The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-11-15
1t was a day in June.


under the sickle; through the little windows of
his sacristy Don Gesualdo, the Young vicar OF
San Bartolo, in the village of Marca, looked with
wstful eyes at the hillside which rose up in front
Of him, seen through frame of cherry boughs
IN full fruit. The hillside was covered with
corn, with vines, with mulberry Trees the men
and women were at work amongst the trees, it
WAS the first day of harvest; there was blue,
happy sky above them all; their voices chatter
ing and calling to one another the sea Of
grain came to his ears eaily and softened by air
and distance. He sighed as he looked and as
he heard. YET Intercepted, he would have
said that he was happy and wanted for nothing
He was a slight, pale man, still almost youth
with delicate face without color and beardless
his eyes were brown, and tender, and serious, his
mouth was sensitive and sweet. He was the
son of fisherman away by Bocca dArno
where the river meets the sea, amidst the cane
and cactus brakes which Costa loves to paint.
But who could say what fne me-fltered, pure
Etruscan or Latin blood might not run in his
veinsf There is so much of the classic features
and the classic form amongst the peasants of
Tyrrehene sea Shores of Cimbrian oak woods, of
1t was the last day of peace which he was des-
tined to know in Marca.
He turned from the window with reluctance
and regret, as the old woman who served him as
housekeeper and church cleaner in one sum-
moned him to his frugal supper. He could have
supped at any hour he had ehosen there were
none to say him nay, but it was the custom at
Marca to sup at the twenty third hour, and he
was not person to violate custom; he would as
soon have thought Of splitting on the blessed
bread itself. Habit is masterful ruler in all
Italian communities; it has always been SO; it is
formula which excuses all things and sanctities
all things, and to none did it do SO more than to
Gesualdo. Often he was not in the least hungry
at sunset, often he grudged sorely the hours
spent in breaking black bread, and in eating
poor soup when nature was at her sweetest and
the skies giving their finest spectacle to thank
less earth. Yet never did he fail to meekly
answer old Candidas summons to the humble
repast. To have altered the hour of eating
would have seemed to him irreligious, revolu-
tionary, altogether impossible.
Candida was little old woman, burnt black
by the sun, with wisp of gray hair fastened
on the crown of her head. and a heater look
about her kerchief and her gown than was usual
in Marca, for she was woman originally from
northern city. She had always been servant
IN priests houses and if the sacristan were i'll
or away, knew as we'll he where every book,
bell and candle were kept, and could have said
the offices herself had her sex allowed her. In
tongue she was very sharp and in secret was
~ cd 0f lyivy fha
vice-regent of God afraid Of her. The priest was
the first man in this parish of poor folks. and
the priest would shrink like chidden child if
she found out that he had given his best shirt to
beggar, or had inadvertently come in with wet
boots over the brick floor which she had just
washed and sanded. 1t was the old story of so
many sovereignties. He had power no doubt to
bind and loose, to bless and curse, TO cleanse or
refuse to cleanse the sinful souls of men; but for
all that he was only stupid, forgetful baby of
a man in his servants eyes, and she made him
feel the scorn she had for him mixed up with
half-mortherly half-scolding admiration which
saw in him half child, half fool, and maybe
she would add in her own thoughts, kind of
angel.
Don Gesualdo was not wise or learned in any
way; he had barely been able to acquire enough
knowledge to pass through the examinations
necessary for entrance into the priest
hood. That slender amount of scholar
ship was his all; but he clever
enough for Marca. which had very little brains
of its own and he did his duty most faith
fully, as far as he saw it, at all times. AS for
doubts of any sort as to what that duty was,
such skepticism never could possibly assail him.
His creed appeared plain and sure to him as
kne sun which shone in the heavens and his
faith was as single hearted and answering as
the devoted soul of docile sheep-dog.
He was of poetic and retiring nature Re-
ligion had taken entire possession of his soul.
and he was as unworldly, visionary and as
simple as any one of the peccarelle di do who
dwelt around FRANCISCO d'Assssi His mother
had been German servant girl, married out of
O small inn in Pisa, and some qualities of the
dreamy slow and serious Teutonc temperament
were in him, all Italian of the western coast as
he was. On such a dual mind the spiritual side
of his creed had obtained intense power, and the
Office he filed was to him heaven given mission
which compelled him to incessant sacrifice Of
every earthly appetite and every selfish thought
"He is too good to live" said his old house
keeper.
1t was a very simple and monotonous life
which was led by him in his charge. There was
no kind of change in it for anybody, unless they
went away. and few people born in Marca ever
aid that They were not forced by climate to be
nomads, like the mountaineers of the Apennines,
nor like the men of the sea-coast and ague-
haunted plains. Marca was healthy. homely
place on the slope of hill in the wilderness
where its sons and daughters could stay and
work all the year round. if they chose, without
risk of fever worse than such as might be
brought on by zoo much new wine at close of
autumn. Marca was not pretty, or historical,
or picturesque, or uncommon in any way;
there are five hundred, five thousand vii
lagos like it, standing amongst corn lands and