by Howard Pyle
“Then listen,” said Niccolo; “I will not ask you now who this one is, but I will give him time to ask you. I will give him until this day next month. Then, if ho has not asked you, I shall ask you again to give yourself to me.” Elisabetta wiped her eyes. “You are good,” said she, “and you shall not suffer because of me. Give me four weeks from to-day, and then I will answer you.”
So Niccolo went away. He was pleased with himself that he had got a promise from her of some sort, and yet he was displeased that he was not to know his real answer for four weeks.
He told Sebastiano how it had gone with him in his courting. Sebastiano did not wish him joy; instead he walked away a little distance. By and by he returned. “All the same,” he said, “four weeks is a long time. Suppose the one whom she loves should come and take her, then what would you do?”
“Well,” said Niccolo, “I have thought of that, and I have thought of a way out of the difficulty. You are not strong enough yet to do hard work. I will go every evening to see her, and when I am not there you shall go and he near her so as to he in the way of any one who comes to make love to her.”
Sebastiano laughed. “Well,” he said, “that is a great idea you have thought of, and I will be glad to help you.”
So that day he went to Elisabetta, and every day thereafter that his father was not at Ettore’s house he was there to be near to Elisabetta.
So the days flowed by, the one after the other, and the weeks followed them. And so came the fourth week, when Niccolo was to have his answer. So came also the day before the day when he was to have it. That evening he said to Sebastiano: “Sebastiano, it is not fit that I should he following the girl tonight, for to-morrow I am to ask her for my answer. Go you to be near her and to keep mischief away from her. For this night, if any, her lover will come to take her from me. I do not know what I should do if I lost her!” And Sebastiano laughed and went to Ettore’s house.
Then passed the night. In the morning Niccolo dressed himself in his best and went over to Ettore’s house. Ettore and his wife met him with long and troubled faces, but there was no Elisabetta in sight. “Why do you look so melancholy?” said Niccolo’.
“Do you not know?” said Ettore. “Did they not come to your house?”
“What do you mean?” said Niccolo. But a pang went through his heart like the cut of a sharp knife.
Ettore answered as it were the thought in his mind. “Sebastiano and Elisabetta,” said he, “went out of the house last night for a walk. The walk must have been long, for they have not come hack yet.”
“Where did they go?” said Niccolo, and his voice came dry and, as it were, from his feet.
“Go?” said Ettore. “God knows where they went, but if it was not to a priest shame will surely come of it.”
So Niccolo went home again. He sat in the kitchen near to the fire. He thought and thought and thought over what had happened. He could see he had sent a wolf to guard his lamb, and the wolf had run away with her. And this was the son whom he had saved from death not two months ago. He ground his teeth together; yes, he saw it all; he had saved a fagot from the fire and it had burned his hand. That is what came of interfering with Providence. Had his son not lived, Niccolo would now have had a beautiful young wife.
He thought of his crystal globe. Why had he not looked at it before? It was the fate of his life. He had felt so sure of his happiness that it had lain in the strongbox for weeks and he had never thought of it. He went to the strong-box and opened it. He took out the silk handkerchief and unwrapped it. The ball was in his hands. It was covered all over with a thick mist. But even as he looked the mist was disappearing and the globe was becoming as bright and as lustrous as ever. He sighed so that it lifted his heart within him. He had not thought that this would have been so terrible to him. His son had not known how hard it would be or he would not have robbed him of his treasure. Had he forgotten that he owed his life to his father? Again he sighed profoundly. He wrapped up the globe of crystal and put it back into the strongbox again.
That night Sebastiano and Elisabetta came and knelt before him. They begged his forgiveness. They were married. They had gone straight to Elisabetta’s grandmother’s house, and there the priest had made them husband and wife. They had been called three times, and now they were married. They had come home again for his forgiveness.
