XVII

The July evening fell softly, tranquilly, like a bluish veil. Costantino, seated on the stone bench outside the fisherman’s hut, was thoughtfully counting on his fingers.

Yes; it had been sixty-four days since his return. Six-ty-four days! It seemed like yesterday, and⁠—it seemed like a century! The exile’s fustian coat had grown worn and shabby; his face, dark and gloomy; and his heart⁠—yes, his heart as well, had worn away from day to day, from hour to hour. Eaten into by misery, by rage and passion, it, too, had turned black, like a thing on the verge of decay.

A habit of dissembling, a result of prison life, had clung to him; so that now he found it impossible to be really open with anyone, much as he sometimes longed to unburden his heart; while the constant effort to conceal his feelings harassed him and added to his general misery. A frozen void seemed to surround him, like a great sea, calm, but boundless, stretching away in all directions from a shipwrecked mariner. For two months now he had been swimming in this sea, and he was wearied out; his forces were spent. Scan the horizon as he would, his soul could espy no friendly shore across that bleak and desolate expanse; no prospect of an end to the unequal struggle; the icy water and the measureless void were slowly swallowing him up.

Every day he would talk of going away, but nothing more. It was a pretence, like all else that he did; in his heart he knew perfectly well that now he would never go. Why should he? On this side of the water, or on that, life would always be the same. He cared for no one; he hated no one, and he felt that he had become as base and self-centred as his late comrades in prison. Even Uncle Isidoro, who had meant so much to him at a distance, now, in the close companionship of daily intercourse, had become an object of indifference, at times almost of dislike.

When the old man went off on his fishing expeditions, or on the circuits which he made from time to time through the country to dispose of his wares, Costantino felt as though a weight had been lifted from him; the semi-paternal oversight which the other exercised over him having, in fact, come to both frighten and irritate him.

On this particular evening the fisherman was away, and Costantino was sensible of this feeling of freedom from an irksome restraint. Now he could do whatever came into his head, without any one to preach, or that disagreeable sensation of being watched, which, possibly as a result of the long years spent in prison, the mere presence of the old man was sufficient to excite. Moreover, he was expecting a visitor. Although he professed, now, to despise all women, and did, in fact, usually avoid them as much as possible, he had allowed himself to be drawn into relations with a strange creature⁠—a half-witted girl⁠—who lived near Giovanna. She had surprised him one night prowling about the Dejas house and had persuaded him to go home with her.

From this individual he got all the gossip of the white house, and he took refuge with her whenever he thought he had been seen crossing the common. He was waiting for her now at Isidoro’s hut, in the owner’s absence, but he looked down on her, and her foolish talk jarred on him. Presently she arrived, and Costantino told her to sit down out there on the stone bench beside him.

“It’s hot inside, and there are fleas, and spiders, and⁠—devils. Stay here in the fresh air,” he said, without looking at her.

“But we’ll be seen,” she objected, in a deep, rough voice.

“All right; suppose we are! It makes no difference to me, why should it to you?”

“But, as it happens, it does make a difference to me.”

“Why?” he said, raising his voice. “Men cannot matter, since they are all sinners as well; and as for God, he can see us just as well inside as out.”

“Oh, go away!” she said, but without any show of anger. “You’ve been drinking.” Then she turned away and went into the hut. Striking a light, she looked into the cupboard where the food was usually kept, and, as Costantino still did not come, she returned to the door and called to him: “If you don’t come at once I shall go away; but you had better be careful; I have something to tell you.”

He jumped up, and, going inside, took her in his arms. The girl broke into a wild laugh.

“Ah-ha! you come quick enough now. That brought my little shorn lamb, eh?”

She was tall and stout, with a small head and a dark, diminutive face, red lips, and greenish eyes⁠—not ugly, exactly⁠—but rather repellent. Though she never drank anything herself, she gave an impression of being always a little tipsy, and was very prone to think that other people were so, in fact. Still laughing, she went again to the cupboard.

