VOLUME I

PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY GEORGE BARRIE & SON PHILADELPHIA

EXAMINING THE ABBÉ'S PAPERS.

He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. THE TRAVELLER II. THE TRAVELLER'S STORY III. MONSIGNORE IV. MYSTERIES V. THE CASINO VI. THE STAIRCASE VII. A GLANCE VIII. THE INTRUDER IX. MILA X. PROBLEM XI. THE GROTTO OF THE NAIAD XII. MAGNANI XIII. AGATHA XIV. BARBAGALLO XV. ROMANTIC LOVE XVI. CONCLUSION OF MAGNANI'S STORY XVII. THE CYCLAMEN XVIII. THE MONKS XIX. YOUTHFUL LOVES XX. BEL PASSO AND MAL PASSO XXI. FRA ANGELO XXII. THE FIRST STEP ON THE MOUNTAIN XXIII. THE DESTATORE XXIV. IL PICCININO XXV. THE DESTATORE'S CROSS XXVI. AGATHA XXVII. DIPLOMACY XXVIII. JEALOUSY XXIX. APPARITIONS XXX. THE FALSE MONK XXXI. WITCHCRAFT XXXII. THE ESCALADE XXXIII. THE RING XXXIV. AT THE FOUNTAIN XXXV. THE COAT OF ARMS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE PICCININO VOLUME I

EXAMINING THE ABBÉ'S PAPERS THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT THE BALL AT THE PALMAROSA PALACE AFTER THE FÊTE THE CONFERENCE WITH THE PICCININO MILA SURPRISED AT THE FOUNTAIN

INTRODUCTION

The Piccinino is an imaginary tale, which does not attempt either to depict any precise period of history or to describe accurately any country. It is a study in color, dreamed rather than felt, wherein correct strokes are few and, as it were, accidental. The scene of this romance might have been placed anywhere else under the skies of Southern Europe, and my sole reason for selecting Sicily was that I happened to have a collection of fine engravings before my eyes at that moment.

I had always been conscious of a longing to draw my little brigand chief, as others have done. The brigand chief who formed the principal motive of so many novels and melodramas under the Empire, under the Restoration, and even in romantic literature, always proved generally entertaining, and the principal interest always attached to that awe-inspiring and mysterious personage. It was most ingenuous on the part of the public, but so it was. Whether the type was terror-inspiring, as in the case of Byron's brigands, or, like those of Cooper, deserving of the Monthyon prize for virtue, it was enough that those heroes of despair should have legitimately earned the halter or the galleys, for every tender-hearted and virtuous reader to love them devotedly from the first page, and to offer up prayers for the success of their undertakings. Why, then, should I, on the pretext of being a reasonable person, have deprived myself of the pleasure of creating one of them according to my fancy?

Being fully persuaded that the brigand chief had become a part of the public domain, and belonged to every novelist, as do all other classical types, I determined to try at least to make that personage, occupying as he does so abnormal a position, possible and true to life in his character. Such a mystery envelops Byron's pirates that one would not dare to question them, and that one fears or pities them without knowing them. Indeed we may as well say at once that it is by virtue of that unexplained mystery that they appeal to us; but I am not Byron, and my novels are not poems. I desired, for my own part, to draw a perfectly intelligible character, encompassed by romantic circumstances, who is somewhat exceptional in himself, but with whom my indulgent reader can become acquainted, little by little, as with any ordinary mortal.

GEORGE SAND

Nohant, April 22, 1853.

THE PICCININO

TO MY FRIEND

EMMANUEL ARAGO

IN MEMORY OF A PLEASANT EVENING

I THE TRAVELLER

The region called piedimonta, which surrounds the base of Ætna, and of which Catania forms the portion nearest the level of the sea, is, according to the declared opinions of all travellers, the loveliest country in the whole world. It is that fact which impels me to place there the scene of a story which was recently told me, but of which I was forbidden to reveal the real locus or the real characters. Therefore, dear reader, pray take the trouble to transport yourself in imagination to the district called Valdemona, or Valley of the Demons. It is a beautiful spot, which, however, I do not propose to describe in great detail, for a sufficiently good reason: namely, that I am not familiar with it, and one cannot depict very faithfully what one knows only by hearsay. But there are so many excellent books of travel that you can consult! unless, indeed, you prefer to go thither in person, which I would that I, too, might do, to-morrow, provided that it was not with you, reader; for, in presence of the marvellous beauties of

that spot, you would rebuke me for having described it so ill, and there is nothing more disagreeable than a travelling companion who is constantly preaching at you.

