by Dino Buzzati
And then one day, Father Celestino, now a very old man and feeling himself near to death, for the first time in his life asked something for himself—that they would carry him to Rome by some means or other. Before closing his eyes forever he wished to see, even if only for an instant, St. Peter’s, the Vatican and the Holy Father.
How could they refuse him? They procured a litter, placed the hermit in it and carried him right into the heart of Christendom. More than that—without loss of time, for Celestino’s hours were already numbered, they bore him up the staircase of the Vatican and brought him into a room with a thousand other pilgrims. Here they left him in a corner to wait.
He waited and waited, and finally Father Celestino saw the crowd part, and advancing from the end of the room, far, far away, a thin, white-haired figure, rather bent—the Pope.
What was he like? What kind of face had he? With inexpressible horror Father Celestino, who had always been as shortsighted as a rhinoceros, realized that he had forgotten his glasses.
But luckily the white-haired figure came toward him, growing larger as he approached until he stopped by his litter, right in front of him. The hermit wiped his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hand and rose up slowly. Then he saw the face of the Pope and recognized him.
“Oh, it’s you, my poor priest, my poor little priest!” exclaimed the old man before he could stop himself.
And then in the ancient majesty of the Vatican, for the first time in history the following scene took place: the Holy Father and an old unknown friar, come from goodness-knows-where, were holding hands and weeping together.
The War Song
THE KING LOOKED UP FROM HIS GREAT DESK MADE OF steel and diamonds.
“What in the devil are my soldiers singing?” he asked.
Outside in the Piazza of the Coronation passed battalion upon battalion marching toward the frontier and as they marched they sang. Life was good for them because the enemy was already in full flight, and down there in the distant prairies there was nothing more to reap but glory, with which they would crown themselves on their return. And even the king, in his thoughts, felt wonderfully well and sure of himself. The world was waiting to be conquered.
“It is their song, Your Majesty,” replied the first counselor; he too was clad from head to foot in armor, because this was the discipline of war.
And the king said, “But don’t they know anything more cheerful? Schroeder has written some very fine hymns for my armies. I have heard them and they are true soldiers’ songs.”
“What would you, Your Majesty?” observed the aged counselor, even more bent under the weight of arms that he could never have used in reality. “Soldiers have their whims, rather like children. Give them the most beautiful hymns in the world, they still prefer their own songs.”
“But this is not a war song,” said the king, “one might even say that when they sing it they are sad. And that can’t be the reason, I should say.”
“I should say not, indeed,” agreed the counselor with a smile full of flattering allusions, “but perhaps it is only a love song, it doesn’t mean anything else, probably.”
“And what are the words?” the king insisted.
“Indeed, I have not been informed,” replied old Count Gustavo, “I will find out.”
The battalions reached the frontier of the war, decisively defeated the enemy and extended the conquered territories—the fame of their victories resounded throughout the world, their tramping was lost in the plains even further away from the silver turrets of the royal palace. And from their camps, girded by unknown constellations, still rose the same song, not gay, but sad, not victorious and warlike, but rather, full of bitterness. The soldiers were well fed; wore soft clothing, boots of Armenian leather, warm fur coats and the horses galloped from battle to battle, always further away, the only heavy load was that of the man who bore the enemy standards. But the generals asked, “What in the devil are the soldiers still singing? Haven’t they really anything more cheerful?”
“That is how they are, Excellency,” replied the members of the general staff, standing to attention, “fine fighting lads, but they have their fixations.”
“Not a very brilliant fixation,” said the generals ill-temperedly, “it sounds as though they were crying, and what more could they want? . . . One might even say they were discontented.”
On the contrary, taken individually, they were contented, the soldiers of the victorious regiments. What more could they desire? One conquest after the other, rich booty, soon a triumphal return. The final annihilation of the enemy from the face of the earth could already be read on those young faces, glowing with health and strength.
“And what are the words?” asked the General, his curiosity aroused.
“Oh, the words! They are very silly words!” replied the members of the general staff, ever cautious and reserved from long experience.
“Silly or not, what are they?”
“I don’t know, exactly, Excellency,” said one of them, “you, Diehlem, do you know them?”
“The words of that song? No, really, I don’t. But Captain Marren is here, I’m sure he . . .”
“It’s not my strong point, Colonel,” replied Marren. “However, we might ask Marshall Peters, if you will permit . . .”
“Oh, that’s enough, so much useless talk, I should be willing to wager . . .” But the General decided not to finish the sentence.
Looking rather upset and stiff as a ramrod, Marshall Peters replied to the interrogation.
“The first verse, Most Serene Excellency, goes like this:
Over field and over valley,
Hear the bugle call, “Come home”!
But year by year rings out reveille
Every dawn till kingdom come.
“Then comes the second verse, which begins:
This-a-way and that-a-way
“What?” asked the General.
