Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part one, chapter 3

English

"We must go back to more than twenty years ago, at the beginning of 1693. Father John and I were then in the convent of Catania. In January of that unforgettable year there was that terrible earthquake that spread desolation and ruin all over the island... What a scare, my God, what a horror!...

The first shock occurred on a Friday, January 9, at night; the second on 11, Sunday, in the afternoon. Catania was abyssed... I heard a rumble like a thousand thunders, and at the same time I felt jumping up against the wall of the cell, and from the wall against the door, which was dismayed. I didn't have time to get back that the cell ruined, ruined the corridor; I found myself in the void of the door, and perhaps to this, by the will of God, I owe my salvation. For a while I remained as blind, and I heard nothing but rhombus, and ruined walls and screaming and groaning... How much time did it take? I don't know. I pulled myself out of those ruins and looked around me; the convent was an immense ruin; only some skeleton walls, horrible... I gave myself up over the ruins, calling; I heard groaning and saw no one; I saw a few stripes of plaster in the rubble, some hand stretched out as if in search of help...

Under a pile of wreckage I found Father John unharmed: "Up, in the name of God!" I said to him: "Come with me, let us try to save the friars."

I had lost all direction, because the earthquake had wiped out the building plan. Believing to enter those who had been in the corridors, we found ourselves in the sacristy, where the stones had broken the wardrobes. Father John wore a stole and took a crucifix; guessing his thought the imitai; until night we wandered through the ruins of the convent, trying to save someone. We were over an immense burial.

The night was horrible. Around the convent we saw only scary rubble and sometimes, at a new quiver of the earth, we saw the crumbling and deformed leftovers plummet down, with terrible noises... In the sacristy, inside some of the closets there had to be candles and lanterns. We went looking for them, so as not to stay in the dark, and found them. You had to find a shelter, because there was no safe corner in the convent. We lit two lanterns and walked there. The city was no longer recognizable; ruins and ruins everywhere, monstrous and frightening; even more frightening than the night. Here and there we saw some shadow fleeing, as if we were chased: we heard groaning and weeping; bloody corpses appeared among the stones, the loam, the broken, confused furniture."

The friar stopped, and passed a hand on his forehead, and then resumed...

"No; it is not possible to repeat what we saw. We lacked the heart to go ahead and we were tired. In a short stretch of the way, tripping, falling, we had stopped a hundred times, at every moaning, to give the only help that was allowed to us, the absolution in articulo mortis to poor unhappy people that we did not see, but on which, evidently, the hand of death was wandering.

We saw a house, which had resisted better than the others; one corner remained intact, defended on one side of the roof; it was a first floor, perhaps, but for the accumulated rubble, it had become a ground floor. It was raining; lightnings were tearing the darkness and revealing for a moment the horror of those ruins. We closed our eyes so as not to see, so much and so was the fear that filled our souls... When we came to that corner, at the light of the lanterns, there was a miserable spectacle: four people lay between the ruins, two old men and women, broken, bloody, deformed, a young and adventurous woman, with broken legs, a child: the two old men were dead, the woman groaned because of the wounds, the child had a wound to the head, on the top of the forehead..."

Father Bonaventura took a candle and brought it closer to Blasco's face to illuminate it better. The pale and dumb young man became tasty the forehead, on which, near the scalp, a small furrow was still visible.

The friar continued: "We helped that woman to her best, waiting for the day. There were blankets and some pillows in the wreckage and we used them to make those long and tragic hours less painful. So we spent the night. No one outside the baby slept. Dark grumblings were always heard in the bowels of the earth, and sudden tremors, which caused the rubble to overwhelm and groan and scream that had nothing human anymore.

When the day appeared, we had an idea of the horrible catastrophe. Catania no longer existed; it was a huge, indeterminate, frightening pile of monstrous, terrifying ruins, under which sixteen thousand people lay.

We saw on this great ruin wander a few survivors, tearful, unbridled, with crazy appearances, such as tearing off their hair, such as rabidly digging the earth, even with their nails; other loads of burdens of stuff perhaps not their own; some priests were wandering to bring comfort; some generous were working to save wounded poor people or to take people still alive from the rubble.

Father John and I took a tax that was removed from his collars, and spread the blankets and the pillow over them, and laid that woman in it, and carefully sought to get out of that evil place. The child clinged to Father John's robe.

