 than most people by this wild kind of poetry, was soon overcome by the general emotion. Hidden in a dark corner of the room, he wept as heartily28 as Pietri’s own son.
Suddenly a slight stir was perceptible among the audience. The circle opened, and several strangers entered. The respect shown them, and the eagerness with which room was made for them, proved them to be people of importance, whose advent29 was a great honour to the household. Nevertheless, out of respect for the ballata, nobody said a word to them. The man who had entered first seemed about forty years of age. From his black coat, his red rosette, his confident air, and look of authority, he was at once guessed to be the prefect. Behind him came a bent30 old man with a bilious-looking complexion31, whose furtive32 and anxious glance was only partially33 concealed34 by his green spectacles. He wore a black coat, too large for him, and which, though still quite new, had evidently been made several years previously35. He always kept close beside the prefect and looked as though he would fain hide himself under his shadow. Last of all, behind him, came two tall young men, with sunburnt faces, their cheeks hidden by heavy whiskers, proud and arrogant-looking, and showing symptoms of an impertinent curiosity. Orso had had time to forget the faces of his village neighbours; but the sight of the old man in green spectacles instantly called up old memories in his mind. His presence in attendance on the prefect sufficed to insure his recognition. This was Barricini, the lawyer, mayor of Pietranera, who had come, with his two sons, to show the prefect what a ballata was. It would be difficult exactly to describe what happened within Orso’s soul at that moment, but the presence of his father’s foe36 filled him with a sort of horror, and more than ever he felt inclined to yield to the suspicions with which he had been battling for so long.
As to Colomba, when she saw the man against whom she had sworn a deadly hatred37, her mobile countenance38 assumed a most threatening aspect. She turned pale, her voice grew hoarse39, the line she had begun to declaim died on her lips. But soon, taking up her ballata afresh, she proceeded with still greater vehemence40.
“When the hawk41 bemoans42 himself . . . beside his harried43 nest, . . . the starlings flutter round him . . . insulting his distress44.”
A smothered45 laugh was heard. The two young men who had just come in doubtless considered the metaphor46 too bold.
“The falcon47 will rouse himself. . . . He will spread his wings. . . . He will wash his beak48 in blood! . . . Now, to thee, Carlo-Battista, let thy friends . . . bid an eternal farewell! . . . Long enough have their tears flowed! . . . Only the poor orphan49 girl will not weep for thee! . . . Wherefore should she moan? . . . Thou has fallen asleep, full of years, . . in the midst of thine own kin22 . . . ready to appear . . . in the presence of the Almighty50. . . . The orphan weeps for her father . . . overtaken by vile51 murderers, . . struck from behind. . . . For her father, whose blood lies red . . . beneath the heaped-up green leaves. . . . But she has gathered up this blood, . . this innocent and noble blood! . . . She has poured it out over Pietranera . . . that it may become a deadly poison. . . . And the mark shall be on Pietranera . . . until the blood of the guilty . . . shall have wiped out the blood of the innocent man!”
As Colomba pronounced the last words, she dropped into a chair, drew her mezzaro over her face, and was heard sobbing52 beneath it. The weeping women crowded round the improvisatrice; several of the men were casting savage53 glances at the mayor and his sons; some of the elders began to protest against the scandal to which their presence had given rise. The dead man’s son pushed his way through the throng54, and was about to beg the mayor to clear out with all possible speed. But this functionary55 had not waited for the suggestion. He was on his way to the door, and his two sons were already in the street. The prefect said a few words of condolence to young Pietri, and followed them out, almost immediately. Orso went to his sister’s side, took her arm, and drew her out of the room.
“Go with them,” said young Pietri to some of his friends. “Take care no harm comes to them!”
Hastily two or three young men slipped their stilettos up the left sleeves of their jackets and escorted Orso and his sister to their own door.
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1
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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2
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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4
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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5
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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7
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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8
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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9
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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10
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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11
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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12
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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13
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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14
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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15
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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16
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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17
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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18
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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20
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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22
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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23
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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24
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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25
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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26
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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27
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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30
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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31
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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32
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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33
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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34
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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35
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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36
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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37
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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40
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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41
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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42
bemoans
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的第三人称单数 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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43
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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44
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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45
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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46
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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47
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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48
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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49
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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50
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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51
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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52
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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53
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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54
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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55
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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