Accursed , livre ebook

The Accursed
Of Human Vice and Valour Vol. 1
Vivien Ferrars
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-12-31
The Accursed Epigraph Chapter I Piemonte, 1894 Poss Fond Maria’s Leap Maria at Le Querce The Banns Chapter II First Disappointment The Wounded Hound Childbirth and Sacrilege The Stupinis Incident and La Speransa Chapter III San Dalmass, 1904 Maté’s Return Back to His Old Tricks Chapter IV 1909 Biavëtta Don Michel’s Boys’ Choir Chapter V The Filberts Incident Chapter VI Maria Ponders Budding Romance Twelve Missing Tòme Goodbye, Fido Don Michel’s Dilemma: “What can a man do?” Chapter VII 1915 War Breaks Out Threshing Feast at L’Asia Tantum Ergo Sacramentum Chapter VIII 1916 First Casualty Catlinin Plans Her Trousseau Chestnuts Bertín Proposes Chapter IX Aftermath Chapter X Council of War Picking Up the Pieces Drafted Chapter XI 1917 Catlinin’s Wedding Revolutionary Rumblings Catlinin’s Visit The Turin Riots: ‘Not to adhere, not to sabotage’ Caporetto Maté Returns Chapter XII 1918 Home Front Solidarity Defanging the Big, Bad Wolf A Cuckoo’s Nest The Final Battles Chapter XIII Peace on Earth The Bicc Chapter XIV 1919 The Storm After the Storm The Crier in the Wilderness Chapter XV 1918 Suspended Sentence Life Goes On A Bicycle Ride Chapter XVI At Loose Ends The Red Biennium Ël Grip Chapter XVII Night Vigil Mater Dolorosa Chapter XVIII ‘Il faut cultiver son jardin’
Vivien Ferrars is the pseudonym of a doctor who has spent 40 years promoting healthy consciousness development at two Harvard Medical School hospitals as well as in private practice until she retired to devote herself to full-time writing.
In memory of
Prof. Guy Butler
Copyright © Vivien Ferrars (2020)
The right of Vivien Ferrars to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528985482 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528985499 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528985505 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
The first idea for what was to become Of Human Vice and Valour arose from childhood memories of musical gatherings in my parents’ home, on the one hand and, on the other, from memories of brief encounters during summer holidays in the Alps and in the Turin countryside. I only wish that I could thank all the real-life people who inspired the totally fictional characters in this novel. But almost a century having gone by, the best I can do is remember the impressions their realities left in me and dedicate my fiction to their vague and elusive memory.
A further inspiration came from Emily Carle’s autobiography, Une Soupe aux Herbes Sauvages, which provided the idea for the character of Maté. I must also acknowledge Thomas Hardy, Balzac, Verga, Roger Martin du Gard, Galsworthy, Bertold Brecht and Thomas Mann as literary precursors.
More immediately, I want to thank all the people who helped me through the long process of incubation, gestation and final bringing to life of story and characters alike. Among them, I include Vera Bertolini, Raffaello Emaldi and Patrizia Chiesa of Noste Reis, who introduced me to the mysteries of Piemontèis orthography and grammar; my dear friend and fellow poet and horseman Bott Ikeler for uncomplainingly reading the endless first draft and suggesting a more prominent role in the novel for the political climate of the time; my piano teacher who advised me on musical details; fellow writer Jennifer Bresnick for supplying moral support and computer literacy where mine failed; long-term friend and fellow scholar Gillian Gill for commenting on the first draft; Roger Vande Wiele for capturing the spirit of the novel in his book cover, and Greta Smagghe for her friendly and unfailing technical assistance.
Last, in terms of process sequence but certainly not for their much-valued contribution, I thank the editorial and production staff at Austin Macauley for actually bringing the novel into the light of day.
To all and all, my heartfelt thanks.