Niccolo listened to all they said. Then he spoke. “You have robbed me,” said he to Sebastiano, “of all that I held dearest in the world. You have deceived me and robbed me. And now you ask me to smile and forgive you. I know neither of you. You were once my son, and I would have given my life for yours; and this was the girl whom I loved. How you are nothing to me. You have my ewe lamb. She is yours, for the priest has made you one. Take her away, and never come to me again.”
They arose from their knees. Niccolo’s face was fixed and hard as stone. Sebastiano looked at him. There was no forgiveness there. So he went away.
They hired a little hut not far away, and Sebastiano worked every day in the fields. He earned a living thus, and so they kept body and soul together. Sometimes Sebastiano worked for his father, but Niccolo never looked at him nor spoke to him. Sebastiano said to himself, “Well, sometime the ice will melt and the water will flow again.” But Niccolo did not forgive them.
Niccolo was a very different man from what he had been before. In a year he had grown a great deal older. His hair had been gray; now it was white. In a year’s time he seemed to have added twenty years to his age. He grew mean, and became more and more miserly. By and by money was all to him. In the old times — the times before his trouble had come to him — he used to talk of an evening with his son; now, when he was through his supper, he would go to his room and lock the door, count over what he had, and reckon how much he had gained in the month that was passed. Every day he looked at his globe and saw that the surface was without blemish of any kind. Yes, it was clear and brilliant now and as transparent as air.
Everything was prosperous with him. He lent money at usury and made much by it. It was money, money, money with him. He became ever more and more a stern and unrelenting creditor. The money in his money - chest increased rapidly, for he spent little or nothing upon himself. He skimped every rind of cheese and every crust of bread. The people about him complained to their friends that he starved them, but still they stayed with him in spite of starvation, for he paid them very good wages. And so he grew rapidly toward being a rich man.
And Sebastiano was happy, too. For though he was poor, yet he had a beautiful wife who loved him with her whole heart. So for a time all was joy and sunshine with them. But by and by things began to be different. The harvest was over, and now work was difficult to find. He had to beg for money. He got help here and he got help there. Elisabetta’s grandmother lent them some money, but she was poor and could not do much, and by and by she could do no more.
Then Ettore gave them some, but one day he said to Sebastiano: “Look you, Sebastiano! Every man owes more to himself and those who belong to him than to anybody else. Why do you not go to your father for help? You are not my kin. I can give you no more after this.”
Then came the winter, and a baby was born to them. Sebastiano earned no money, and by and by in a few days he had nothing. Then he remembered what Ettore said to him — that he should go to his father for help.
So one morning he went to the house where he was born. His father was in front of the house turning over the orris-root that was drying there. He looked up when Sebastiano came and frowned at him. The young man needed shaving; his clothes looked poor and ragged. He was in his bare feet, for he had no shoes. He looked like the picture of crying poverty.
Niccolo saw it all and smiled wickedly. “Hah,” he said, “it is you, is it?”
“Father,” said Sebastiano, “I come to you for help. Others will not do anymore for me, but you cannot see me starve.”
“Hah,” said Niccolo, “is there no more for you? Shake the tree! S
hake the tree!”
Sebastiano smiled as though he strained his lips to do it. “I shake,” said he, “but nothing falls. There is’ nothing more for me unless you will help me over this rough place.”
“Hah,” said Niccolo, “are there no more plums? Shake the tree again! Shake it again! Surely they are not all fallen.” Then of a sudden he said with anger, “Why do you not go to work and earn some money for yourself?”
“I have tried everywhere,” said Sebastiano, “and there is nothing to do.”
“Then beg!” said Niccolo. “Go beg! You still have a pair of legs and a good voice. Use them and go beg.”
“I do beg,” said Sebastiano. “I beg you to forgive me and to show me mercy. You are still a man and my father, and I am a man in need.”
“You lie!” said Niccolo. “I am not your father and you are not my son. I have cast you off. You deceived me — you whom I trusted as I trusted my own right hand. You robbed me of my wife!” cried he. “Go rob some one of his money if you cannot beg!”
