Tales of My Native Town

by Gabriele D'Annunzio

The sad news passed from mouth to mouth in a flash. The people pressed around the cart, stretched their necks to see the body, no longer thought of threats from above, stricken by this new, unexpected occurrence, invaded by that natural fierce curiosity that men possess in the presence of blood.

“Is he dead? How did he die?”

Pallura rested supine on the boards, with a large wound in the centre of his forehead, with an ear lacerated, with rents in his arms, in his sides, in one thigh. A tepid stream dripped from the hollow of his eyes down to his chin and neck, while it spotted his shirt, formed black and shining clots upon his breast, on his leather belt, and even on his trousers.

Giacobbe remained leaning over the body; all of those around him waited, a light as of the morning illuminated their perplexed faces; and, in that moment of silence, from the banks of the river came the croak of the frogs, and the bats passed and repassed grazing the heads of the people.

Suddenly Giacobbe standing up, with a cheek stained with blood, cried, “He is not dead. He still breathes.”

A dull murmur ran through the crowd, and those nearest stretched themselves to see; the restlessness of those most distant made them break into shouts. Two women brought a flask of water, another some strips of linen, while a youth offered a pumpkin full of wine. The face of the wounded man was bathed, the flow of blood from the forehead stanched and his head raised.

Then there arose loud voices, demanding the cause of all this. The hundred pounds of wax were missing; barely a few fragments of candles remained among the interstices of the boards in the bottom of the cart.

In the midst of the commotion the emotions of the people were kindled more and more, and became more irritable and belligerent. As an ancient hereditary hatred for the country of Mascalico, opposite upon the other bank of the river, was always fermenting, Giacobbe cried venomously in a hoarse voice, “Maybe the candles are being used for Saint Gonselvo?”

This was like a spark of fire. The spirit of the church awoke suddenly in that race, grown brutish through so many years of blind and fierce worship of its one idol. The words of the fanatic sped from mouth to mouth. And beneath the tragic glow of the twilight this tumultuous people had the appearance of a tribe of negro mutineers.

The name of the Saint burst from all throats like a war cry. The most ardent hurled imprecations against the farther side of the river, while shaking their arms and clenching their fists. Then, all of those countenances afire with wrath and wrathful thoughts, round and resolute, whose circles of gold in the ears and thick tufts of hair on the forehead gave them a strange barbarian aspect, all of those countenances turned toward the reclining man, and softened with pity. There was around the cart a pious solicitude shown by the women, who wished to reanimate the suffering man; many loving hands changed the strips of linen on the wounds, sprinkled the face with water, placed the pumpkin of wine to the white lips and made a kind of a pillow beneath the head.