XI

It was the vigil of the Assumption, a hot, cloudy Wednesday. Aunt Martina sat on the portico spinning, while Giovanna, who was pregnant, sifted grain nearby. Usually two women perform this task, but Giovanna was doing it alone. First she stirred the grain around in the sieve and extracted all bits of stone, then she sifted it carefully into a piece of cloth placed in a large basket that stood before her. She was seated on the ground, and beside her was another basket heaped with grain that looked as though it were piled with gold dust.

Instead of growing fat the “wife with two husbands,” as she was called in the neighbourhood, had become much thinner; her nose was red and somewhat puffed; there were dark circles around her eyes, and her lower lip was drawn down with an expression of discontent.

Some dishevelled-looking roosters, which now and again fell to fighting and strewed the floor with feathers, were laying siege to the basket; from time to time one of them would succeed in thrusting his bill inside; then Giovanna, with loud cries and threats, would drive him off, but only to stand watchful and alert, ready to return to the charge the moment her attention wandered.

Her attention wandered frequently. Her expression was sad, or rather, indifferent⁠—that of a self-centred person dwelling continually on her individual woes. The skies might fall, but she would consider only how the event might be expected to affect her personally. She was barefoot and quite dirty, as Aunt Martina hated to have her soap used.

The two women worked on in silence, but the older one watched her companion out of the corner of her eye, and whenever she was slack about driving off the chickens, she screamed at them herself.

At length one, bolder than the rest, jumped on the edge of the basket and began greedily pecking within.

“Ah⁠—h⁠—ah, a⁠—a⁠—ah!” shrieked Aunt Martina. Giovanna turned with a sudden movement, and the rooster, spreading its wings, flew off, leaving a trail of yellow grains behind it, which, in dread lest her mother-in-law should scold her (she was always in dread of that), she hastily began to gather up.

“What a nuisance they are!” she exclaimed peevishly.

“Ah, I should say they were, a downright nuisance,” said the other mildly. “No, don’t lean over like that, my daughter, you’ll hurt yourself; let me do it,” and leaving her spindle she stooped down and began to pick up the grains one at a time, while a hen seized the opportunity to pull at the bunch of flax on her distaff.

“Ah! ah, you! I’ll wring your neck for you!” shrieked Aunt Martina, suddenly turning and espying it, and as she drove it off, the others all instantly fell to gobbling up the grain.

The younger woman went on with her task, bending over the sieve, silent and abstracted.

From the portico could be seen the deserted common, Aunt Bachissia’s bare little cottage in the sultry noontide glare, a burning stretch of road, yellow, deserted fields, and a horizon like metal.

The clouds, banked high one upon another, seemed to rain heat, and the stillness was almost oppressive. A tall, barefooted boy passed by, leading a couple of small black cows; then came a young woman, likewise barefoot, who stared at Giovanna with two round eyes, then a fat white dog with its nose to the ground; but that was all; no other incident broke the monotony of the sultry noontide.

Giovanna sifted and stirred ever more and more languidly. She was weary; she was hungry, but not for food; she was thirsty, but not for drink; through her whole physical nature she was conscious of a need of something hopelessly lost.

Her task finished, she leaned over and began pouring the grain back from one basket to another.

“Let it be, let it be,” said Aunt Martina solicitously. “You will do yourself some harm.”

Giovanna, starting presently to carry the grain to the “mill,”9 her mother-in-law prevented her and took it herself. Left alone, Giovanna went into the kitchen, looked cautiously around, and then began to search through the cupboards. Nothing anywhere; not a piece of fruit, no wine, not so much as a drop of liquor wherewith to quench the intolerable thirst that tormented her. She did, at last, find a little coffee, which she heated, and sweetened with a bit of sugar from her pocket, carefully re-covering the fire when she had done.