We could not remain in that immense cemetery, where there was not even anything to feed those poor unfortunates and where for the continuous collapse of walls life was in danger. We had to go away and find a kindergarten. Neither I nor John the father knew that woman; so we ignored what land she was and if she had relatives. At a stop I asked him. Her name was Cristina, and she was from Castiglione. We asked her if she wanted to be taken to Castiglione, where perhaps there were relatives, but with an expression of terror and shame she strongly answered no.

What then? Where to?

We were out in the country and even the campaign offered a show of horror. The farmhouses of the surroundings were destroyed; among the ruins of the stables lay the dead beasts; wide cracks in the earth had swallowed up trees and hedges for a long time; the streams were diverted; everywhere the terrible footprints of the scourge of God. We didn't have a goal. The road or path we had taken led to Misterbianco; we hoped to find some help there, all the more so as other fugitives proceeded along the same path.

What most distressed us was the state of that woman, whose legs swelled and became lively.

We didn't know what to do with them, and doctors couldn't find any if someone had saved themselves. In addition, we were tired and the child wept, refusing to go ahead; the poor man had torn feet and trembled with cold.

A cart pulled by oxen, loaded with mattresses and stolen stuff, preceded us. We prayed to the cartman to take the baby and the woman on the wagon and we would walk.

The miserable dared to ask us about money: Father John, who was strong and strong then, took him by the neck and, tightening him like a bite, said to him: "You are a bad man, but not for me; and I am good to throw you under the wheels of the chariot, sure of doing a worthwhile work.

The grip seemed more persuasive than the words and so we could lay the poor wound on those bags, and put the child next to them.

In Misterbianco I realized that Cristina became a corpse, and we ran the risk of bringing a dead woman with us, and of having no clue of relatives, to deliver the child. I expressed my remarks and suspicions to Father John, who agreed with me on the need to find a shelter for the wound.

Even the few poor houses of Misterbianco were ruined, but the church of S. Maria della Grazia was still standing, except the bell tower, and we saw the vicar and the other priests curiously look at the exodus of the Catania survivors.

At the door, some armed men rejected those who wanted to seek shelter in the rectory. This made it impossible for us to ask for hospitality at that time; it was necessary to seize the opportune moment in order to do so, without being seen.

We took Cristina and the baby out of the wagon and laid it on the soft grass still in rain.

Her legs had become black, her face was bruised; she looked at us with large dilated eyes, desperately murmuring: "Ah! my poor son!."

We tried to comfort her, promising her that we would not abandon her. Father John went to the door of the rectory to speak with those men: the dress could more than words. We took advantage of a instant to transport Cristina to a room on the ground floor not being able to bring her up because the torment was sour. They were all around. One woman brought a strawberry and we placed a bed at best; we tried to revive the poor woman with some generous wine, and we asked if there were any among the friars who meant surgery. There was: but his work was vain. The gangrene had already poisoned the blood of the poor girl and the amputation of the legs, the only remedy, was useless; without saying that they were not in the convent all the means of art.

From our faces, Cristina realized that there was no hope for her anymore. She held her baby in her chest, kissing him and crying.

"What about this innocent man?" he exclaimed.

"God will provide for him," we replied; "do not despair. We will not abandon this creature."

He wanted to kiss our hands. It was a pity!"

Again the friar stopped, moved by the re-enactment of that scene. Blasco was with his head down, and two tears were silently piercing his cheeks.

"Father John - Father Bonaventura said - thought to exhort Cristina to think of the soul; but the poor woman prevented it.

"I want to confess," he said.

They all went out; the three of us stayed.

"Who do you want from us?" I asked her.

She stood a little overwhelmed and replied: "Remain both; a part of my confession is good for both of them... for what may be of interest to the lot of this creature... is my story..."

And she told us she was interrupted by tears, sometimes stopping for shame, or to kiss her son. I will repay you, son, for it is good for you to know her now; and it is good for your filial piety to give some suffrage to the soul of that poor martyr. She will be glad from there."

"Cristina was from Castiglione; her father's name was Francesco Giorlanda, and she had some hazelnuts in her gabella, stretching out to Motta, and they were property of... a powerful baron. Cristina was the only daughter, and she was very beautiful.

