XIV

The room where Giacobbe lay was extremely lofty, and so large that the oil light did not penetrate the corners. The furniture appeared to have been built expressly with a view to its ample proportions; a huge, red, wooden wardrobe which stood against the end wall, reaching clear to the ceiling. The bed, the lower part of which was draped with yellow curtains, was as high and massive as a mountain. Seen thus, in the dim, flickering light, with its black corners and great lofty white ceiling like a cloudy sky, the room had a mysterious, uncanny look. Little Aunt Anna-Rosa seemed almost in danger of losing her way as she moved about among the bulky furniture, and her shoulders hardly reached above the counterpane when she came and stood beside the bed where her brother lay in the uneasy grip of the fever.

He seemed to himself still to be in the mound, only the two friends who had interred him, kept on piling the earth higher and higher about his head. He was suffocating, the torture was almost unendurable, and yet he dared not stop them, fearing the cure might not be efficacious unless his head were buried as well; and his head seemed to be Priest Elias, on whose breast the tail of a tarantula could be seen wriggling about.

In his dream Giacobbe was conscious of an almost insane fear of death. It had occurred to him when he was in the oven that hell, perhaps, was a huge heated oven where the damned would sprawl throughout eternity.

Now, in his dream, precisely the same feeling was reproduced. He was in the mound, the earth reached higher and higher about him; he shut his mouth tight to keep from swallowing it, and there, opposite him, he suddenly saw a lighted furnace. It was the infernal regions. Such a feeling of terror seized upon him that even in his dream, in his feverish semi-consciousness, he was aware of an overmastering desire to prove to himself that this horror was an illusion of the senses. In the effort he awoke, but even awake he had something of the same sensation that stones, were they endowed with feeling, would have in a burning building, growing all the while hotter and hotter, and yet unable to stir an inch. Giacobbe felt like a burning brick himself, or a piece of live coal, a part of the infernal fires; and waking, his terror was even more acute than in his dream. He emitted a groan and the noise gave him comfort; it had an earthly, human sound, breaking in on all those diabolical sensations.

Isidoro, who had stayed in case the little widow might have need of him, heard the groan from where he sat dozing in the adjoining kitchen, and bounded to his feet in terror; he thought that Giacobbe had died. Approaching the bed, he found the sick man lying flat on his back, his face drawn, his eyes, which looked almost black, wet with tears.

“Are you awake?” asked the fisherman in a low voice. “Do you want anything?” He felt his pulse, and even laid his ear against it as though trying to hear the throbs.

At the same instant Giacobbe observed the round little visage of his sister appear above the other edge of the bed, enveloped in the folds of a large white kerchief.

Then a curious thing happened: the face of the sick man contracted, his mouth opened, his eyes closed, and a deep sob broke the stillness of the room. Instantly memory carried the woman back to a far-distant day when her brother, a tiny lad, had sat weeping on this very bed; and opening her arms just as she had done then, she took him to her kind bosom, murmuring words of loving remonstrance.

“In the name of the holy souls in purgatory! What is it? What is the matter, little brother?”

Isidoro, quite at a loss, continued to feel his friend’s pulse, trying now one vein, and now another, and muttering to himself: “How strange, how very strange!”

“Well, what is it? Won’t you tell me what it is? You, Isidoro Pane, what happened?”

“Why, nothing happened. He called out, and that was all. May be he had a bad dream. We’ll give him a drink of water. There now, here’s a little fresh water. That’s it, he wants it⁠—see how he is drinking! You were thirsty, weren’t you? It’s the fever, you see; that’s what ails him!”

Giacobbe sat up in bed, and after drinking the water calmed down. He had on an old white knitted cotton shirt, through which could be seen the outline of his small wiry body, the thick growth of black hair on his chest contrasting oddly with the perfectly smooth face and bald head above it. He remained in a sitting posture, leaning forward, and thoughtfully passing his well hand up and down the injured arm.

“Yes,” he remarked suddenly in the panting, querulous tone of a person with fever. “Yes; I had a bad dream. Whew! but it was hot! Holy San Costantino, how hot it was! I was dreaming of hell.”

