Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

“‘Who is G.V.?’ I asked, ‘The eccentric man who was involved in the study of magic?’

  “Yes. Him. That was why I made the decision. Of how I took the train, how I reached Moharam Bek, how I anxiously looked left and right like a madman in case the phantom should appear beside me, how I stumbled into G.V.’s place, my memories are scared and confused. All I can clearly remember is that once with him, I began to weep hysterically and to shake all over as I related my horrifying experience.

  “G.V. calmed me down and, half serious, half jesting, told me not to be afraid. A phantom would not dare enter his house, and if it did he would banish it immediately. He was familiar with this kind of supernatural presence, he said, and also the means to exorcise it. Moreover, he told me, I had no more reason to fear: the phantom had come to me for a particular reason – to obtain the little iron box which it seemed, he could not get without the aid of a human. The phantom had not succeeded in his aim and must already know from my fear that there was no hope of succeeding. Undoubtedly he would attempt to convince someone else. G.V. was only sorry that I had not informed him earlier so that he might have seen the phantom for himself and talked to it, because, he added, in the History of Phantoms, for spirits and demons to appear in the light of day is extremely rare. None of this calmed me. I spent a turbulent night and awoke the next morning with a fever.

  “The ignorance of the doctor and the worsening state of my nervous system brought on a cerebral fever from which I almost died. When I had recovered a little, I asked to know the date. I had fallen ill on August 3 and I thought it must now be seventh or the eighth. It was September 2.

  “A short trip to an island in the Aegean speeded my recovery. During my illness, I stayed in the house of my friend V who cared for me with the kind-heartedness you would expect of him. He was annoyed with himself for not having the courage to get rid of the doctor and treat me using magic. I believe this would have cured me just as quickly.

  “So you see, my friends, I had the chance to become a millionaire, but I did not dare. I didn’t dare – and I didn’t regret it.”

  Here, Alexander fell silent. The utter conviction and the simplicity with which he told the story prevented us from passing comment. In any case, by now it was twenty-seven minutes past midnight. And since the last train for the city departed at twelve thirty, we had to say our goodbyes and part in great haste.

  SAN PANTALEONE

  Gabriele D’Annunzio

  Translated from the Italian by George McLean Harper

  Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863–1938) or General Gabriele D’Annunzio, Prince of Montenevoso, Duke of Gallese, to give him his full title, was an Italian writer, poet, journalist and playwright. Born to a family of wealthy landowners in Abruzzo, his precocious talent for poetry led to him publishing his first anthology at the age of sixteen while still at school. The style and the content of his works shocked many contemporary critics; some accused him of corrupting public morals. During the First World War he achieved a different kind of fame as a war hero. In the aftermath of the war, in defiance of the Treaty of Versailles, he occupied the Dalmatian port of Fiume where he ruled as a dictator until December 1920. He became an influential advisor to Mussolini, and is considered one of the architects of Fascism.

  I

  The great sandy piazza, glittered as if strewn with powdered pumice. Its whitewashed houses held a strange metallic glow, like the walls of an immense furnace cooling off. The glare of the clouds, reflected from the stone pillars of the church at its far end, gave them the appearance of red granite. The church windows blazed as with inward fire. The sacred images had assumed life-like colors and attitudes, and the massive edifice seemed lifted now, in the splendor of the new celestial phenomenon, to a prouder domination than ever, above the houses of Radusa.

  Groups of men and women, gesticulating and talking loudly, were pouring from the streets into the square. Superstitious terror grew in leaps and bounds from face to face. A thousand awful images of divine punishment rose out of their rude fancies; and comments, eager disputes, plaintive appeals, wild stories, prayers, and cries were mingled in a deep uproar, as of a hurricane approaching. For some time past this bloody redness of the sky had lasted through the night, disturbing its tranquillity, illumining sullenly the sleeping fields, and making dogs howl.

  “Giacobbe! Giacobbe!” shouted some, waving their arms, who till then had stood in a compact band around a pillar of the church portico, talking in low tones, “Giacobbe!”