The baron, when he did not leave for the wars of his majesty because he was colonel of a regiment - spent most of the year in his castle, delighting in hunting. The woods that surrounded Castiglione, and that stretched from Linguaglossa up the slope of Mount Etna, offered abundant and daring hunts, and the duke loved and sought the risky feats. Still young, of male beauty, strong, gay, carefree, greedy with pleasures, powerful, generous, he, unfortunately, was not limited to hunting game only. There was too much vitality in him for his nerves to stop; and little fear of God to correct the bad habits contracted in the life of the fields.

Many girls or dazzled by vanity, or seduced by wealth, or fascinated by the vigorous beauty of the lord, all subjugated by his empire, let themselves be dragged into sin. One-day loves. Satisfied with his whim, the noble lord left them, while generously providing for their future, and almost often marrying them to his villains. He has already responded before God of his conduct and evil done to souls and bodies...

Returning from a long hunt towards the forest of Randazzo, one day he stopped in Castiglione, to give a few hours of rest to his followers. Of course, the arrival of so many ladies did not go unnoticed. Francesco Giorlanda hastened to pay homage to his master of whom he was in some way also vassal.

The baron had been offered hospitality in the castle as a duty, and all of them went there to revere it. For Castiglione, who rarely saw his lord, this was an event. When, a few hours later, the ride was on its way through the country, all the women stood on the doorstep of the houses and the windows.

Francesco Giorlanda wanted to accompany the baron; passing before his house, he jumped on a mule that a garzoncello had set.

The baron raised his eyes to a window adorned with some vessels of carnations, and there he saw a maiden.

"Is this your home?" asked Francesco Giorlanda.

"Excellency, yes."

"And that brunette girl who was at the window, is that your daughter?"

"Excellency, yes."

Halfway, Francesco Giorlanda revered the baron and went back; but when he came home he rebuked the daughter who had shown herself in the window.

The next day the baron went back to Castiglione with his followers, playing the hunting horns, to announce his passage. Cristina ran to the window, to see, and her eyes met in The young Baron's.

For several days he, going hunting, passed and went back from Castiglione: first he saw Cristina, then he never saw her again; instead he saw Francesco Giorlanda, who, followed him in the countryside, and stopped him, said to him: "Excellency, I wanted to tell her that neither Cristina Giorlanda is game for your Excellency, nor I, Francesco Giorlanda, am a man to let touch. Your Excellency is not lacking, but leave my daughter alone, because I swear by the Blessed Virgin, that the day when your Excellency will risk touching her, I will kill her..."

The baron was a brave man, perhaps even daring; he looked at Francesco Giorlanda and, laughing, answered him: "You joke. You know that if I wanted to get away with a whim with your daughter, I wouldn't be afraid of your threats. Your daughter is beautiful and I like her, but I am far from joining her!... Goodbye, Francesco Giorlanda, and stop your threats. You know me."

He spurred the horse, who gave a wreck and flew away. Francesco Giorlanda remained gloomy, turbid, unsolved, with the bow in his hand. Perhaps he felt that a misfortune hung over his house. He found no other remedy than, at night, to take his daughter away and close her in Catania in a monastery.

The baron was not a man to abandon a feat, especially since he had fallen in love with Cristina. It was not difficult for him to know where the maiden was hidden, and to see her, and to insinuate herself in her heart.

Cristina was then seventeen years old; the baron had for himself beauty, elegance, wealth, the prestige of a great name, the fame of its value: what wonder if the girl loved him desperately? What was to happen happened: the cloister, the irons, the walls of the monasteries do not offer obstacles that a man, like the baron, cannot overcome. He kidnapped Cristina and took her to Motta Castle to challenge Francesco Giorlanda.

This was almost to go crazy with pain and anger. He fell down and shot the baron, but he failed; the baron's campers pursued him, took him and were about to kill him, but the lord prevented him: "He is right;" he said, "I would have done the same in his place. Let him go."

Francesco Giorlanda left threatening, but after a few days the baron, called to Court, left for Spain. Cristina was alone, pregnant, exposed to her father's vengeance, although the baron had entrusted her to tried men; she did not want to stay in that castle, and preferred to retire to her grandparents' house in Catania, who opened her arms crying.