The mouthful of warm liquid seemed, however, the rather to augment her thirst. Giovanna felt that what she wanted was some soft, delicious drink, something that she had never tasted in all her life and⁠—never would. A dull anger took possession of her, and her eyes grew bitter. Walking over to the door of the storeroom, she shook it, although knowing perfectly well that it was locked; her lips grew white, and she murmured a curse below her breath. Then, barefoot as she was, she went out, noiselessly crossed the common, and called her mother.

“Come in,” answered the latter from the kitchen.

“I can’t; there’s no one in the house.”

Aunt Bachissia came and stood in the doorway; glancing up at the sky, she remarked that it looked threatening, and that there would probably be a storm that night.

“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 soul. There is no use, I tell you, in losing your temper. What good will getting angry do you? Suppose he were to turn you out.”

“Well, he may if he wants to; it would be better if he did. At least, I could work for myself then, instead of slaving for those accursed people. Ah, there she is, coming back,” she added in a lower tone as the black-robed figure of Aunt Martina appeared in the open glare of the common. “Now, I’ll get a scolding for leaving the house empty; she’s afraid some one will steal her money. She has heaps of it, and she doesn’t even know about it; she can’t tell one note from another, nor the coins either. She has ten thousand lire⁠—yes, a thousand scudi⁠—”

“No, my soul, two thousand.”

“Well, two thousand, hidden away. And I am not allowed a drop of anything to refresh me, or to slake this burning thirst inside me!”

“It will all be yours,” said Aunt Bachissia, “if you will only be patient and bide your time. When the angels come some day and carry her off to Paradise, it will all belong to you.”

Giovanna cleared her throat, and rubbed it with one hand; then she resumed hotly: “They may drive me out if they want to, it makes no difference to me. Listen: the communal clerk says I am Brontu’s wife, but it seems to me as though I were just living with him in mortal sin. Do you remember what sort of a marriage it was? Done secretly, in the dark almost; without as much as a dog present; no confections⁠—nothing. And then Giacobbe Dejas⁠—choke him!⁠—laughing and yelling out: ‘Here he comes, the beauty!’ and then the ‘beauty’ came.”

“Now you listen to me,” said Aunt Bachissia in a low penetrating voice. “You are simply a fool. Upon my word, you always were, and you always will be. Why do you give up so? and for such trifles too? I tell you every poor daughter-in-law has got to live just as you are living. Your harvest-time will come; only be patient and obedient, and you will see it will all come out right. Moreover, just as soon as the baby is born I believe you will find that things are very different.”

“No, nothing will be different. And then⁠—if there were no children⁠—they will only chain me faster to that stone that is dragging me down and trampling on me. Would you like to know something? Well, my real husband is Costantino Ledda, and⁠—”

“And I’ll stop your mouth! You are beside yourself, my soul; be quiet!”

“⁠—and if he comes back,” Giovanna went on, “I’ll not be able to return to him on account of having children.”

“I will stop your mouth,” repeated Aunt Bachissia, trembling and rising to her feet with a movement as though she were about to put her threat into execution. There was no need, however, for Giovanna saw her mother-in-law coming across the common and broke off.

Aunt Martina, spinning as she walked, slowly approached the two women. “Taking the air?” she enquired, without raising her eyes from the whirling spindle.

“Fine air! The heat is suffocating. Ah, tonight we may get some rain,” replied Aunt Bachissia.

“It undoubtedly is going to rain; let us hope there will be no thunder, I am so afraid of thunder. The devil empties out his bag of nuts then. I hope and trust Brontu will be in before evening. What shall we have for supper, Giovanna?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Are you going to stay out here? Don’t run any risks; it might be bad for you.”

“What will be bad for me?”

“Why, the evening air; it is always a little damp. It is safer to stay inside; and you might be getting supper ready. There are some eggs, my daughter; eggs and tomatoes; prepare them for yourself and your husband; I am not hungry. Really, do you know,” she continued, turning to Aunt Bachissia: “I have no appetite at all these days. Perhaps it is the weather.”