“Dear me, dear me, what an idea!” said his sister reprovingly; and Uncle Isidoro said playfully: “And so it was hot, little spring bird?”

The sick man seemed to be annoyed.

“Don’t joke, and don’t say ‘little spring bird.’ I don’t like it; I shall never say it again, and I shall never laugh at anyone again.

“Listen to me,” he said, bending forward and continuing to rub his arm. “Hell is a dreadful place. I’ve got to die, and I’ve got to tell you something first. Now listen, but don’t get frightened, Anna-Rosa, because I am certainly going to die; and Uncle Isidoro, you know it already, so I can tell you. Well, this is it. It was I who killed Basile Ledda.”

Aunt Anna-Rosa’s eyes and mouth flew wide open; she leaned against the side of the bed, and began to shake convulsively.

“I knew it already?” exclaimed Isidoro. “Why, I knew nothing at all!”

Giacobbe raised a terrified face, and began to tremble as well.

“Don’t have me arrested,” he implored. “I’m going to die, anyhow; you can tell them then. I thought you knew. What is the matter, Anna-Ro? Don’t be frightened; don’t have me arrested.”

“It’s not that,” she said, raising herself. Her first sensation of having received a blow on the head was passing away, but now, in its place, there came a singular feeling of some change that was taking place within her; her own spirit seemed to have fled in dismay, and in its place had come something that regarded the world, life, heaven, earth⁠—God himself⁠—from a totally different standpoint; and everything viewed in the light of this new spirit was full of horror, misery, chaos.

“I will not tell any one. No, no! But how could you ever suppose that I knew about it?” protested Isidoro. He felt no especial horror of Giacobbe, only profound pity; but at the same time he thought it would be better, now, for him to die.

Then, simultaneously, their thoughts all flew to Costantino, and hardly left him again.

“Lie down,” said Isidoro, smoothing out the pillow. But the other only shook his head and began to talk again in the same querulous, laboured voice, now beseeching, now almost angry:

“I thought you must know about it; and so, you never did, after all? Well, that’s so; how could you? But I was afraid of you all the same. I had an idea that I could read it in your eyes. Do you remember that night at your house, when you said: ‘It might be you who killed him’? I was frightened that night. Then, there was that other time⁠—Assumption Day⁠—here in this very house, you called me ‘murderer.’ I knew it was a joke, but it frightened me because I was afraid of you, anyhow. So then, when I said that about you and my sister getting married, I meant it. I thought it might give me a sort of hold on you.”

“Oh, Christ! Oh, holy little Jesus!” sobbed the widow.

Giacobbe looked at her for a moment.

“You are scared, eh? You wonder what made me do it? Well, I’ll tell you. I hated that man; he had flogged me, and he owed me money. But I thought it would kill me when they condemned Costantino Ledda. Why didn’t I confess then? Is that what you want to say? Ah, it sounds all very easy now, but you can’t do it. Costantino is a strong young man, I thought to myself; I shall die long before he does, and then I’ll confess the whole thing. And I can tell you that that thing that Giovanna Era did made me a hundred years older. What is Costantino going to say when he comes back? What is he going to say?” he repeated softly to himself.

“What ought we to do?” said Aunt Anna-Rosa, burying her face in the bedclothes and groaning. She felt as though it must all be some frightful dream; yet, not for a single instant did she contemplate concealing her brother’s crime. And afterwards?⁠—One of two equally horrible things must happen. Either Giacobbe would die, or he would be sent to prison. She could not tell which of the two she dreaded most.

“Now we must lie down and rest; tomorrow will be time enough to talk of what is the best thing to do,” said Isidoro, again smoothing out the pillow. Giacobbe turned over and laid himself down; then, raising his left hand, he began to count off on his fingers: “Priest Elias, one; the magistrate, two; then⁠—what’s his name?⁠—Brontu Dejas; yes, I want him particularly. They must all come here, and I will make a confession.”

