The Sun and The Rainbow

A Mere Manuscript

AN INCIDENT OF 1321

A SHORT STORY

"Is there forgiveness for me? Tell me, holy father, what should I have done? My eyes are dimming and my own voice comes from afar as came those sounds that made me hurry across the Piazza. A terrible fire was eating up the house, and when I saw its hungry colours leap madly laughing above and around, and all the crowd helpless in the street, I forgot that I was lame and my body rushed like a moth towards the glare,

"Before I knew where I was, 1 found myself plunging through smoke and cracking wood-work, up the stairs to the room where my old mother lay, sick and stifled in a ring of fire. The door was open and 1 could have burst in to drag my darling out. Oh I loved her as no man ever loved his sweetheart — my little frail mother with that soft glance full of understanding!

"But I saw a still fiercer confusion of flames raging higher up where the stairs reached the second floor. And in a flash I remembered the man whose room was there. He could not be in, for he returned late every night from a lonely walk. His firm short step I used to hear on the landing, and he would be humming to himself in a slow and rhythmic tone. I had often seen him in those humming moods — his large gaze forgetful of everything, the nostrils of his curved nose quivering as if he had run and were breathless. What a strange man, with a long melancholy face and with eyes for ever absorbed to recall

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some felicity lost like a dream. He looked almost a priest. If he had your robe, father, he would suit it as even priests seldom do. He seemed to have no interest any more in life — but there was something unbreakable in him, hard like a diamond and like a diamond precious..."

After a pause the weak voice went on.

"Yes, his room was above, there where the flames were hissing most violently. I stood on the edge of one terrible moment of decision - then tore myself away from my mother's chamber and stumbled upstairs, fighting through that golden torture which shrieked like a hundred devils.
My clothes were ripped by the keen fire, the flesh of my legs sizzled, but I clove my way undaunted.

"Through the door I rushed. I saw his big lamp, which had been left burning, overturned somehow and splintered. I knew where his table stood, and with a blind hand I searched the dazzle that now enveloped it. The bundle I was looking for was there; I grabbed it just in time - a mass of sparks and ashes flew from its wrapper, but to my great delight the contents seemed almost undamaged. I thrust the heap into
my doublet and dashed downstairs. But here it was indeed too late. My mother attempting to rise had fallen upon the floor. Her face and hair were so horribly burnt that I nearly swooned at the sight...

"My heart has known pain such as nobody will guess. What had I done? I had killed my mother, for I could have saved her. I had killed her for a mere bundle of manuscript. I myself would have gladly dropped beside the- dear flesh all ruined now. It would have been a joy to get rid of a heart seared with grief and a soul consumed by sin - but I could not let go that manuscript. I ran down the scorching stair and afterwards I knew nothing. The people in the street must have caught me as I staggered out, and carried me here."

Niccolo Scalza, the young poet of Udine, was too exhausted to continue. He stared straight in front of him while his mouth endeavoured vainly to form words. At last he mumbled for

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water and the friar put it to the ashen lips. Then, with a weak twisting of them, the disfigured man continued:

"When I look back, I shudder, if I had saved her, I would have saved myself too; but there is no hope now. I must be ugly, father, with the signature of fire all over my face — ugly as my own crime. But I knew also that I could not have acted otherwise. For I was aware of what lay hidden in that manuscript. It is a miracle, it Is a word born from the skies. To let so much of the mind's magnificence perish would have been to fling away the Creator's grace — not only to our time but to the endless future as well...

"Where is my friend? He will be mad with sorrow, thinking his work has been destroyed, but he will come to see me — my corpse. Give then the treasure to him; it is his ten years' labour, and when the world will see it he shall wear the crown of immortality. Even the cruel city that has exiled him will bow at his feet and repent the miseries and humiliations heaped on his head...

"Whose face is this? Is she still alive? I wish she were and it was not only my wandering brain which painted her. But she had most understanding eyes, and perhaps she will forgive me. Father, is there mercy for me from God? Why are you silent? Ah, you have not read the divine poem."

"My son, yours is a deed most unbelievable. You have sacrificed two lives. May God look at the heart of your folly, not at its cruel exterior."

"Give me your hand, father. My head is throbbing with too sharp a pain. I am a little afraid of the coming darkness."

"There is a Love in which often the darkness feared by the world proves to be pure light. I commend your soul to that Love. Pass in peace."

The friar performed the last ministrations. The dying man listened, tried to smile and before the smile could fade from his lips life was gone. The friar arranged the thin scorched hands, put a crucifix in them and turned sadly to the open window. The town of Udine was asleep, for it was near mid-

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night. The clear Italian sky was filled with stars. He moved back to the bed where in one corner the saved manuscript was lying. As he lifted it, the last sheet broke in two, owing to the effect of the fire; but luckily there were only a few lines scribbled there. The friar bent his head and puckered his eyes to decipher them and slowly read a music unknown yet to the world:

All'alta fantasia qui manco possa;

ma gia volgeva il mio disio e il voile,

si come rota ch'igualmente e mossa,

l'Amor che move il sole e 1'altre stelle.¹

1. Then vigour failed the towering fantasy;

Yet, like a wheel whose speed no tremble mars.

Desire rushed on, its spur unceasingly

The Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

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