The bright autumn day was drawing to a close. A narrow white road ran toward the setting sun over the wide plain in the center of Sicily — the island that looks, on the map, like a football at the toe of Italy. Along this road came a solitary traveler, carrying a bag. He was very tired, for he had been at work in a town ten miles away. He still had a few miles to travel, and he knew that it would be dark before he arrived, for in Sicily the night falls as soon as the sun sets.
A horse came cantering along the road behind this traveler. The rider was a tall, dark man with fierce eyes, upturned mustaches and a black beard. He wore a wide felt hat and long boots with spurs. A big black cloak shrouded his figure.
When he reached the traveler, he reined in his horse.
“Buona sera, signore” (Good evening, sir), said the man on foot.
The horseman did not reply immediately. He leaped to the ground, and looked closely into the traveler’s face. Then he asked, “What is your business? What have you in that bag?”
“Books, signore.”
“Ah, then I’ve caught you at last. You are the man that goes about selling these pestilential books which corrupt the morals of simple people. Thank God, I have got you now. See, I am going first of all to burn your books and then to shoot you.”
So saying, he threw open his cloak, showing that he carried two ugly pistols in his belt.
“Put your bag down here and then go and gather sticks to light a fire. Don’t try to run away or I shall shoot you at once.”
He pulled out a pistol and shook it in the colporteur’s face.
The colporteur knew that he had fallen into the hands of a brigand—one of the bandits who were then numerous in Sicily. Thinking it best to keep a silent tongue in his head, he made no reply. He went off and presently returned with a big armful of brushwood.
By the time the fire was lighted night had come and the stars shone brightly overhead. Then at last the colporteur spoke. “Sir,” he said, “I will ask one thing before you burn my books and shoot me. Allow me to read you some passages from them.”
“Yes,” said the brigand, “that is fair. Sit down.”
The brigand sat on one side of the fire with the pistol in his hand. The colporteur took his place opposite and selected a little paper-covered book, the Gospel of St. Luke. He began to read: “A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves...
Now that was bringing it home rather closely to the brigand. The colporteur was bold — this is not the passage which most of us would have chosen. But the brigand did not show any resentment. He listened while the colporteur went on reading. The Italian language is extremely musical, and the parable of the Good Samaritan sounded very beautiful in the silence of that evening under the stars.
“I like that story,” said the brigand. “We won’t burn this book. Put it down here.”
The colporteur then took up the Gospel of Matthew, and turning to the fifth chapter began to read: “Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, thou shalt not kill;...” He read on until the brigand interrupted him. “That is good. There is nothing bad about that book, at any rate. Read an. other.”
The colporteur then took up a New Testament and read chapter 13 of St. Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians— the great hymn of Christian love. It sounds even more musical in. Italian than in English. The brigand went into raptures. “What beauty!” he exclaimed. “What truth! Love is kind... love envieth not... doth not behave itself unseemly... taketh not account of evil... Eccellentissimo (very, very fine). Certainly we cannot burn that book. Put it here, and read another.”
The colporteur went on reading from book after book and the brigand went on saying: “We won’t burn that one.” Finally the colporteur said: “That is the end.”
The brigand said sharply: “Nonsense, fetch out the bad books. I want to see the stuff you sell the village folk— the books that corrupt their morals.”
“But, sir, I have no others.”
“My friend,” said the brigand, “do not lie to me. It is dangerous.”
He got up and came to where the colporteur’s bag was lying. It was empty. He felt in the colporteur’s pockets and found no books.
Then he laughed.
“Bravo!” he said. “You can go, but, remember, if ever I catch you selling evil books I shall shoot you like a dog.”
So saying he called his horse and rode off. The colporteur took his bag and went on his way, thanking God for his escape. He reached the village, found an inn, and went to bed.
ML 11/01/1959