In default of something better, my fancy is impelled to lead you rather far away, beyond the mountains, and to leave in peace for a time the quiet country districts wherein I usually like to frame my tales. The moving cause of this fancy is exceedingly puerile, but I propose to tell it to you.

I do not know whether you remember, assuming that you do me the honor to read me, that I placed before you last year a novel entitled The Sin of Monsieur Antoine, the scene of which was laid on the banks of the Creuse, and especially among the ruins of the ancient château of Châteaubrun. Now that château exists, and I drive thither at least once in every year, although it is about ten leagues from my own home. This year I was very coldly received by the old peasant woman who has charge of the ruins.

"Look you!" she cried, in her half-Berrichon, half-Marchois patois, "I don't think much of you; my name is not Janille, but Jennie. I haven't got any daughter, and I don't lead my master round by the nose. My master don't wear a blouse; you lied about him. I never saw him in a blouse, etc., etc. I don't know how to read, but I do know that you've been writing lies about my master and me. I have no liking for you now."

This harangue apprized me that there still lives, not far from the ruins of Châteaubrun, an old man named Châteaubrun, who never wears a blouse. That is all that I know about him.

But it proved to me that I must needs be most circumspect when writing of La Marche and Berry. That was at least the tenth time that something of that sort had happened to me, and every time persons bearing the name of some of my characters, or living in the localities I have described, have flown into a passion with me and accused me of slandering them, not deigning to believe that I took their names by chance, and that I did not know of their existence.

To give them time to become calm again, before I return to that region, I propose to make an excursion to Sicily. But how shall I avoid making use of a name that belongs to some inhabitant or some portion of that celebrated island? A Sicilian hero cannot be called Durand or Wolf, nor do I find on the map of the country any name which rhymes with Pontoise or Baden-Baden. I really must baptize my actors and my stage with names that have some rhyme in a, o or i. I will take those which are easiest to pronounce, so far as is possible, without much heed to geographical accuracy, declaring beforehand that I do not know a cat in Sicily, even by reputation; so that I cannot possibly intend to point at any particular person.

Having made this statement, I am free to choose, and the choice of names is the most embarrassing question that confronts a novelist who wishes to become sincerely attached to the characters he creates. In the first place, I need a princess who has a resounding name, one of those which give you an exalted idea of the person who bears it; and there are such lovely names in that country! Acalia, Madonia, Valcorrente, Valverde, Primosole, Tremisteri, etc.—they all ring true on the ear, like perfect chords. But if perchance there has ever happened in any of the patrician families which bear the names of those seignorial localities, an adventure like that which I am about to describe—a delicate adventure, I confess—why, I am sure to be accused once more of evil-speaking or calumny. Luckily, Catania is very far away; my novels do not, in all probability, pass the lighthouse of Messina, and I trust that the new pope will do in charity what his predecessor did without knowing why: that is to say, keep me in the Index; then I shall be

entirely at liberty to speak of Italy, certain that Italy, and with still stronger reason Sicily, will never suspect it.

Consequently my princess shall be called the Princess of Palmarosa. I defy you to find sweeter sounds or a more flowery meaning in any name in any novel. And now for her Christian name, we must think of that. We will call her Agatha, because St. Agatha is the revered patron saint of Catania. But I will urge the reader to pronounce the name Agata, even if I should happen inadvertently to write it in French, otherwise he will miss the local coloring.

My hero's name shall be Michelangelo Lavoratori, but we must never confound him with the illustrious Michelangelo Buonarotti, who died at least two hundred years before my man's birth.