“It’s empty,” she said. “Nothing there at all; and, do you know, I am hungry!”

“If you’ll wait a moment I’ll go and buy something; but first, you must tell me⁠—”

She turned abruptly, laid one hand on his breast, and with the other began to rain blows that were anything but playful.

“Ah, you want to know⁠—crocodile. You want to know, do you? That’s what brought you in, is it? Go back⁠—enjoy the air, poor, dear little lamb! You want me to tell you? You think it is something about Giovanna Era, eh? And you came in for that, and not to see me?”

“Let go,” he said, seizing her hands. “You hit hard; the devil take you! Yes, that’s what I came in for⁠—well?”

“I shan’t tell you a word, so there!”

“Now, Mattea,” he said gently, “don’t make me angry; you are not ill-natured. See now, I am going off to buy you whatever you want. What shall it be? What would you like to have?”

He was like a child promising to be good if only it can have what it wants. And, in fact, at that moment he did want something; he wanted it badly, and not a nice thing, either. What he wanted was to be told that Brontu had beaten his wife, or that she had met with an accident, or that overwhelming disaster of one sort or another had engulfed the house of Dejas, root and branch. It was, therefore, somewhat disappointing when Mattea, closing one eye, announced that some cattle had been stolen, and that Aunt Martina, on hearing the news, had rushed off like a crazy thing to ascertain the exact extent of the loss. “She will be up at the folds all night, and your wife is all alone⁠—do you understand⁠—alone?”

“Well, what difference does that make to me?”

“Stupid! You can go to see her.⁠—You won’t go? Why, that’s what I came expressly to tell you! Of course you’ll go; I want you to. I’m sorry for you. After all, you are her husband.”

“I’m not. I’m not any one’s husband,” he said, with a shrug. “I thought you would have something very different to tell me. Now⁠—what shall I get you? Beans⁠—milk⁠—bacon⁠—cheese?”

“If you’re not any one’s husband, then marry me,” she said, in a low, unsteady voice, like a person who has been drinking.

Costantino coughed, and spat on the ground.

Instantly a gleam of intelligence shot into her usually dull, expressionless eyes.

“Why do you do that?” she asked sharply. “You think, perhaps, that she is better than I?”

He flushed, and then a heartsick feeling came over him.

“Yes,” he said; “you are worse, or⁠—better than she.”

“What do you say?”

“If you are not lying at this moment, and didn’t come here to lay a trap for me, with this story of her being alone⁠—well, then you are better than she.”

“Why should I lay a trap for you? I’m sorry for you, that’s all. I swear by the memory of my dead, that if you go there this evening you’ll run no risk whatever.”

“Who can believe you, woman, when you don’t respect even the dead?”

Mattea, angry and offended, started to leave the hut; but he held her back.

“A low dog,” she said scornfully. “I take pity on you, and you speak to me like that! What have you to reproach me with? What, I say?” She threw her head back with a certain pride, knitting her brows, and turning upon Costantino a look that was altogether new. He stared back at her for a moment, amazed that a woman of her class should speak in that tone, should hold up her head, and dare to look at him with such an expression. Then he began to laugh.

“I’m off now,” he said, “but I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll get some wine too, even though you don’t drink it. Wait for me here⁠—wait, I say,” he repeated roughly, as she followed him to the door. “Don’t bother me.” She stood still, and he went out, but before he had gone a dozen steps he heard her deep voice calling him back.

Returning, he saw the tip of her nose through the crack of the door, and one eye, regarding him with its habitual look of dull stolidity.

“What do you want, squint-eyed goat?”

“If you are going to her, there is no use in making me wait here.”

“Go to the devil whom you came from!” exclaimed Costantino. “I would as soon think of going to her house as you would of going to church. I say you are to wait!” and he made as if to tweak her nose, but she quickly drew back and shut the door.

Ten minutes later Costantino returned, but his strange guest had disappeared. Thinking that she might be hiding somewhere outside, he looked for her, calling in a low voice and telling her that he had bread and meat and fruit, but in vain; she had taken herself off.

