“It is all right,” he whispered, “I will pay them for the birds.” But his wife turned suddenly away.
IV
The weeks passed, and still they stayed on at the farm; Maddalena was loath to go, for Gian-Luca seemed almost well again, cured by the fine air and sunshine. Her cousins quite openly said that he was mad, but because of his affliction they forgave his behavior.
“If he is not mad, then he is English,” declared Sisto, “and, that after all, is very much the same thing!”
His solitary habits lent color to the rumor that Gian-Luca was one of God’s afflicted; he would wander all over the countryside, never speaking to the peasants, unless it were to urge them to show some mercy to their beasts. Those days spent out in the open air had given new life to his body; but his compassionate mind was weary unto death, and his heart was filled with a great loneliness, and his soul had begun to long intolerably for something—only, he could not tell for what. He would look into the eyes of the saddle-galled mules, and the stumbling, ill-cared for horses; for he felt that they held a message, those eyes, and he tried very hard to understand that message, talking to the dumb things gently. But one day he must look into the eyes of cattle that were being driven to slaughter.
He had wandered a very long way from the farm and was climbing a steep salita; and there at the summit of the pathway stood a cross, and the Christ on the cross looked straight down the pathway. Then over the sharp, loose stones came stumbling those terrified driven cattle: their eyes were filled with a knowledge of disaster, for their sensitive nostrils had scented death from the slaughterhouse halfway up the hill. Long festoons of slime were swinging from their lips, and they tried to turn back into safety; then their drover struck them on their anxious faces, and on their bowed heads and their quivering flanks; and he cursed them, while the blows fell heavy in his fury, so that they had to go forward.
On they must stumble to Calvary as Another had stumbled before them; poor, lowly, uncomprehending disciples, following dumbly in the footsteps of God who had surely created all things for joy, yet had died for the blindness of the world. And because the sky was so radiantly blue His cross stood out darkly defined. Looking up, the drover suddenly perceived it, and he signed his breast with the emblem of compassion; then he struck yet again at his bullocks. But Gian-Luca saw neither the cross nor the sky, he saw only a creature’s eyes—for he thought that a poor beast looked at him in passing, seeming to accuse him as he stood there helpless, so that he too bowed his head.
Nor was this all that he must witness that day, for going home in the evening he heard a bird singing at the door of the cobbler in the village, near Sisto’s farm. He had never heard such singing before, it was indescribably lovely, and behind the song was a spirit of hope so poignant that it seemed to be racking the bird’s body. The bird was singing in an agony of hope that came very near to despair.
The cobbler nodded and smiled at Gian-Luca: “Buona sera,” he said politely, “you admire him? He is new—he has a fine song.”
“A marvelous song!” said Gian-Luca. And then he must make his eternal request: “Let me buy him a larger cage.”
But the cobbler shook his head: “If you did, signore, he would not find his food, he is blind.”
“Blind?” said Gian-Luca, incredulously.
“Si, signore, that is why he sings so finely; we often blind them to make them sing, it seems to give sweetness to their notes.”
His voice was neither pitiful nor cruel, only lacking in understanding; he chirruped to the blind bird as though he liked it, and going into the house he fetched some lettuce, which he pushed between the bars of its cage. The bird felt the cool, green stuff against its wing, and burst into a torrent of song; as it sang it shuffled its claws on its perch, swaying from side to side. Then Gian-Luca put his hands up to his ears and started to run down the street, and as he ran he remembered the beggar and her child who had lost his eyes. The child and the bird seemed to merge together, no longer two separate creatures; the suffering of the one was the suffering of the other, and the suffering of both was the suffering of Gian-Luca. And although he had covered his ears with his hands, he thought that he could still hear that singing.
V
It was February when the crisis was reached; they were nearing the end of their stay, and Gian-Luca’s resentment towards Leone had got well-nigh beyond his control. As for the boy, he hated Gian-Luca and went out of his way to enrage him; the weapon he used was the little brown donkey, who must suffer accordingly. Yet as sometimes happens, a very small incident led to the final explosion; Gian-Luca came on Leone one morning thoughtfully tweaking out the donkey’s mane—a painful proceeding, but as heavenly balm when compared with the other torments. For one long minute Gian-Luca stood quite still while Leone looked up and grinned:
“Sai che non sentono niente—” he began. Then he stopped abruptly, for Gian-Luca had swooped forward and seized the discarded whip.
It was all