As for the period in which the events are supposed to take place—another unpleasant incident of the beginning of a novel—you are entirely at liberty to select it yourself, dear reader. But inasmuch as our characters will be actuated by ideas now in circulation in the world, and as it would be impossible for me to speak to you as I should like to do of the men of past ages, I fancy that the story of the Princess Agatha of Palmarosa and Michelangelo Lavoratori belongs somewhere between 1810 and 1840. Fix the precise year, day, and hour at which we begin our narrative to suit yourself; it is a matter of indifference to me, for my novel is neither historical nor descriptive, nor does it pride itself at all upon being exact in either respect.

On the day in question—it was in autumn and broad daylight, if you please—Michelangelo Lavoratori was descending diagonally across the gorges and ravines which alternate with each other from the slopes of Ætna to the fertile plain of Catania. He was coming from Rome; he had crossed the Strait of Messina, he had followed the highroad as far as Taormina. There, intoxicated by the grandeur of the spectacle which his eyes beheld in all directions, and uncertain whether to choose the seashore or the mountains, he had gone forward to some extent at random, torn between his impatience to embrace his father and sister, whom he had not seen for a year, and the temptation to go a little nearer the gigantic volcano, compared to which it seemed to him, as to Spallanzani, that Vesuvius is simply a parlor volcano.

As he was alone and on foot, he had lost his way more than once in that wild region, intersected by vast streams of lava which form on all sides steep mountains and valleys filled with luxuriant vegetation. One travels far and makes very little progress when he must constantly ascend and descend over a distance quadrupled in length by natural obstacles. Michel had taken two days to travel the ten leagues, more or less, which lie between Taormina and Catania as the crow flies; but at last he was drawing near his journey's end, indeed, he had arrived; for, after crossing the Cantaro and passing through Mascarello, Piano-Grande, Valverde, and Mascalucia, he had at last left Santa-Agata on his right and Ficarazzi on his left. Therefore he was only about a mile from the suburbs of the city; if he had walked a quarter of an hour more, he would have reached the end of the adventures of a pedestrian journey, during which, despite the fascination and the enthusiastic admiration which such natural scenery inspires in a young artist, he had suffered

considerably from heat in the ravines, from cold on the mountain-tops, from hunger, and from fatigue.

But, as he skirted the wall of a vast park, on the slope of the last hill which he still had to cross, and as, with his eyes fixed on the city and the harbor, he quickened his pace to make up for lost time, he stumbled over the stump of an olive-tree. The pain caused by the blow was most acute; for, after two days' travelling over sharp slag, and pozzuolana as hot as red-hot ashes, his shoes were sadly worn and his feet cruelly bruised and sore.

Being compelled to stop, he found himself in front of a niche in the wall, containing a madonna. This little chapel, sheltered by a stone projection and provided with a bench, offered a hospitable resting-place to wayfarers, and to beggars, monks, and others a convenient station at the very door of the villa, of which our traveller could descry the handsome buildings through the orange-trees planted in a triple row along an avenue of considerable length.

Michel, more annoyed than cast down by this sudden hurt, dropped his travelling satchel, seated himself on the bench, and rubbed his injured foot, but soon forgot it to lose himself in meditation.

In order that the reader may understand the reflections which his surroundings suggested to the young man, it is essential that I should introduce him somewhat more fully. Michel was eighteen years of age and was a student of painting at Rome. His father, Pier-Angelo Lavoratori, was a mere dauber, a decorator, but very skilful in his line. And, as is well known, in Italy the artisans whose business it is to cover walls and ceilings with frescoes are almost all genuine artists. Whether from tradition, or from natural good taste, they produce some very attractive decorations; and in the most modest abodes, even in wretched taverns, the eye is charmed by wreaths and rosework done in a fascinating style, or it may be by borders simply, the coloring of which is happily contrasted with the dull tints of the panels and wainscoting. These frescoes are sometimes executed as perfectly as our wall-papers, and they are much superior to them, in this respect, that one detects in them the greater ease of manner of work done by hand. Nothing can be

more dismal than the stiff and regular decorations produced by machinery. The beauty of Chinese vases, and, indeed, of Chinese work in general, is attributable to that capricious air of spontaneity which the human hand alone can impart to its work. Grace, freedom, boldness, the unexpected, and even ingenuous awkwardness are, in decoration, elements of charm which we are losing day by day, as we depend more and more upon the resources of machinery and looms.

