Tales of My Native Town

by Gabriele D'Annunzio

Then stories began to be circulated of recent mysterious happenings. One woman said that seven cases of poison had come to the City Hall, sent by the Government to be distributed through the country by mixing it with the salt. The cases were green, fastened with iron bands and three locks. The Mayor had been obliged to pay seven thousand ducats to bury the cases and save the country. Another story went about that the Government paid the Mayor five ducats for every dead person because the population was too large, and it was the poor who must die. The Mayor was now making out a list of those selected. Ha! He would get rich, this great signore! And so the excitement grew. The peasants would not buy anything in the market of Pescara; the figs were left to rot on the trees; the grapes were left among the vine-leaves; even the nightly depredations in the orchards and vineyards did not occur, for the robbers feared to eat poisoned fruit. The salt, which was the only provision obtained from the city stores, was given to dogs and cats before being used, to make sure that it was harmless.

One day the news came that in Naples the people were dying in large numbers and hearing the name of Naples, of that great, far-distant kingdom where “Gianni Without Fear” made his fortune, the imaginations of the people were inflamed. The vintage time came, but the merchants of Lombardy bought the home grapes, and took them to the north to make artificial wines. The luxury of new wine was scarce; the vintagers who trampled out the juice of the grapes in the vats to the songs of maidens, had little to do.

But when the work of the vineyards was ended, and the fruit of the trees was gone, the fears and suspicions of the people grew less, for now there was little chance for the Government to scatter the poison. Heavy, beneficent rains fell upon the country, drenching the soil and preparing it for the ploughing and the sowing, and together with the favour of the soft autumnal sun and the moon in its first quarter, had its beneficent influence upon seeds. One morning through all the country the report was spread that at Villareale, near the oak groves of Don Settimio, over the shore of the river, three women had died after having eaten soup made from dough bought in the city. The indignation of every person in the country was aroused, and with greater vehemence after the quiet of the transient security.

“Aha! That is well! The ‘great Signore’ does not wish to renounce the ducats!... But they cannot harm us now, for there is no more fruit to eat, and we do not go to Pescara. The ‘great Signore’ is playing his cards very badly. He wishes to see us die! But he has mistaken the time, poor Signore!

“Where can he put the poison? In the dough? In the salt?... But we shall not eat any more dough, and we have our salt first tried by the dogs and cats. Ha, rascally Signore! What have you done? Your day will come, too....”

Thus, everywhere the grumbling rose, mixed with mocking and contumely against the men of the Commune and the Government.

In Pescara, one after another, three, four, five persons were taken with the disease. Evening was approaching, and over the houses hung a funereal dread, which seemed to be mingled with the dampness arising from the river. Through the streets the people ran frantically towards the City Hall, where the Mayor, the Councillors, and the gendarmes, overwhelmed with the miserable confusion, ran up and down the stairs, all talking loudly, giving contrary orders, not knowing what action to take, where to go, nor what to do.

The strange occurrence and the excitement which followed it, caused many of the people to grow slightly ill. Feeling a strange sensation in their stomachs, they would begin to tremble, and with chattering teeth would look into one another’s faces; then, with rapid strides, would hasten to lock themselves in their homes, leaving their evening meals untouched.

Then, late in the night, when the first tumult of the panic had subsided, the police lighted fires of sulphur and tar at the corners of the streets. The red flames lighted up the walls and the windows, and the unpleasant odour of manure pervaded the air of the frightened city, and in the light of the distant moon, it looked as though the tar men were merrily smearing the keels of vessels. Thus did the Asiatic Plague make an entrance into Pescara.

The disease, creeping along the river, spread through the little seashore hamlets,—through those groups of small, low houses where the sailors live, and where old men are engaged in small industries.