  There came out through the main door, and drew near to those who called him, a long, emaciated man, apparently consumptive, whose head was bald at the top, but had a crown of long reddish hair about the temples and above the nape of the neck. His little sunken eyes, animated with the fire of a deep passion, were set close and had no particular color. The absence of his two upper front teeth gave to his mouth when speaking, and to his sharp chin with its few scattered hairs, the strangeness of a senile faun. The rest of his body was a wretched structure of bones ill-concealed by his clothes. The skin on his hands, his wrists, the back of his arms, and his breast was full of blue punctures made with a pin and india-ink, the souvenirs of sanctuaries visited, pardons obtained, and vows performed.

  When the fanatic approached the group at the pillar, a swarm of questions arose from the anxious men. “Well, then? what did Don Console say? Will they send out only the silver arm? Would not the whole bust do better? When would Pallura come back with the candles? Was it one hundred pounds of wax? Only one hundred? And when would the bells begin to ring? Well, then? Well, then?”

  The clamor increased around Giacobbe. Those on the outskirts of the crowd pushed toward the church. From all the streets people poured into the square till they filled it. And Giacobbe kept answering his questions, whispering, as if revealing dreadful secrets and bringing prophecies from far. He had seen aloft in the bloody sky a threatening hand, and then a black veil, and then a sword and a trumpet.

  “Go ahead! Go ahead!” they urged him, looking in each other’s faces, and seized with a strange desire to hear of marvels, while the wonder grew from mouth to mouth in the crowd.

  II

  The vast crimson zone rose slowly from the horizon to the zenith and bade fair to cover the whole vault of heaven. An undulating vapor of molten metal seemed pouring down on the roofs of the town; and in the descending crepuscule yellow and violet rays flashed through a trembling and iridescent glow. One long streak brighter than the others pointed towards a street which opened on the river-front, and at the end of this street the water flamed away between the tall slim poplar-trunks, and beyond the stream lay a strip of luxuriant country, from which the old Saracen towers stood out confusedly, like stone islets, in the dark. The air was full of the stifling emanations of mown hay, with now and then a whiff from putrefied silkworms in the bushes. Flights of swallows crossed this space with quick, scolding cries, trafficking between the river sands and the eaves.

  An expectant silence had interrupted the murmur of the multitude. The name Pallura ran from lip to lip. Signs of angry impatience broke forth here and there. The wagon was not yet to be seen along the river-road; the candles had not come; Don Consolo therefore was delaying the exposition of the relics and the acts of exorcism; the danger still threatened. Panic fear invaded the hearts of all those people crowded together like a flock of sheep, and no longer venturing to raise their eyes to heaven. The women burst out sobbing, and at the sound of weeping every mind was oppressed and filled with consternation.

  Then at last the bells began to ring. As they were hung low, their deep quivering strokes seemed to graze the heads of the people, and a sort of continuous wailing filled the intervals.

  “San Pantaleone! San Pantaleone!”

  It was an immense, unanimous cry of desperate men imploring aid. Kneeling, with blanched faces and outstretched hands, they supplicated.

  “San Pantaleone!”

  Then, at the church door, in the midst of the smoke of two censers,
Don Consolo appeared, resplendent in a violet chasuble, with gold embroidery. He held aloft the sacred arm of silver, and conjured the air, shouting the Latin words:

  “Ut fidelibus tuis aeris serenitatem concedere digneris. Te rogamus, audi nos.”

  At sight of the relic the multitude went delirious with affectionate joy. Tears ran from all eyes, and through glistening tears these eyes beheld a miraculous gleam emanate from the three fingers held up as if in the act of benediction. The arm appeared larger now, in the enkindled air.

  The dim light awoke strange scintillations in the precious stones. The balsamic odor of incense spread quickly to the nostrils of the devotees.

  “Te rogamus, audi nos!”

  But when the arm was carried back and the tolling stopped, in that moment of silence a tinkling of little bells was heard near at hand coming from the river road. Then of a sudden the crowd rushed in that direction and many voices cried:

  “It is Pallura with the candles! It is Pallura coming! Here’s Pallura!”