“‘This-a-way and that-a-way,’ just that, Most Serene Excellency.”
“And what does ‘This-a-way and that-a-way’ mean?”
“I don’t know, Most Serene Excellency, but that is what they sing.”
“Well, and then how does it go?”
This-a-way and that-a-way,
Advancing still our standards toss:
The years are passing, where I left you,
Where I left you, stands a cross.
“And then there is the third verse, but they hardly ever sing that, and it’s said . . .”
“That will do,” said the General, and the Marshall saluted smartly.
“It doesn’t sound a very cheerful song,” remarked the General when the junior officer had gone away.
“Indeed no, not at all suitable,” agreed the colonels of the general staff with proper respect.
Every evening when the battles were over, while the earth was still smoking, swift messengers hurried off, eager to report the good news. The cities were decked out with flags, men embraced one another in the streets, church bells rang, yet anyone who passed through the poor quarters of the capital heard people singing, men, young girls, women, always that same song which had originated no one knew where. It was sad enough in all conscience, so full of resignation. Fair-haired girls, lying on their pillows, sang it in sad bewilderment.
Never in the history of the world, no matter how many centuries one goes back, were such victories recorded, never were armies so fortunate, generals so competent, advances so swift, never had so much land been conquered. Even the humblest private found himself at the end as rich as a lord, so much loot was there to share out. There was no limit to what one might hope for. Now they rejoiced in the cities, every evening wine ran down the gutters, beggars danced and between one tankard and another small groups of friends enjoyed a little song: “Over field and over valley,” they sang, including the third verse.
And if fresh battalions crossed the Piazza of the Coronation bound for the war, then the king lifted his head slightly from
his pile of documents and petitions to listen, and he couldn’t understand why that song put him in a bad temper.
But over field and over valley the regiments advanced from year to year, always further and further away, nor was any order given for them to march back at last: and those who had wagered that they would very soon hear the last and most blessed news of all, lost their bet. Battles, victories, victories, battles. Now the armies were marching through incredibly far-off countries with names so outlandish that they couldn’t pronounce them.
Finally (after victory upon victory) the day came when the Piazza of the Coronation was deserted, the windows of the royal palace were barred, and at the city gate rumbled the approach of strange foreign chariots; and from the invincible armies sprang up, in faraway places, forests that had not been there before, monotonous forests of crosses that were lost on the horizon, and nothing more. Because neither fire nor sword, nor the unleashed fury of cavalry, can escape destiny, as prophesied in that song which to the king and the generals had seemed logically so inept for war. Over the years, insistently, through those simple words, fate itself had spoken, proclaiming in advance to the men what had been decreed. But the royal household, the military leaders, the wise ministers, were as deaf as posts. Not one of them had understood; only the ignorant soldiery, crowned with a hundred victories, marching wearily through the streets at the end of the day, had marched singing toward their death.
The Egg
THE INTERNATIONAL VIOLET CROSS ORGANIZED A GRAND egg hunt in the gardens of the Villa Reale for children under twelve years old—tickets were twenty thousand lira each.
The eggs were hidden under bundles of hay, waiting for the starting signal and the children could keep all the eggs they found. There were eggs of every kind and size—chocolate eggs, metal eggs, cardboard eggs, all containing the most wonderful presents.
Gilda Soso, a cleaner who was paid by the hour, heard of the hunt at the Casa Zernatta where she worked. Signora Zernatta was taking all her four children at a total cost of eighty thousand lira.
Gilda Soso, twenty-five years old, not pretty, yet not plain, short, petite, with a lively face full of kindness, but also of repressed desires, had a four-year-old daughter—a pretty little girl—whom she decided to take to the hunt.
When the day arrived she dressed her Antonella in a new coat and a felt hat that made her look like a child of well-to-do parents. Gilda, however, couldn’t make herself look well-off, her clothes were too threadbare. But she did something better: with the aid of some sort of cap she got herself up to look rather like an English nanny, and if you didn’t look too closely you might easily have taken her for one of those expensive nursemaids who hold diplomas from Geneva or Neuchatel.
They set off in good time for the gates of the Villa Reale, and here Gilda paused, looking about her as if she were a nursemaid awaiting her mistress. Presently cars arrived disgorging children who were going on the egg hunt. Signora Zernatta arrived with her four and Gilda turned aside to avoid being seen.
Was all this going to be a waste of time for Gilda? It wasn’t easy to choose the right moment of disorder and confusion to slip in without paying.
The egg hunt was to begin at three. At five minutes to three a presidential type of car drew up: it contained the wife of an important Minister with her children who had just arrived in Rome. At once the President, the Directors and Officials of the International Violet Cross pushed toward the Minister’s wife to welcome her, and this gave, in full measure, the desired confusion.
And so Gilda, the daily cleaner disguised as a nursemaid, entered the garden with her little one, to whom she gave last-minute instructions that she should not let herself be put upon by children bigger and more cunning than she.
