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

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