  The wagon came screeching over the gravel, drawn at a walk by a heavy gray mare, over whose shoulders hung a great shining brass horn, like a half-moon. When Giacobbe and the others made towards her, the pacific animal stopped and breathed hard. Giacobbe, who reached the wagon first, saw stretched out on its floor the bloody body of Pallura, and screamed, waving his arms towards the crowd, “He is dead! He is dead!”

  III

  The sad news spread like lightning. People crowded around the wagon, and craned their necks to see, thinking no longer of the threats in the sky, because struck by the unexpected happening and filled with that natural ferocious curiosity which the sight of blood awakens.

  “He is dead? What killed him?”

  Pallura lay on his back upon the boards, with a broad wound in the middle of his forehead, with one ear torn, with gashes on his arms, his sides, and one thigh. A warm stream flowed down to his chin and neck, staining his shirt and forming dark, shining clots on his breast, his leathern belt, and even his breeches. Giacobbe hung over the body; all the rest waited around him; an auroral flush lighted up their perplexed faces; and at that moment of silence, from the river-bank arose the song of the frogs, and bats skimmed back and forth above the heads of the crowd.

  Suddenly Giacobbe, straightening up, with one cheek bloody, cried: “He is not dead. He still breathes.”

  A hollow murmur ran through the crowd, and the nearest strained forward to look. The anxiety of those at a distance commenced to break into clamor. Two women brought a jug of water, another some strips of linen. A youth held out a gourd full of wine.

  The wounded man’s face was washed; the flow of blood from his forehead was checked; his head was raised. Then voices inquired loudly the cause of this deed. The hundred pounds of wax were missing; only a few fragments of candles remained in the cracks of the wagon-bed.

  In the commotion their minds grew more and more inflamed, exasperated, and contentious. And as an old hereditary hatred burned in them against the town of Mascalico, on the opposite bank of the river, Giacobbe said venomously, in a hoarse voice:

  “What if the candles have been offered to San Gonselvo?”

  It was like the first flash of a conflagration! The spirit of church-rivalry awoke all at once in these people brutalized by many years of blind, savage worship of their own one idol. The fanatic’s words flew from mouth to mouth. And beneath the tragic dull-red sky, the raging multitude resembled a tribe of mutinous gypsies.

  The name of the saint broke from all throats, like a war-cry. The most excited hurled curses towards the river, and waved their arms and shook their fists. Then all these faces blazing with anger, and reddened also by the unusual light,—all these faces, broad and massive, to which their gold ear-rings and thick overhanging hair gave a wild, barbaric character,—all these faces turned eagerly towards the man lying there, and grew soft with pity. Women, with pious care, tried to bring him back to life. Loving hands changed the cloths on his wounds, sprinkled water in his face, set the gourd of wine to his lips, made a sort of pillow under his head.

  “Pallura, poor Pallura, won’t you answer?” He lay supine, his eyes closed, his mouth half open, with brown soft hair on his cheeks and chin, the gentle beauty of youth still showing in his features contracted with pain. From beneath the bandage on his forehead a mere thread of blood trickled down over his temples; at the corners of his mouth stood little beads of pale red foam, and from his throat issued a faint broken hiss, like the sound of a sick man gargling. About him attentions, questions, feverish glances multiplied. The mare from time to time shook her head and neighed in the direction of the houses. An atmosphere as of an impending hurricane hung over the whole town.

  Then from the square rang out the screams of a woman, of a mother. They seemed all the louder for the sudden hushing of all other voices, and an enormous woman, suffocated in her fat, broke through the crowd and hurried to the wagon, crying aloud. Being heavy and unable to climb into it, she seized her son’s feet, with sobbing words of love, with such sharp broken cries and such a terribly comic expression of grief, that all the bystanders shuddered and averted their faces.

  “Zaccheo! Zaccheo! My heart, my joy!” screamed the widow unceasingly, kissing the feet of the wounded man and dragging him to her towards the ground.

  The wounded man stirred, his mouth was contorted by a spasm, but although he opened his eyes and looked up, they were veiled with damp, so that he could not see. Big tears began to well forth at the corners of his eyelids and roll down over his cheeks and neck. His mouth was still awry. A vain effort to speak was betrayed by the hoarse whistling in his throat. And the crowd pressed closer, saying:

  “Speak, Pallura! Who hurt you? Who hurt you? Speak! Speak!”