Epigraph
Plac’d on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic’s pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest…
… Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err…
… Chaos of thought and passion, all confus’d;
Still by himself abus’d, or disabus’d;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
The Essay on Man
Alexander Pope
Chapter I
Piemonte, 1894

Poss Fond *
The voice of the San Dalmass church bell sounded twelve strokes over the autumnal fields as Maria, a basket on her arm, turned to latch the gate closed behind her. She counted the barely audible bell tones, muffled by the dense, October fog. She gathered her shawl more tightly across her chest and headed out towards the field Gioachin was ploughing for the winter wheat, a fifteen-minute walk, his midday meal, wrapped up in an old sweater to keep it warm, in the basket on her arm. That field should have been sown weeks ago, but Gioachin now lived on his in-laws’ farm, Le Querce ** , out Candieul’s way, a good half hour’s drive, and was no longer master of his own time. He came to help her with the big works whenever he could, but it wasn’t enough. Reduced though it was, Poss Fond still needed a man’s full-time care. She did her best, but couldn’t manage the ploughing, haying and harvesting on her own.
She glanced at the recently seeded fields across the irrigation ditch on either side of the footpath, fog-shrouded and silent. These fields had all belonged to Pa, before he’d died and Paolín had taken off with most of the money to seek his fortune in Argentina.
Remembering the hot July morning of her pa’s sudden heart attack, twelve years ago, she sighed. It had changed their lives forever. He’d been a loving family man, their pa, Paolín De Angelis. He’d also been a shrewd, hardworking farmer, with a keen eye for an honest chance to improve his lot. Poss Fond, the farmhouse that had always been their home, had come to Pa as Ma’s marriage portion. Then, over the years, he had added six adjoining farmsteads to it, and renamed his now substantial farm Set Poss * , one well for each of the seven lots.
Life had been good at Set Poss , its peace marred only by Paolín butting heads with his pa over going to America. Pa had always meant for his first-born son to carry on at Set Poss as master of the house. Paolín was five years older than Gioachin because their ma had miscarried four times before the next birth. But Paolín had always had a bee in his bonnet about going to America, and all because of that man, Garibaldi. And then, Pa had died suddenly, and Paolin had sold Set Poss and gone off to Argentina. All that was left was Poss Fond , which had been Ma’s portion and settled on her in the marriage agreement, for her to pass on as she saw fit.
Paolín’s leaving had broken their ma’s heart. But then, after the first fierce grief at her double loss – her husband dead and her first born gone – she’d turned for comfort to her two surviving children. Gioachin was then barely sixteen, and Maria, three years younger.
Grief, Maria thought, remembering, grief and bewilderment. But it had all brought them closer together, Ma, Gioachin and her, and they’d made a good thing of Poss Fond. In fact, it had become the dearer for being all that was left of the family’s former life, its quiet beauty and comforts, cherished.
A loud cawing overhead broke into Maria’s musing: three blackbirds chasing a crow, their sharp screams and angry pecks ensuring the crow’s retreat. Maria watched the crow stagger in its flight with each fierce pecking. Whatever its previous purpose might have been that had angered the blackbirds, its only concern now was to get away.
Below, in the field across the irrigation ditch, other black birds scavenged about the newly seeded furrows, foraging for grain. In Pa’s days, there would have been a scarecrow in that field. Maria sighed: other times…
Just ahead, a row of polled mulberry trees marked the boundary of the field where Gioachin was working. She was almost there. She stepped carefully across the plank that bridged the irrigation ditch, calling out to her brother from the edge of the field. Gioachin answered her with a lift of his chin, hands tight on the handles of the bucking plough. He finished the furrow, unhitched the horse and came to sit by her, as she peeled off the warmer from his lunch pail. She handed it to him. “Smells good,” he said, dipping his spoon into the thick soup. She laid a wine gourd within easy reach of his hand and cut him a slice of bread.
“All well at Le Querce ?” she asked. He nodded, busy with his meal. Maria watched him in silence, content just to be sitting by him and watch him eat. She relished his presence. The house was so silent now that she was alone in it, with only the cackle of hens and the dog’s occasional bark to break the silence.
“And Nin-a?” she added.
“She’s fine,” he m