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

“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