Tales of My Native Town

by Gabriele D'Annunzio

Through the wide street poured forth from the church the women of the place, dressed in various coloured gowns, and covered with jewelry consisting mostly of silver filigree and gold necklaces. The appearance of these happy and joyful faces quieted and soothed the turbulent spirits of the mob. Jests and laughter broke forth spontaneously, and the short period of waiting was almost gay. Towards noon the carriage of the Prefect came in sight. The people formed themselves in a semicircle to stop its passage. Antonio Sorrentino again gave a harangue, not without a certain flowery eloquence. The crowd, in the pauses of the speech, asked in various ways for justice and relief from the abuses, and that no measure should be taken which would involve killing.

The two large skeletons of horses, still animated, however, shook their bells from time to time, showing the rebels their white gums as if in a grimace of derision. A delegate of the police, looking like an old singer of some comic opera, who still wore around his face a druid beard, from the height of the back seat was emphasising the words of the tribune’s speech with grave gestures of his hand. As the speaker in his enthusiasm went on with impetuous eloquence, he became too audacious, and the Prefect, rising from his seat, took advantage of the moment to interrupt. He ventured several irrelevant and timid remarks, which were drowned by the cries of the people.

“To Pescara! To Pescara!”

The carriage, pushed along by the press of the crowd, entered the city and the City Hall being closed, it stopped before the Delegation. Ten men, named by the people, together with the Prefect, formed a temporary parliament. The crowd filled the street and every now and then an impatient murmur arose.

The houses, heated by the sun, radiated a delightful warmth, and an indescribable mildness emanated from the sky and sea, from the floating vegetation alongside the water-troughs, from the roses, from the windows, from the white walls of the houses, from the very air of the place itself. This place is renowned as the home of the most beautiful women of Pescara, from generation to generation its fame for its beauties has been perpetuated.

The home of Don Ussorio is the abode of flourishing children and pretty girls; the house is all covered with little loggias, which are overflowing with carnations growing in rough vases ornamented with bas-reliefs.

Gradually the impatient crowd grew quiet. From one end of the street to the other the speakers were subsiding. Domenico di Matteo, a sort of rustic Rodomonte, was making loud jests upon the asininity and avidity of the doctors who cause their patients to die in order to get a larger fee from the Commune. He was telling of some marvellous cures he had effected on himself. Once he had a terrible pain on his chest, and was about to die. The physician had forbidden him to drink water, and he was burning with thirst. One night, when everyone was asleep he got up quietly, felt about for a water tank, and having found it, stuck his head in it and drank like a pack horse until the tank was empty. Next morning he had entirely recovered. Another time, he and a companion, having been ill for a long time with intermittent fever, and having taken large quantities of quinine without avail, decided to make an experiment. Across the river from them was a vineyard filled with grapes, hanging ripe and delicious in the sun. Going to the shore, they undressed themselves, plunged into the water, and swam through the current to the other shore, and after having eaten as many grapes as they could, swam back again. The intermittent fever disappeared. Another time he was ill with blood poisoning, and spent more than fifteen ducats for doctors and medicine in vain. As he watched his mother doing the washing, a happy thought struck him. One after another he swallowed five glasses of lime-water, and was cured.

From the balconies, from the windows, from the loggias, a number of beautiful women leaned out, one after another. The men in the street raised their eyes towards these fair apparitions, walking along with heads bent backward. As the dinner hour was passed, they felt a certain dizziness in their heads and their stomachs, and an awakening faintness. Brief talks between street and windows took place, the young men making gestures and little speeches to the belles, the belles answering with motions of their hands or shakes of their heads, or sometimes by laughing aloud. Their fresh laughter poured out on the men below like strings of crystals, increasing their admiration. The heat given out by the walls of the houses mingled with the heat of the bodies of the crowd. The whitish reflection dazzled the eyes; something enervating and stupefying seemed to descend upon the restless mob. Suddenly upon the loggia appeared the woman Ciccarina, the belle of the belles, the rose of the roses, the adorable object whom all desired. With a common impulse, every look was turned towards her. She acknowledged this homage with triumphant smiles, laughing, radiant, like a Venetian Dogess before her people. The sunlight fell on her full flushed face, reminding one of the pulp of a succulent fruit. Her loose hair, so bright that it seemed to dart golden flames, encircled her forehead, temples and neck. The fascination of a Venus emanated from her whole person. She simply stood there, between two cages of black birds, smiling in great unconcern, not at all troubled by the longing and admiration shown in the eyes of all the men watching her.

The black birds, singing a sort of rustic madrigal, fluttered their wings towards her. Ciccarina, smiling, withdrew from the loggia. The crowd remained in the street, dazzled by the vision, and a little dizzy from hunger. Then one of the speakers, leaning out from the window of the Delegation, announced in a shrill voice:

“Citizens! The matter will be settled within three hours!”