  Beneath this question was a trembling rage, an intensifying fury, a deep tumult of reawakened feelings of vengeance; and the hereditary hatred boiled in every heart.

  “Speak! Who hurt you? Tell us! Tell us!”

  The dying man opened his eyes again; and as they were holding his hands tightly, perhaps this warm living contact gave him a momentary strength, for his gaze quickened and a vague stammering sound came to his lips. The words were not yet distinguishable. The panting breath of the multitude could be heard through the silence. Their eyes had an inward flame, because all expected one single word.

  “Ma—Ma—Mascalico—”

  “Mascalico! Mascalico!” shrieked Giacobbe, who was bending over him, with ear intent to snatch the weak syllables from his dying lips.

  An immense roar greeted the cry. The multitude swayed at first as if tempest-swept. Then, when a voice, dominating the tumult, gave the order of attack, the mob broke up in haste. A single thought drove these men forward, a thought which seemed to have been stamped by lightning upon all minds at once: to arm themselves with some weapon. Towering above the consciousness of all arose a sort of bloody fatality, beneath the great tawny glare of the heavens, and in the electric odor emanating from the anxious fields.

  IV

  And the phalanx, armed with scythes, bill-hooks, axes, hoes, and guns, reunited in the square before the church. And all cried: “San Pantaleone!”

  Don Consolo, terrified by the din, had taken refuge in a stall behind the altar. A handful of fanatics, led by Giacobbe, made their way into the principal chapel, forced the bronze grille, and went into the underground chamber where the bust of the saint was kept. Three lamps, fed with olive oil, burned softly in the damp air of the sacristy, where in a glass case the Christian idol glittered, with its white head surrounded by a broad gilt halo; and the walls were hidden under the wealth of native offerings.

  When the idol, borne on the shoulders of four herculean men, appeared at last between the pillars and shone in the auroral light, a long gasp of passion ran through the waiting crowd, and a quiver of joy passed like a breath of wind over all their faces. And the column moved away, the enormous head of the saint oscillating above, with its empty eye-sockets turne
d to the front.

  Now through the sky, in the deep, diffused glow, brighter meteors ploughed their furrows; groups of thin clouds broke away from the hem of the vapor zone and floated off, dissolving slowly. The whole town of Radusa stood out like a smouldering mountain of ashes. Behind and before, as far as eye could reach, the country lay in an indistinctly lucent mass. A great singing of frogs filled the sonorous solitude.

  On the river-road Pallura’s wagon blocked the way. It was empty, but still soiled, here and there, with blood. Angry curses broke suddenly from the mob. Giacobbe shouted:

  “Let us put the saint in it!”

  So the bust was placed in the wagon-bed and drawn by many arms into the ford. The battleline thus crossed the frontier. Metallic gleams ran along the files. The parted water broke in luminous spray, and the current flamed away red between the poplars, in the distance, towards the quadrangular towers. Mascalico showed itself on a little hill, among olive trees, asleep. The dogs were barking here and there, with a persistent fury of reply. The column, issuing from the ford, left the public road and advanced rapidly straight across country. The silver bust was borne again on men’s shoulders, and towered above their heads amid the tall, odorous grain, starred with bright fireflies.

  Suddenly a shepherd in his straw hut, where he lay to guard the grain, seized with mad panic at sight of so many armed men, started to run up the hill, yelling, “Help! Help!” And his screams echoed in the olive grove.

  Then it was that the Radusani charged. Among tree-trunks and dry reeds the silver saint tottered, ringing as he struck low branches, and glittering momentarily at every steep place in the path. Ten, twelve, twenty guns, in a vibrating flash, rattled their shot against the mass of houses. Crashes, then cries, were heard; then a great commotion. Doors were opened; others were slammed shut. Window-panes fell shattered. Vases fell from the church and broke on the street. In the track of the assailants a white smoke rose quietly up through the incandescent air. They all, blinded and in bestial rage, cried, “Kill! kill!”