Pier-Angelo was one of the most rapid and ingenious of these decorators—adornatori. He was a native of Catania, and had reared his family there until the period of Michel's birth, when he abruptly left his province and settled in Rome. The reason he assigned for this voluntary exile was that his family was increasing in size, that there was too much competition in Catania, and that consequently his work no longer sufficed for his needs; wherefore he proposed to seek his fortune elsewhere. But people said under their breath that he had fled from the resentment of certain all-powerful patricians who were devoted to the court of Naples.

Everyone knows the bitter hatred of that conquered and down-trodden people for the government on the other side of the strait. The Sicilian, proud and revengeful, rumbles incessantly like his volcano, and sometimes erupts. It was whispered that Pier-Angelo had been involved in an attempt at a popular uprising, and that he had been obliged to fly, carrying with him his brushes and his household goods. To be sure, his social and kindly temperament seemed to contradict such a supposition; but the lively imaginations of the good people of the suburb of Catania must needs devise an extraordinary motive for the disappearance of one so loved and regretted by all his confrères.

At Rome he was hardly more fortunate, for he had the sorrow of losing all his children there except Michel; and ere long his wife died in giving birth to a daughter, whose young brother was her godfather, and who received the name of Mila, a contraction of Michelangela.

Having lost these two children, Pier-Angelo, albeit more melancholy, was much more at ease financially, and by dint of earnest work, he succeeded in giving his son an education far superior to that which he had himself received. He displayed a predilection for that boy which almost amounted to weakness, and Michel, although poor and obscure, was a veritable spoiled child.

Now, Pier-Angelo had spurred on his other sons to work, and had imparted to them early in life the ardor which was consuming him. But, whether because they had succumbed to excessive toil for which they had not received from Heaven the same aptitude and strength as their father, or because Pier-Angelo, finding his family reduced to three persons, no longer deemed it necessary to have assistance, it is certain that he seemed more anxious to handle tenderly the health of his last remaining son, than to provide him betimes with a means of livelihood.

Nevertheless, the child loved painting, and in play produced fruit, flowers, and birds, in which the coloring was exquisite. One day he asked his father why he never introduced figures in his frescoes.

"What do you say? figures?" replied the good man, who had an abundance of common sense: "one must paint very beautiful ones, or else let them alone. Figure painting is beyond such talent as I have been able to acquire, and whereas people think well of my garlands and arabesques, I should be very sure of making connoisseurs laugh if I should attempt to represent limping cupids or hump-backed nymphs dancing on my ceilings."

"Suppose I should try!" said the child, whom nothing daunted.

"Try on paper, and however successful you may be for your years, you will soon see that you must learn before you know."

Michel tried. Pier-Angelo showed his son's sketches to some connoisseurs, and to some painters too, who saw that the child had much talent, and that it would be well for him not to be confined too closely to the drudgery of mixing colors. Thereupon, Pier-Angelo determined to make a painter of him, sent him to one of the best studios in Rome, and relieved him entirely from preparing colors and daubing walls.

"One of two things will happen," he said to himself with good reason; "either the child will become a master, or, if he has only trifling talent, he will come back to the trade of decorating with knowledge that I do not possess, and he will be a workman of the first order in his line. In either case he will have a freer and more comfortable life than mine."

Not that Pier-Angelo was dissatisfied with his lot. He was blest with that improvidence, that recklessness, one might say, which are characteristic of the most laborious and most robust men. He always relied upon destiny, perhaps because he relied most of all upon his strong arms and his courage. But as he was a very shrewd and intelligent observer, he had already detected in Michel the gleam of a spark of ambition which his other children had never had. He drew the conclusion that the measure of happiness with which he had been content would not suffice for that more delicately balanced organism. Tolerant to excess, and thoroughly convinced that every man has aptitudes which no other man can estimate accurately, he respected Michel's impulses and inclinations as manifestations of the will of Heaven, and therein was no less imprudent than generous.