“Brontu Dejas!” repeated Isidoro with stupefaction.

“Yes; they will take his word sooner than any one’s. But first, you’ve all got to swear on the crucifix that you’ll let me die in peace. I’m frightened. You’ll let me die in peace, won’t you?”

“Why, of course; don’t worry now. And you, little godmother, go back to bed; get as much rest and sleep as you can,” said the fisherman, quietly drawing the clothes up about Giacobbe, who kept throwing them off, turning restlessly, and shaking his head.

“I’m hot,” said he. “I tell you I’m hot. Let me alone. Why aren’t you more surprised, Uncle ’Sidoro? I went on hiring out to keep people from suspecting anything; but you knew all along; oh, yes! you knew well enough!”

“I tell you I knew nothing at all, child of grace.”

“Then why aren’t you surprised?”

“Because,” replied the old man in a grave voice, “such strange things are always happening; it is the way of the world. Now keep the covers over you, and try to go to sleep.”

The widow, who appeared not to have been listening to what the two men were saying, now raised her face. Poor, little, fresh face! It had suddenly grown yellow and wrinkled; all the years that had passed over it without being able to leave any trace, had, in the last five minutes, taken their revenge!

“Giacobbe,” said the little woman, “what need is there of calling in witnesses? Why should we have any one else? Won’t I do?” She straightened herself and looked at Isidoro, who, in turn, looked at the sick man.

“Why, that’s true!” they exclaimed together.

A sudden atmosphere of relief fell on the dimly lighted room. The patient, with a sigh, stretched himself quietly out, remained still for a few moments, and finally fell asleep. The little widow, likewise following Isidoro’s advice, went back to bed. The ponderous front of the great red wardrobe seemed to be brooding over the scene; and the shadowy ceiling to overhang it like the sky above a deserted hamlet. All those inanimate objects seemed to repeat gravely to one another the old fisherman’s words: “It is the way of the world!”

The Orlei physician, Dr. Puddu, was a coarse, fat beast of a man. Once upon a time he, too, had had his high ideals; but Fate having cast him into this out-of-the-way corner of the world where the people were rarely, if ever, ill, he had taken to drink; at first, because, being from the South, he felt the cold; and afterwards because he found that wine and liquor were very much to his taste. In these days, in addition to his intemperate habits, he had become a Free Thinker, so that even the villagers had lost all respect for him. Giacobbe had complained of a pain in his side, and Doctor Puddu, after cauterising the tarantula bite, had said roughly:

“You fool, people don’t die of these things. If you do die, it will only be because you are an ass.” And Aunt Anna-Rosa had looked at him angrily, and muttered something under her breath.

Poor little Aunt Anna-Rosa! It did not take much to anger her in these days; she quarrelled, indeed, with everyone except the patient. And how old she looked! After that night her face had remained yellow and drawn; she looked like a different person, and her brother’s revelation had worked a singular change in her both physically and morally. She was constantly tormented by the question as to how Giacobbe ever could have brought himself to kill any one. He, who was always as merry and gentle as a lamb! How in the name of the holy souls in purgatory had he ever done it? And our father, he was no thief, not he! He was a God-fearing man, and always so kind and gay that when any of the neighbours were in trouble they invariably came to him to be cheered up.

The little woman’s heart swelled as she thought of her old father long since dead, but suddenly a mist seemed to rise in her brain, and her face contracted with the horror of a terrible thought.

“Perhaps he, too, the kindly, good old man had committed some crime! Why not? No one could be trusted any more, living or dead, old or young.” And then she fell to crying, beating her breast with her tiny fists, and bitterly repenting of her wicked doubts.