An intense stillness reigned all about the hut. Through the night, now completely fallen, came only the sound of the fig-leaves rustling mysteriously, as though an invisible hand were shaking a piece of stiff silk. Nothing else could be heard, and nothing could be seen, except the stars shining brilliantly in the warm sky.

Costantino felt much aggrieved by Mattea’s defection. As lonely as an outcast dog, what on earth was there for him to do throughout that interminable evening? He was not sleepy, having, in fact, taken a long nap in the afternoon, and he had nowhere to go. He began to eat and drink, talking aloud from time to time in a querulous voice.

“If she imagines that I am coming to see her, she’s green,”⁠—silence⁠—“as green as a rose in springtime. She’s crazy.” Another silence. Then⁠—“Coming to see her! Not I; neither her nor the other one. Mattea is sickening; she seems to be a sort of animal, and that’s all there is about it.”

He swore, and then gave a light, purposeless laugh, such as people give when they are alone. All the while he kept swallowing great gulps of wine, and each time that he emptied his glass he would thrust out his lips and exclaim: “Ah⁠—ah⁠—ah!” rubbing his chest up and down to express the delicious sensation caused by the wine as it flowed down his throat. Soon he began to feel more cheerful.

“She may go to the devil⁠—or to hell, if she wants to!” he exclaimed, thinking of Mattea and her sudden disappearance. But all the while he knew perfectly well that he was forcing himself to dwell despitefully upon her, in order to keep from thinking of the other. At last he went out, and, stretching himself upon the stone bench, allowed his thoughts to take their own course.

“She is alone,” he reflected. “Well, what do I care? I loathe her and I wouldn’t go there, not if she were to give me a chest full of gold! What should I do with gold, anyway?” He put the question to himself in profound dejection, but immediately began to hum a gay little song, having got into a way of trying to fool himself as well as other people:

“ ‘Little heart, dear heart,
I await thee day by day,
But, when thou seest me,
Hovereth near the bird of prey.’ ”

For a time the sound of his own voice⁠—low, monotonous⁠—arrested his attention; then his thoughts once more asserted themselves.

“If I were to go there⁠—well, what would happen? Sin, perhaps. But am I not her husband? I have not the remotest idea of going there, though; I should think not! Uncle Isidoro makes me laugh⁠—old idiot! ‘Go away, go away,’ (imitating Uncle Isidoro’s voice), ‘if you don’t go away, something dreadful is sure to happen! Brontu Dejas will kill you, or have you arrested!’ Well, if he does, what then?”

He began to sing again, the sharp rustle of the fig-leaves, almost like the clash of metal blades, accompanying the subdued murmur of his voice:

“ ‘When you see life
Bloom in January,
When you see a swineherd
Making cheese of pork⁠—’ ”

He shifted his position and his heavy eyelids closed, his head, supported on one hand, rolling from side to side.

“Well, what then?” he repeated, then opened his eyes, as though startled by the sound of his own voice. They closed again presently, and he went on talking to himself:

“No; I would never have her again for my wife. For me she is just an abandoned woman. She has been living with another man, and, as long as she has gone to live with him, she might come back and live with me, and then go and live with someone else! She’s no better than Mattea, and I spit upon them both!”

He opened his eyes and spat on the ground. At the moment he had a genuine scorn of Giovanna, and yet, at the very same time, tender, distant memories surged up in his breast. He remembered a kiss he had once given her as she lay asleep, and how she had opened her eyes with a startled look, exclaiming: “Oh, I thought it was some one else!” Well, what manner of foolishness was this for him to be thinking of now? He was a simpleton, neither more nor less than a simpleton! Moreover, how could he know, supposing for a moment that he were to go, whether Giovanna would receive him or drive him away? The man’s mind was neither trained nor developed, yet, at that moment, he was reasoning as a much more complex nature might have done. He hoped that she would not receive him; he knew that for himself there was nothing for it but to go on living and suffering; yet he felt that, should he go to her and be repulsed, at least a ray of light would penetrate the cold, dreary void that encircled him. But he wanted her, he longed for her still. From the day he had lost her his whole being had suffered like a crushed and twisted limb that still goes on living. Yet, mingled with this sense of longing there was a spiritual breath as well, the instinct of the immortal soul which never wholly dies out, even in the most degraded.

