After the Divorce by Grazia Deledda (buy e reader .txt) 📕

will of God be done!” said Isidoro, leaning his staff against the wall. “Be patient, Giovanna Era, you must not lose your trust in God.”

“You know?” asked Giovanna.

“Yes, I have heard. Well, he is innocent. And I tell you that even though he has been condemned today, tomorrow his innocence may be proved.”

“Ah! Uncle Isidoro,” said Giovanna, shaking her head. “Your confidence doesn’t impress me any longer. Up to yesterday I believed in you, but now I have lost faith.”

“You are not a good Christian; this is Bachissia Era’s doing.”

Aunt Bachissia, who regarded the fisherman with scant favour, and was always afraid of his bringing vermin into the house, turned on him angrily, and was about to launch forth into abuse, when another visitor arrived. He was presently followed by others, and still others, until at last the little cottage was filled with condoling neighbours; while Giovanna, who was really tired by this time even of weeping, felt it incumbent upon her to continue to sob and lament desperately.

All the time, Aunt Bachissia kept watching for the rich neighbour, but she did not appear. Instead, there came Giacobbe Dejas, the man who was about to enter her service. He was a cheerful soul, about fifty years old; ordinary-looking, short, thin, smooth-shaven, and bald; with no eyebrows, and a decided squint; the eyes, small and cunning, were of a nondescript colour, something between yellow and green. He had worked for Basile Ledda for twenty years, and had been called as a witness for the defence. In his testimony he had alluded to the ill-treatment Costantino had received from his uncle, but told also how the old miser had maltreated every one, his women and servants as well. Why, the very day before his death he had struck and kicked him⁠—Giacobbe Dejas!

“Malthina Dejas is expecting you,” said Aunt Bachissia. “You had better go on up there.”

“The devil cut off her nose!” replied Giacobbe. “I’ll go presently. What I’m afraid of is of falling out of the frying-pan into the fire! She’s a worse miser than even he was.”

“If she pays you what you earn, you’ve no right to judge her,” said the ringing voice of Uncle Isidoro.

“Ah! you are there, are you?” said Giacobbe mockingly. “How are the legs? Pretty well punctured?”

Isidoro regarded his legs, which were wrapped about with bits of rag. It was his habit to stand in stagnant water until the leeches attached themselves to him.

“That need not concern you,” he answered quietly. “But it is not well to curse the woman whose bread you are going to eat.”

“I shall eat my own bread, not hers, and that is our affair. Come now, Giovanna, take heart! What the devil! Do you remember that story I was telling you on the road from Nuoro? Be sensible now, for this little chap’s sake. Costantino is not going to die in prison, I can tell you that myself. Give me the baby,” he added, stooping down to take it, but finding the little fellow asleep, he straightened himself, and, placing a finger on his lips, “Aunt Bachissia,” he said (he always used the “Aunt” and “Uncle” even with people younger than himself), “do me a favour; send your daughter to bed; she has come to the end of her forces. And you, good people,” he continued, turning to the company, “let us do something as well, let us take ourselves off.”

One by one, accordingly, they all departed. Aunt Bachissia, seizing the stool upon which Isidoro Pane had been seated, took it outside and wiped it vigorously. When she came in she found Giovanna fallen into a sort of a doze, and had to shake her in order to arouse her.

The young woman opened her eyes, which were red and glassy; then she got up with the child in her arms.

“Go to bed,” commanded the mother.

She looked at the door, murmuring: “Never again! He will never, never come back again! For a moment I thought I was waiting for him.”

“Go to bed, go to bed,” said the mother, her voice harsher than ever. She gave Giovanna a push, and then, taking up the old brass candlestick, opened the door.

The cottage consisted of a kitchen, with the usual stone fireplace in the centre and the oven in one corner, and two bedrooms, furnished in the most meagre way. Giovanna’s bedstead was of wood, very high, and provided with an extremely hard mattress and a red cotton counterpane.

Aunt Bachissia took the little Martino, who was whimpering in his sleep, and laid him down, cradling him between her two hands, while Giovanna got ready for bed. When she was undressed and her head bare, the beautiful hair wound around it somewhat in the fashion of the ancient Romans, the mother covered her carefully and went out.

No sooner was she left to herself, however, than she threw off the covers and began to moan and lament. She was completely worn out with sorrow and fatigue, and her eyes were heavy with sleep, yet she could not rest. Confused pictures kept crowding through her brain, and, as though her mental anguish were not already suffering enough, sharp pains shot through her teeth and temples. Every time she had one of these twinges it was as though someone had poured a jug of boiling water down her spine, and she shook with nervous terror. Altogether, the night was one long horror.

From the adjoining room, the door of which stood open, Aunt Bachissia could hear Giovanna muttering and raving; now addressing Costantino in terms of extravagant endearment; then the jury with threats and imprecations. She herself, meanwhile, lay wide awake, her brain clear and active, going over every detail of what had taken place, and laying plans for the future. The sound of Giovanna’s grief only aroused a dumb sense of resentment in her breast, and yet, after a while, she too found herself weeping.

IV

On the evening of the following day, a Saturday, Brontu Dejas, returning