Sebastiano’s face was as pale as dough. The muscles of his unshaven cheeks twitched as with pain. “Do you mean this?” said he—” that I should rob if I cannot beg?” But Niccolo only said: “Away! Away!” Then he himself turned and went into the house.
Sebastiano looked after him with a white face. Then he, too, turned and went away with his head raised and his gaze fixed straight before him.
But Niccolo was in great trouble. Conscience pricked him at the heart as with a fine, sharp needle. “Why should I not have given him money?” said he. “I have plenty of it.”
He went to his room to comfort himself with the sight of what he owned. He unlocked his chest; yes, there was a great quantity of money, a peck of it, maybe. He gathered it up and poured it from his hand. This was all his own — his own. There was great comfort in the thought. Why should he give any of it away? He could not. Then Sebastiano came into his mind, and the thought of keeping it melted like a breath. If he had given one handful of this silver money, what would it have mattered to him? Sebastiano was starving, and he had driven him away like a mangy dog.
“Well,” he said to himself, “he will be here again, and then, maybe, I will give it to him.”
He banged down the lid of his money-chest and locked it. He would look at his globe of life. He went to the other chest and unlocked it. He took out the handkerchief and opened it very carefully. The crystal globe lay in the palm of his hand. What was this? It was covered all over with a thick gray mist. It was the mist of misfortune, and it was thick upon it. His heart went cold at the sight. What new misfortune was coming to him? He rubbed it with his handkerchief. The globe was clear and brilliant, but only for a moment. Almost immediately the mist gathered upon it as thick as ever. He rubbed it and rubbed it and rubbed it until the sweat ran. But always the mist returned to the ball. It was as though he had breathed upon it. He rubbed it and rubbed it and still the mist gathered upon it as he rubbed it off. “Well, I cannot clean it,” he said. “To-morrow I will rub it clean.” He wrapped it up and put it away whence he had brought it.
The next day was the Florentine market. He arose early and went into the Piazza della Signoria and stood with the other farmers at that place. He had a good crop of corn. He would sell it there and add to his store of money at home. But he could not keep the thought of Sebastiano from his mind. Suddenly he thought of him. Was this his trouble? Sebastiano had looked very poor and miserable the day before when he had come to him, hungry, barefoot, and unshaved. He had driven him away as though he were a beggar.
The thought caught his vitals, and he writhed under it as the devil twisted it where it was driven. Well, he would give the boy some money when next he saw him. If he did not come for it, then he would send it to him. He made a good bargain for his corn, but every now and then the thought of Sebastiano came to him, even in the midst of his bargaining, and each time he would twist with the remorse of his thoughts. Yes, he would send money to him as soon as he got home. The clouds of thought were so thick in his mind that now and then it was as though they took form and Sebastiano stood before him in the flesh. Even as he closed his bargain with Hieronimo Bistini for a part of his crop of corn, he saw before him that thin, bearded face, the bare feet, and the poor, starved look of the young man.
It was evening when he was through with his business at the market. The quarter-moon was shining thin and white on the silent earth. As he turned into the road that led to his house he suddenly bethought him of his globe of life. The mist of misfortune was upon it yesterday. He would go and look at it now. tie left his donkey-cart in the care of his hired help and went straight into the house. He took off his boots in the kitchen by the fire and went to his room in his bare feet. As he climbed the stairs he saw a thin slit of light coming out from under the door of his room. Some one was there. Who was it?
He suddenly walked very softly to the door. It was unlatched. He pushed it slowly open, silently. A man was there. He had a short candle near to him. He was bending over the money-chest. He was counting out the money. It fell with a soft chink! chink! from one hand to the other.
All other thoughts went out of Niccolo’s mind. Some one was robbing him. Some one was taking the very money, perhaps, that he was intending giving to his son. The robber was so intent upon his business that he did not hear the master of the house.
Niccolo entered the room very softly. He felt at his side. The knife was there. He drew it silently from its sheath. Then he sprang forward. The man was bent over the chest. Niccolo plunged the knife once and again into his body — two strokes as quick as a wink.
