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

“Well, I don’t care,” said Giovanna sullenly. “It may rain every bolt out of heaven!” Then she added more gently: “But may that which I bear be saved from harm.”

“Upon my soul, you are in a bad humour. What has become of the old witch? I saw you sifting grain.”

“She has taken it to the ‘mill.’ She was afraid to let me go for fear I might steal some.”

“Patience, my daughter; it will not always be like this.”

“But it is like this, and like this, and I can’t stand it any longer. What sort of a life is it? She has honey on her lips and a goad in her hand. ‘Work, work, work.’ She drives me like a beast of burden, and gives me barley-bread, and water, and no light at night, and bare feet. Oh, as much of all that as ever I want!”

Aunt Bachissia listened, unable to offer any consolation. She was, indeed, accustomed to hear these plaints poured into her ears daily. Oh, Aunt Bachissia had been fooled as well! and had to work harder than ever before, though for that she cared little; it was Giovanna’s really wretched condition that gave her the most concern.

“Patience, patience; better times are coming; no one can rob you of the future.”

“Bah, what does that amount to? I shall be an old woman by that time⁠—if I haven’t died already of rage! What good will it do to be well off when you’re old? You can’t enjoy anything then.”

“Eh! yes, you can, upon my soul,” said the other, her green eyes gleaming like a couple of fireflies. “I could enjoy a great many things well enough! Eh, eh! To have nothing to do all day long, and roast meat to eat, and soft bread, and trout, and eels, and to drink white wine, and rosolis, and chocolate⁠—”

“Stop!” cried Giovanna, with a groan; and she told how she had been unable to find anything wherewith to quench her burning thirst.

“You must have patience,” repeated the mother. “That comes from your condition. If you had the most delicious things in the world to choose from⁠—liquors from the King’s own table⁠—you would still be thirsty.”

Giovanna kept gazing up at the house with the portico, her eyes weary and hopeless, and her mouth drawn down sullenly.

“Yes, we will have rain tonight,” said the other again.

“It can rain as much as it wants to.”

“Is Brontu coming home?”

“Yes, he is, and I am going to tell him about everything tonight; yes, I shall speak to him about it this very night.”

“My soul, you are? And what is it that you are going to speak to him about?”

“Why, I am going to tell him that I can’t stand it any longer, and if he only wanted me so as to have a servant and nothing else, he will find that he has made a mistake, and⁠—and⁠—”

“You will tell him nothing of the sort!” said the old woman energetically. “Let him alone; doesn’t he have to work and live like a servant himself? What is the use of bothering him? He might send you packing, and marry someone else⁠—in church.”

Giovanna began to tremble violently, her expression softened, and her eyes filled.

“He’s not bad,” she said. “But he gets tipsy all the time, and smells as strong of brandy as a still; it makes me sick sometimes. Then he gets so angry about nothing at all. Ugh, he’s unbearable! It was better⁠—it was far, far better⁠—”

“Well,” demanded Aunt Bachissia coldly, “what was better?”

“Nothing.”

This was the kind of thing that went on all the time. Giovanna did nothing but brood over memories of Costantino; how good he had been, how handsome, and clean, and gentle. A deep melancholy possessed her, far more bitter than any sorrow one feels for the dead; while her approaching maternity, instead of bringing consolation, the rather increased her despair.

The afternoon wore on, grey and leaden; not a breath of air relieved the suffocating stillness. Giovanna established herself on the tumble-down wall, beneath the almond-tree, and her mother came and sat beside her. For a while neither of them spoke; then Giovanna said, as though continuing a conversation that had been interrupted:

“Yes, it is just the way it used to be at first, after the sentence; I dream every night that he has come back, and it is curious, but do you know, I am never frightened⁠—though Giacobbe Dejas declares that if Costantino ever did come back he would kill me. I don’t know, but I somehow feel in my heart that he is coming back; I never used to think so, but I do now. Oh! there is no use in looking at me like that. Am I reproaching you for anything? I should say not. You would have a better right to reproach me. What good has it all done you? None at all; you can’t even come to see me any more⁠—up there⁠—” She thrust out her lip in the direction of the white house. “My mother-in-law is afraid you might carry some dust off on your feet! And I can’t give you anything, not a thing; do you understand? Not even my work. Everything is kept locked up, and I am treated exactly like a servant.”

“But I don’t want anything, my heart. Don’t make yourself miserable over such trifles. I am not in need of anything,” said Aunt Bachissia very gently. “You must not worry about me; all I care about is that money I borrowed from Anna Dejas. I don’t see how I am ever to pay her, but she will wait.”

Giovanna reddened angrily, and wrung her hands, exclaiming in a high-pitched voice: “Well, anyhow, I shall certainly speak to him about that tonight, the nasty beast; I am going to tell him that at least he might pay for the rags I have on my back. Pay for them! Pay for them! May you be shot!”

“Don’t speak so loud; don’t get so excited, my