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

I am perfectly willing, but whom shall I get? I am not so easy to please, and then I’m afraid⁠—I’m afraid⁠—I’m afraid. With this new law⁠—the devil roast all the lawyers⁠—who in the world is one ever to trust? There’s that precious young master of mine; there he is at this very minute, with the stamp of mortal sin on him. What is he doing here? Why don’t they horsewhip him? Why don’t they drive him out like a dog? And his old bird-of-prey mother too? The old jade, there she is! Why don’t they drive both of them out?”

“Ah,” he thought presently, “that is true, though; if they turned everyone out who did wrong, the church would soon be empty. But those two people, I hate them; I’d like to flog them till the blood came. I’m not bad, though; didn’t I stay up at the folds only today, working to repair the damage made by yesterday’s storm? Then, when I came down, there was Giovanna getting dinner all by herself. She was dirty, and ill, and unhappy. No holiday for her! The mother and son go off together, and she, the maid-servant, stays at home and does the work. Well, it serves her right⁠—a bad woman! And yet, I do feel sorry for her sometimes. There, God help me, I do feel sorry for her. When I said something ugly to her just now, she never answered a word. After all, when you come to think of it, she’s the mistress, and I’m the servant. But is it my fault if I can’t help pitching into you sometimes, little spring bird? I can’t bear the sight of you, and all the same I’m sorry for you, and that’s the way it is. Now, we must listen to what the priest has to tell us. He’s just like a sparrow; that’s it, a sparrow singing in its nest.”

“Brothers, sisters, beloved⁠—” cried the little preacher in the soft Loguedorese dialect, which sounds almost like Spanish, and waving his small white hands in the air⁠—“the faith of Our Lady is the most ideal, the most sublime of all faiths. She, the gentle woman, daughter, wife, and Mother of Our Lord, mounted to heaven all radiant and fragrant as a chaplet of roses, and took her seat in glory amongst the angels and seraphim⁠—”

“There’s Priest Elias,” thought Giacobbe, turning his little squint-eyes, which shone like metal in the bright light, towards the altar. “Yes, with his hands folded together, a boiled-milk priest, who can’t preach anything except goodness and forgiveness, and all the time he has the Holy Books, and could strike right and left among the people if he chose to. Ah, if he had only threatened Giovanna Era⁠—! He always looks as if he were in a dream, anyhow.”

“No one,” continued the little preacher, standing erect in the yellow pulpit, “no one has ever been able to say that he failed to get anything he asked in true faith from Our Most Holy Lady. She, the Lily of the Valley, the Mystical Rose of Jericho⁠—”

But the audience was growing weary. The women, seated on the floor like beds of ranunculuses and poppies, were beginning to stir uneasily, and had ceased to listen. The young priest understood, and brought his discourse to a close, with a general benediction, which included the entire gathering of persons who, while ostensibly listening to the word of God, were, for the most part, wholly taken up with their own and their neighbours’ affairs.

Priest Elias, arousing from his dream, resumed the celebration of the Mass. He alone, with possibly Isidoro Pane, had listened to the sermon, and the latter, so soon as the Mass was concluded, began to sing the lauds, his clear, sweet voice flowing out like a stream of limpid water rippling among rocks and flowering moss.

The young stranger listened with ecstasy to those liquid tones; the old fisherman’s venerable figure, his long, flowing beard, and gentle eyes, and the bone rosary clasped between his knotted fingers, recalling certain pilgrims he had seen in Rome.

He wanted to meet the old man, and Priest Elias, accordingly, stopped him at the church door. Giacobbe, who was watching, was almost consumed with envy at the sight of the fisherman standing in friendly conversation with the two priests.

“What the thunder were they saying to you?” he demanded as the other came up.

“They wanted me to dine with them,” said Isidoro, with some show of importance.

“Oh! they wanted you to dine with them, did they? So, my little spring bird, you are getting to be somebody, it seems. Well, you come along with me.”

“To the Dejases’? Not I!” exclaimed Isidoro in a tone of horror.

“No, no; I’m not going to eat with those children of the devil today. I’m going home, so come along.”

It was past midday as the two men set off for Aunt Anna-Rosa’s house. The sun, pouring down on the narrow streets, had dried the mud, and the moisture on the trees. In all directions people could be seen dispersing to their homes, and the heavy tread of the shepherds resounded on the stone pavements. Children, dressed in their Sunday-best, peeped from over tumble-down walls, and through open doors glimpses could be caught of dark interiors, with here and there a copper saucepan shining from a wall like some huge medal suspended there. Thin curls of smoke floated up through the clear atmosphere, and the music of a mouth-organ, issuing from a usually deserted courtyard, sounded as though it were coming from the bowels of the earth, where some melancholy old Fate was solacing herself.

The entire village wore an unaccustomed air of gaiety, and yet this very festal look, the wide-open doors, the wreaths of smoke, the children, so ill at ease at their holiday attire, the sound of the mouth-organ, the bare, unshaded houses exposed to the full glare of the noontide sun⁠—all combined to produce an effect of profound melancholy. Giacobbe led the way