The man gave a shriek of agony. He fell forward upon one hand. The blood came streaming down the arm and into the chest of silver money. He turned his head around. The candle-light was full in Niccolo’s face; his own was in the shadow.
“Is it you?” he gasped. “You have done it!” Then he fell forward, his head in the chest.
It seemed to Niccolo that he recognized the voice. He stood for a while breathing quickly; then he reached slowly for the candle end, which still burned with a wavering light. His hands trembled so that he could hardly hold the light. He brought it forward, and the shine of brightness went quickly across the white face beneath him. The face was that of his son.
He flung himself down upon his knees and clapped his hands over his son’s wounds. He could not stop the blood; it still flowed beneath his fingers. “Sebastiano,” he cried, “I did not know you! I did not mean to hurt you; I meant to help you! Speak to me, Sebastiano!”
But Sebastiano could not answer. He was dead.
Niccolo sat upon his heels, gazing at him. He groaned and groaned. The tears were running down his face in streams. He thought nothing of the money that had been his pride and joy. What was it now? Suddenly he thought of his accursed ball. That was his curse. It had followed him with misfortunes ever since it had come into his hands.
He got up from his knees and went to his strong-chest and opened it. He snatched the ball from where it lay. It was covered with mist; in the candlelight the mist looked purple black. He hurled it violently upon the floor. With a flash of light it burst, emitting a thin, brown smoke.
It suddenly seemed to Niccolo as though the strength had gone out of his body. It seemed to him as though he could feel it passing out through the soles of his feet. He tottered toward his bed and fell half across it, his feet resting still upon the floor. He moved his hand feebly and then lay still. He, too, was dead. For the ball was broken.
THE END
THE EVIL EYE
Harper’s Monthly Magazine Feb 1912
IN THE OLD, old days there lived near Bagno di Ripoli a farmer by the name of Giovanni Riposali. He was young and handsome. He had black eyes and black hair, and a smooth, round neck as brown as a hazel-nut, upon which his head was set, balanced like an apple. He owned his house, his farm, two horses, and three cows, so that he was well-to-do in this world. His farm was good land where everythi
ng grew that was planted in the earth, so that he was very fortunate.
Besides these things, he was engaged to be married to a sweet, good, handsome girl, by name Caterina Malafaci, who, in spite of her name, was very desirable, for there was not her like to be found in that part of the country.
She lived with her father and mother in a little shop as you entered the village, where they sold wine and strawberries and cherries, and poultry all picked and ready for the cooking. She had skin as smooth as a glove and hair that was the color of a ripe chestnut.
There was another girl in the village named Niccola Pisalli, who was also as good-looking a creature as God’s sun shone upon. She had an olive face as smooth and round as a freshly laid egg. Her eyes were as black as jet, and so was her hair, — but it — was — soft and glossy as fine black silk. — A lock — of — this — hair would continually fall down across her face and — over — one — eye, — so — that — she had every now and then to brush it into its — place — with — the — back of — her hand. Her eyes were strange and very black, and her figure was as round as a sausage.
She had a mother who was a witch; you had but to look at her face to know that. For her nose was hooked, her eyes were deep, and her face was the color of tanned leather, and so covered with wrinkles that I do not believe there was any place on it where you could have laid a split pea and not have covered a wrinkle. She had long, straight hair the color of flax, and now and then a wisp of it would fall across her face and over one eye just as Niccola’s did.
The devil himself was her friend, for when she walked abroad in the streets the people would hear her talk, talk, talking to somebody whom no one saw. She was not talking to herself at these times, for she was very deaf, so who else would she have been talking to but the devil? Every one who passed the old woman upon the street hurried by her, looking another way and making the sign of the horns behind their backs. For she looked very sharply and keenly at every one she passed, and her eyes were like sharp needles that pierced one through and through. When she was angry they would shine green, like those of an angry cat.