“Perhaps it is the devil perched on your croup, and your own stinginess!” thought the other. Giovanna neither spoke nor moved; she seemed completely immersed in her own dismal thoughts.

“The panegyric is to be at eleven tomorrow, such an inconvenient hour! Shall you go, Giovanna? It has always been at ten o’clock in other years.”

“No; I shall not go,” replied Giovanna in a dull tone. She was ashamed now to be seen in church.

“Yes, at that time it is apt to be warm; it is just as well that you should not go. But it seems to be raining,” she added, holding out her hand. A big drop fell and spread among the hairs on its back. Tic, tic, tic⁠—other great drops came splashing down, on the motionless almond-tree, and on the ground, boring little holes in the sand of the common. At the same time the sky appeared to be lightening; there was a vivid gleam, and a great, yellow cloud, with markings of a darker shade, sailed slowly across the bronze background of the sky.

The women took refuge in their houses, and immediately afterwards the rain began to fall in earnest; a heavy, steady downpour, with neither wind nor thunder, but almost frightening in its violence. In ten minutes it was all over, but enough had fallen to soak the ground.

“God! Oh, God! Oh, San Costantino! Oh, Holy Assumption!” moaned Aunt Martina. “If Brontu is out in this he’ll be like a drowned chicken,” and she studied the heavens anxiously, though never for a moment ceasing to spin, while Giovanna began to prepare the supper. Listening to the clatter of the rain, she, too, felt a vague uneasiness; not, indeed, on her husband’s account, but in dread of some unknown, indefinable evil.

All at once the yellow light that had accompanied the downpour melted in the west into a clear, pale blue sky; the rain stopped suddenly, the clouds opened and parted, skurrying off⁠—under one another, on top of one another⁠—like a great crowd of people dispersing after a reunion. The light was sea-green; the air was fresh and reviving, filled with the odour of damp earth and of dried grass that has had a thorough soaking, and with the sound of shrill, foolish crowings of roosters mistaking this pale, clear twilight for the dawn. Then⁠—silence. Aunt Martina’s black figure, eternally spinning on the portico, made a dark splotch against the green sky. Giovanna was lighting the fire, bending over the hearth, when a long, tremulous neigh broke on her ears; the tremor in the sound seemed to communicate itself to her, and she straightened herself up, trembling as well, and looked out. Brontu was arriving, and she was frightened⁠—what about⁠—? About everything and nothing at all.

A tiny gleam flashed out from Aunt Bachissia’s cottage; by its light the old woman was endeavouring, with the aid of a rough broom, to sweep out the water that had poured over her threshold. The sky, beyond the yellow fields, looked like a stretch of still, green water; and in the foreground the almond-tree, glossy and dripping, dominated everything around it. Beneath the almond-tree, in the last gleam of daylight, Brontu appeared on horse-back; horse and rider alike black and steaming, and lagging along as though sodden and weighted by the deluge that had poured over them.

The two women came running out to meet him, uttering many expressions of horror, possibly a trifle exaggerated in tone, but he paid no attention to them.

“The devil! the devil! the devil!” he muttered, drawing his feet heavily out of the stirrups, and lifting first one and then the other. “Go to the devil who sent you!⁠—My shoes are waterlogged! Why don’t you get to work?” he added crossly, marching off to the kitchen.

The two women began at once to unload the horse, and when Giovanna followed him a little later, he at once demanded something to drink, “to dry him.” “Change your clothes,” she told him.

But no, he did not want to change his clothes; he only wanted something to drink⁠—“to dry him”⁠—he repeated, and grew angry when Giovanna would not get it for him. He ended, however, by doing precisely as she said⁠—changed his clothes, took nothing to drink, and, while waiting for supper, sat carefully rubbing his wet hair on a towel, and combing it out.