He dreamed of Giovanna an honest woman, lost forever in this world, but restored to him in eternity. Now, if she were to betray her second husband, even for the sake of her first, she would not⁠—could not⁠—be an honest woman! So thought Costantino, and yet⁠—

It was, perhaps, ten o’clock, and he had been lying for half an hour or more on the stone bench, when a mournful strain broke in upon the stillness. It was the blind man, singing and accompanying himself upon his rude instrument. His voice, clear enough, but sad and monotonous, vibrated through the night air with a sobbing suggestion of homesickness that was hardly human, as though it were the wail of a lost soul, recalling the few hours of happiness spent upon earth.

The music seemed to be a cry for light, happiness, the joy of living, all those things whose existence the blind youth half understood, but could never hope to realise⁠—which the dead have lost, and can never hope to repossess. Costantino shivered and got up; the voice and the accompaniment began to die away, growing gradually fainter and fainter, and ceasing at last altogether. He felt a great wave of agony and tenderness surge up in his breast. In the darkness, the silence, the unutterable loneliness that surrounded him, he, too, felt an overmastering longing, like the blind man’s, for light; an agonising homesickness, like the dead recalling their brief experience of life. He turned and began to walk in the direction of the village.

At first he seemed to be in a dream, although he heard beneath his feet the rustle of the dead leaves and stubble blown by the wind about Isidoro’s hut. He rubbed his eyelids and little violet-coloured electric circles seemed to flash and swim in the air. Soon though, his eyes becoming used to the darkness, he discerned clearly the light line of the road, the black cottages, the great, empty void above, where the stars hung like drops of gold, ready to fall. He walked steadily on, knowing perfectly whither he was bound, and never wavering for a single instant. Here and there, on the thresholds of cottages whose owners were too poor to indulge in the luxury of a light, little groups of people sat, enjoying the freshness of the night air.

Occasionally the high-pitched voice of a woman would float across the road, recounting some piece of gossip, or trifling incident of domestic life. In a lonely angle Costantino espied a pair of lovers; the man, hearing his footsteps approach, tried to hide his companion, who quickly turned her face to the wall. Costantino walked on, but presently he stopped and half turned, thinking he would give the two young people a fright by calling out: “I am going to tell your father right away!” But the fear of attracting attention, and being himself discovered, deterred him, and he went on.

When he discerned the black mass of the almond-tree, rearing itself from beside the path beyond Aunt Bachissia’s cottage, his heart gave a sudden bound, and then stood still; it was so like a great head with rough, shaggy locks, thrusting itself out, intently watching for him to appear. He had fully determined to pass the tree, cross the common, enter the Dejas house, and speak to Giovanna; it all seemed perfectly simple and plain, and he was prepared to do it; yet he was frightened, more than frightened⁠—terrified. A flexible, girlish voice floated out into the night: “No matter how often you may say it, it’s not true!”

He looked all about him; no one was to be seen, and he went on, his nervousness increasing with every step. Crossing the common, he examined Aunt Bachissia’s cottage; then the white house; then Mattea’s hovel; from the last a faint light shone; the two others were in total darkness. Again the idea crossed his mind that Mattea might be playing him a trick; or, perhaps, Aunt Bachissia was with Giovanna, or the latter might already have gone to bed, and would decline to open the door! Nevertheless, he walked steadily on, and up on the portico.

Instantly the figure of Giovanna became apparent, seated on the doorstep. At the same moment she recognised him and leaped to her feet, rigid with terror. His voice, low, agitated, at once reassured her.

“Don’t be frightened. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

A second later they were in each other’s arms.