After the Divorce - Grazia Deledda (reading like a writer .TXT) 📗

ground was so thickly covered with dead leaves, and twigs, and bits of straw that Giacobbe had got quite close to the old fisherman before the latter perceived him.

“What are we about now?” cried the herdsman gaily.

The other raised his eyes without lifting his head, and, regarding his visitor curiously for a moment, made no reply.

Dropping cross-legged on the ground, Giacobbe watched him as he mended the net with waxed twine threaded in a huge, rusty needle.

“Well, really!” said the herdsman presently, with a laugh. “I should think the little fishes would find no difficulty in coming and going at their pleasure!”

“Then let them come and go at their pleasure, little spring bird,” said the fisherman, mimicking Giacobbe’s favourite mode of address. “What are you doing here? Have you left your place?”

“No; on the contrary, I have just made a new contract with those black-beetles of rich relations. But I want to speak to you about something serious, Uncle ’Sidore. First, though, tell me how your legs are? And is it long since you last saw San Costantino on the riverbank?”

The old man frowned; he disliked to hear sacred things alluded to with irreverence. “If that is what you came for,” said he, “you can take yourself off at once.”

“Oh, well, there is no need to get angry! Here, I’ll tell you what I came for; it really is important. But, as for irreverence⁠—if you find me turning into a heathen you must blame the little master, he is always pitching into the saints. He gets terribly frightened, though, whenever he thinks he is going to die. Just listen to this: the other night we saw a shooting star; it fell plumb down from the sky, like a streak of melted gold, and looked as though it had struck the earth. Brontu threw himself down full-length on the ground, yelling: ‘If this is the last day, have mercy on us, good Lord!’ And there he stayed until, I swear, I wanted to kick him!”

“And you were not frightened?”

“I? No, indeed, little spring bird; I saw the star disappear right away.”

“But the very first moment that you saw it, tell the truth now, you were scared then, weren’t you?”

“Oh, well, go to the devil! Perhaps I was. But see here, what I came for was to talk to you about him⁠—the master. If he is not crazy, then no one is in the whole world. He wants you to go to Giovanna Era and to suggest to her to get a divorce and marry him!”

Isidoro dropped his work, a mist rose before his calm, honest eyes: he clasped his hands, resting his chin on them, and began shaking his head.

“And how about you?” he asked in a stern voice. “Are you not just as crazy to dare to come to me with such a proposition? Oh, yes! I understand, you are afraid of losing your place! What a poor creature you are!”

“Ho, ho!” cried the other banteringly. “So that’s your idea, is it? You and your leeches!”

“Oh! you mean to be funny, do you? Well, it is time this was put a stop to! Tell your master that he has got to bring this business to an end. The whole neighbourhood has heard about it, and people are talking.”

“My dear friend, we have only just begun! And here are you talking of ending it! I have had enough of it, I assure you, for morn, noon, and night, that brandy-bottle does nothing but talk to me about it! I had to promise him at last that I would see you, so here I am! But I can tell you not to talk on his side! There is only one person, Uncle Isidoro, who can really put a stop to this scandalous business, and that is Giovanna herself. You must go to her, and tell her to make that beast shut up. I can do nothing more.”

Isidoro gazed at him with wide, unseeing eyes; he appeared not to be listening. Presently he resumed his work, murmuring: “Poor Costantino! poor lamb! What have they done to you?”

“Yes, indeed, he is innocent,” said Giacobbe. “And any day at all he may come back! This craze of Brontu’s has got to be stopped. Then there is Aunt Bachissia as well, hovering over her like a vulture over its prey!”

“Poor Costantino! poor lamb! What have they done to you?” repeated Isidoro, paying not the smallest heed to anything that Giacobbe said. The latter became annoyed. Raising his voice until it echoed through the surrounding silence and solitude, he shouted: “What have they done to him? What are they going to do to him? Why don’t you listen to what I am telling you, you old rag-heap? You must go and talk to her, right away! There she is, cheerful and rosy, and ready to fall at the first touch, like a ripe apple! At heart, though, she is not bad, and if you will predispose her against it⁠—make her see what she ought to do⁠—the whole thing may be prevented. Get up! get along! move! do something! Here is your chance to perform miracles, if you really are a saint, as the sinners seem to think!”

“Ah! ah! ah!” sighed the old man, rising to his feet. His tall figure, majestic even in its rags, stood out in the crimson light, against the background of dark hedge and distant, misty horizon, like that of some venerable hermit. “I will go,” he said, sighing heavily. And at the words Giacobbe felt as though a great weight had been rolled from his breast.

From then on, the two men worked, steadily together in the interest of the faraway prisoner, finding themselves opposed, however, by three active and united forces, as well as by the passive resistance of Giovanna. The three forces against which they had to contend were: the brute passion of Brontu, the grasping greed of Aunt Bachissia, and Aunt Martina’s self-interest, she being now wholly in favour of