Francesco Giorlanda, eaten with bile, died without wanting to see the daughter again and curse her; a few months after her father's death, she gave birth to a child."

Father Bonaventura stopped for another minute, as if to rest.

Then he resumed: "This is the story that the poor woman told us. She recommended that we take care of his son, educate him, and have his father recognize him and provide for his future. We promised him, and she seemed comforted. Then he wanted to confess to Father John; I strayed a little, neither turned, except when I heard the formula of absolution. In the night Cristina died, without a lamentation, without regret. He endured his pains with Christian firmness, and God has given him credit. We recited some prayers for the sake of his soul, and buried them in the churchyard.

"Ah, it took it, son, to get away from your poor mother's body! But it was necessary. We departed from Misterbianco with the intention to go to Castiglione, and persuade the family to welcome you; but for all the lands we crossed, we could only see ruins, weeping and mourning. We went all the way to Messina. A few years later I was sent to the convent of Milazzo, Father John returned to Catania: you were fond of Father John and stayed with him. The rest is known to you."

Father Bonaventura was silent.

A great silence impelled the sacristy and weighed upon the two men; Blascus teared with his head bent on his chest, then asked: "The name, father, my name... of the baron?"

"He is dead," said the friar; "what good is it for you to know? You couldn't bring the name without the approval of the new boss of the house... Wait a little longer and we'll see."

"What do I care about this name?" said Blasco with bitterness; "one name is as good as the other; either Blasco d'Aragona or Blasco da Castiglione are always what I am... But that I was born of an infamous whim, that I was thrown into life by the whim of a man who trodden down youth, honor, the future, all dreams, all the hopes of a girl, this, father, this is what I feel I cannot bear!... Why, then, did that baron die?"

"That's what God wanted!..."

"Too kind God... Did you know, then, that the man would not escape my vengeance?"

"What dare you say, wretch?" exclaimed the friar with horror; "Your words are equivalent to a parricide."

"Parricide? Does justice commit crime? I could and should have recognized as a father a man who so abandoned a poor woman and a An innocent creature, to whom he did not even give his name?... Ah, poor mother! And don't keep any clear memories of it!... Sometimes, yes, sometimes I think I see a face of a woman, but confused, inaccurate, like a faded painting that has lost its contours and only remains a stain with two black holes in place of the eyes. I searched in vain from where that shadow of face came, I wondered if it was a dream image... And instead it was my mother... it was perhaps her spirit that came looking for me... asking maybe revenge!"

"Your mother died like a saint; and that man, who was not sad, but corrupt, was punished enough by God, that you might have the right to curse at his memory... He died far from his house, killed by the Turks, and without being able to embrace the son who was born to him from the wedding..."

"Is there a son then? Is there a widow?"

"The widow and her son have also been dead for fifteen years, in a mysterious way."

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!... So here of my father's lineage I do not exist that I, a bastard, nameless!... Go there, Blasco! You are a grain of spelt crossed by the wind for the world!..."

"The Baron had a brother, who today is the rightful lord of all feuds and titles."

"Oh, yeah? All the better. I'll have who to vent to!"

"What are you gonna do?"

"Bitch! Since I by right of nature should be the baron and that the laws instead grant this title of which I do not care, to another, I want to see if Mr. Baron is willing to pay for his brother..."

"He is a mighty man."

"Are there really powerful men in the world?"

"Listen to me; you no longer need who leads you..."

"Do I need to? But since I was ten years old, since Father John missed me, I have had no other guide than myself."

"It is fine; but since you have come to see me, since Providence has brought you to me, you will let me guide you now. I take the place of Father John, to fulfill the promise made to your mother's deathbed. Would you like your friar's face turned on - would you like me to miss that promise? Would you disobey your mother's desire?... The one, his only burning desire!"

Blasco bowed the moved boss. In his heart passions alternated with the same impetus. The friar took his hand, and sent him away.

"Go with God now, my son; come and see me in the morning; we will speak of many things; now it is late, and I am tired. I'll pray for you. Go, God bless you."

He also blessed him with his hand, and accompanied him out of the sacristy, in the dark and silent cloister.

He called loud.

A friar came out of the shadows.

"Take the gentleman to the door, please."

And given his hand to kiss Blasco, he repeated: "To tomorrow, then, about thirteen hours."