“What a deluge! what a deluge!” he said. “A regular sea pouring straight out of heaven. Ah, I got my crust well softened this time!” He gave a little laugh. “How are you, Giovanna? All right, eh? Giacobbe Dejas sent all kinds of messages. You act like smoke in his eyes.”

“You ought to stop his tongue,” said Aunt Martina. “He’s only a dirty serving-man; if you didn’t let him take such liberties he would respect you more.”

“I stopped more than his tongue; he wanted me to let him come in tonight. ‘No,’ I said; ‘you’ll stay where you are, and split.’ He’s coming in tomorrow, though.”

“Tomorrow? and why tomorrow? Ah, my son, you let yourself be robbed quite openly; you don’t amount to anything!”

“Well, after all, tomorrow is the Assumption,” said he, raising his voice, and putting the finishing touches to his hairdressing. “And Giacobbe is a relation, so let it rest. There, Giovanna, see how handsome I am!” He smiled at her, showing his splendid teeth.

He did, in truth, look so handsome, and clean, and radiant, with his shining locks and fresh colour, that Giovanna felt a momentary softening. Presently he began to hum a foolish little song that children sing when it rains:

“ ‘Rain! rain! rain
Ripe grapes, and figs⁠—’ ”

And so, they all sat down to the evening meal in high good humour and contentment. Aunt Martina, excusing herself on the plea of having no appetite, ate nothing but bread, onions, and cheese; articles of diet, however, of which she happened to be particularly fond⁠—but this in no wise interfered with the general harmony of the supper. After they had finished Brontu asked Giovanna to go out with him for a little walk; just to ramble about with no particular object, among the paths and deserted lanes of the village.

The sky had completely cleared, a few flickering stars glimmered faintly from out its pellucid depths; and the air was full of the odour of dead grass and wet stones. Quantities of sand and mud had been washed over the paths, but Giovanna wore her skirts very short, and such heavily nailed shoes that they struck against the stones with a sound like metal. Brontu took hold of her arm and began to invent wonderful pieces of news, as his custom was when he wanted to interest her.

“Zanchine,” said he, naming one of the men, “has found something. What do you suppose it is? A baby.”

“When?”

“Why, today, I think. Zanchine was digging up a lentisk when he heard a ‘wow, wow’; he looked, and there was a baby, only a few days old. Well, that wasn’t so wonderful; but now comes the queer part. A little cloud suddenly came flying through the air, and swooped down on Zanchine and seized the baby. It was an eagle who had evidently stolen the baby somewhere and hidden it among the bushes, and when he saw Zanchine looking at it, he shot down and⁠—”

“Get out!” said Giovanna. “I don’t believe a single word you say.”

“Make me rich, if it’s not true.”

“Get out, get out!” said Giovanna again impatiently, and Brontu, seeing that instead of being amused, she was out of humour, asked her if she had had a bad dream. She remembered the one she had told her mother of, and made no reply.

In this way they came to the other side of the village; that is, to the part where Isidoro Pane lived. A spectacle of indescribable loveliness lay spread before them. The moon, like a great golden face, gazed down from the silver-blue west; and the black earth, the wet trees, the slate-stone houses, the clumps of bushes, and the wild stretch of upland⁠—everything, as far as the eye could reach, to the very utmost confines of the horizon, seemed bathed in a tender, half-tearful smile. The two young people passed close by the fisherman’s hut; they could hear him singing. Brontu stopped.

“Come on,” said Giovanna, dragging him by the arm.

“Wait a moment; I want to knock on the thing he calls his door.”

“No,” she said, trembling. “Come away, come on, I tell you; if you don’t come, I’ll leave you by yourself.”

“Oh! yes, that’s true; you and he have had a quarrel; I haven’t, though; I’m going to knock on his door.”

“I’m going on, then.”

“He was singing the lauds of San Costantino,” said Brontu, as he rejoined her a few moments later. “The one the saint gave him on the river-bank that time. That old man is stark mad.”