You could see spaced irregularly on the lawn hundreds of bundles of hay, some large, some small—one was at least three yards high—who knows what was hidden underneath? Perhaps nothing.
The starting signal was given by a blast on a trumpet, the tape marking the starting point was dropped and the children hurled themselves on the hunt with piercing yells.
But the children of the wealthy were too much for little Antonella. She ran here and there unable to make up her mind, while the others rummaged in the hay, some already running back to their mothers carrying huge chocolate eggs or gaily painted cardboard ones containing goodness-knows-what surprises.
At last even Antonella, thrusting her little hand in the hay, encountered something smooth and compact, judging from the contour it must be a monster egg. Beside herself with joy, she cried out, “I’ve found one! I’ve found one!” and tried to grasp the egg, but a boy dived headlong, as they do in rugby scrums, and then Antonella saw him running off clasping something enormous in his arms: he even pulled a face at her to add to her discomfiture.
Children are very smart. At three o’clock they were given the start, at a quarter past it was all over. And Gilda’s little girl, empty-handed, looked around for her nursemaid mother. She was indeed wretchedly unhappy, but at all costs she wouldn’t cry—that would put her to shame in front of all those children who would see her. But each one had his booty, some a lot, some only a little, only Antonella had nothing at all.
There was a fair-haired little girl of about seven who was having difficulty in carrying off all the good things she had collected. Antonella looked at her in astonishment.
“Didn’t you find anything?” asked the fair-haired little girl kindly.
“No, nothing.”
“If you like you may have one of mine.”
“May I? Which one?”
“One of the small ones.”
“This one?”
“Yes. Take it.”
“Thank you,” said Antonella, already quite consoled. “What is your name?”
“Ignazia,” replied the little girl.
Just then an important-looking lady, who must have been Ignazia’s mother, interrupted with: “Why are you giving that little girl one of your eggs?”
“I didn’t give it to her—she took it away from me,” replied Ignazia instantly, with that inexplicable perfidiousness of children.
“It isn’t true!” cried Antonella, “She gave it to me!”
It was a beautiful egg of shiny cardboard that you could open like a box, perhaps there was a toy inside, or a set of dolls’ dishes, or a needlework case.
Attracted by the dispute, one of the white-clad Violet Cross ladies appeared on the scene. She was about fifty years old.
“What is the matter, my dears?” she asked with a smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Don’t you like what you’ve got?”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” said Ignazia’s mother. “This brat—I don’t know who she belongs to—has taken one of my child’s eggs. But it doesn’t matter to me, let her have it! Come along, Ignazia,” and off she went with her little girl.
But the Violet Cross lady didn’t consider the matter closed.
“Did you take the egg?” she asked Antonella.
“No, she gave it to me.”
“Indeed! What is your name?”
“Antonella.”
“Antonella who?”
“Antonella Soso.”
“And your mother—where is your mother?”
Just then Antonella realized that her mother was standing motionless a short distance away, watching all that was going on.
“She’s there,” said the child, pointing.
“But isn’t she your nursemaid?”
Then Gilda came forward.
“I am her mother.”
The lady looked at her puzzled. “Excuse me, madam, you have your ticket? Would you mind showing it to me?”
“I haven’t got a ticket,” said Gilda, placing herself beside Antonella.
“You’ve lost it?”
“No, I haven’t got one.”
“You entered by fraud, then? Well, that alters the situation. Now, little girl, that egg doesn’t belong to you.”
Fi
rmly she took the egg away.
“It’s disgraceful,” she said, “now, will you please go.”
The child stood as if turned to stone, her little face petrified with such grief that the heavens themselves began to darken.
Then as the Violet Cross lady was going off with the egg, Gilda exploded. All the humiliations, the sufferings, the anger, the suppressed desires of years and years were too much for her and she began to howl.
There were many people there, smart people in the best society and their children, laden with stupendous eggs. Some hurried away horrified. Others stopped and protested. “It’s shameful!” “It’s a scandal!” “And in front of children too!” “Arrest her!”
“Get out of here if you don’t want to be arrested,” said the Violet Cross lady.
But Antonella burst into violent sobs that would have moved a heart of stone. Gilda was now beside herself—rage, shame, hatred, all gave her a great and irresistible power.
“You should be ashamed, taking away my little girl’s egg when she has nothing. Do you know what you are? Scum!”
Two policemen came up and seized Gilda by the hands.
“Get out at once! Get out!” She freed herself.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
They fell on her, caught hold of her everywhere and dragged her toward the exit. “Now you are coming with us to the police station. Once there you will cool down and learn what happens to people who insult the forces of law and order.”
They had difficulty in holding her, small though she was.
“No! No!” she yelled. “My little girl! My little girl! Let me go, you cowards!” The child, clinging to her skirts and flung to and fro in the tumult, was shouting frantically through her sobs.