When, approaching the bedside, she would find the patient’s face drawn with suffering, his wide, terror-stricken eyes, meanwhile, seeming to implore death to spare him, an infinite tide of pity would well up within her, a rush of maternal tenderness, a sorrow beyond words. More than ever was he her little brother, her boy, curled up on the great bed; so frightened, so shrunken with suffering! And while everything else, every one else, even the sacred dead, even innocent children, aroused hateful suspicions, he alone, he of them all, called for pity, tenderness, a passionate and consuming love, that was like melting wax within her. Yet she must see him, and she was seeing him⁠—die. More than that, she must wish for his death. All the while that she was nursing him with tenderest care, she must hope that her watchfulness, the medicines, everything, would fail. Moreover, death, that awful thing which she must ardently desire for the “little brother” whom she loved, when it came would bring, not only the deep, natural sorrow of her loss, but that other horror, the announcement of his guilt.

Of all the burdens that pressed upon her, however, the hardest to bear was the fact that the sick man was perfectly conscious of her attitude towards him.

On the third day of his illness, Isidoro had brought, with great secrecy and mystery, a medicine obtained from the sacristan. It was a concoction made of olive-oil, into which had been plunged three scorpions, a centipede, a tarantula, a spider, and a poisonous fungus; it was considered a cure for any kind of sting. Aunt Anna-Rosa applied it at once to the patient’s puffed and swollen hand, he allowing her to do it, and watching the operation intently. Then he said:

“Why do you take all this trouble for me, Anna-Ro? Don’t you want me to die?”

Her heart sank, while he continued quietly, addressing Isidoro: “And you? You brought me this, but just suppose it were to cure me, what would you do then?”

“God will look after that; leave it to him,” said the fisherman.

Giacobbe lay quiet for a few moments; then he said:

“Shall you two go together to the magistrate’s?”

“Where?”

“To the magistrate’s; it’s cold, though, now, and it’s a long way to go; you must not go on horseback, Anna-Rosa, do you hear? You will have to have a carriage to drive to Nuoro.”

“What for?” she faltered distressedly, pretending not to understand.

“Why, to see the magistrate, of course.”

She scolded him, and then went into the kitchen and wept bitterly.

“Here is your oil,” she said presently, as Isidoro came out and prepared to leave. “You could not do anything but bring it, of course. When is Priest Elias coming?”

“This evening.”

“Yes, he ought to; Giacobbe must confess. Time is flying, and he is very ill; last night he didn’t close an eye. Ah!” she added suddenly, “he seems to me just like some wounded bird.”

“Have the Dejases been here?”

“Oh, yes! They’ve been here, both of them, mother and son. Brontu has been here twice. Oh, they all come!” she said desperately, “but what good does it do? They can’t cure him; they can’t give him either life or death.”

“Either one would be equally a blessing or a curse to him,” said Isidoro, carefully wrapping his red handkerchief around the vial of oil.

“As they are for most of us!” said the woman.

Soon after, the doctor arrived in a shrunken overcoat, with the collar turned up. He had been drinking already, and smelled strong of spirits; his lips were white, and he puffed, and spat about, sometimes over himself. He seemed somewhat startled, however, when he saw his patient’s condition.

“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he demanded roughly. “Your side? your side? You’ve got the devil in your side. Let’s have a look.” He threw back the covers, exposing Giacobbe’s hairy chest; passing his hand up and down his side, he listened with his ear close to the patient’s back. “It’s all nonsense,” he said. “You’ve worked yourself up like some old woman.” Then he replaced the covers carelessly, and went out. At the door, however, he turned and fixed Aunt Anna-Rosa with his eye.

“Woman,” he said, “let him see the priest at once; he has pneumonia.”

At dusk Giacobbe confessed; then he called his sister. “Anna-Ro,” he said, “Priest Elias is going to Nuoro with you too. You must be sure to have a carriage on account of the cold.”

It was, in fact, snowing then, and the big room was filled with the white reflected light.

Priest Elias looked attentively at Aunt Anna-Rosa, for whom he had an especially tender feeling on account of a fancied resemblance to his mother. The poor little black-robed figure seemed to him to have shrunken in the past few days, and now she was hanging her head in a pitiful, shamefaced way; bowed with mortification at her “little brother’s” disgrace.

Instinctively the priest understood the heroic part that quivering soul had been called upon to play in this tragedy, and he breathed an inward benediction upon her.