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

as though an iron circle were pressing upon him? Every object, from the blades of grass along the roadside to the very mountain-peaks, reminded him of the past. Each night he prowled around Giovanna’s house like some stealthy animal, and one evening he saw her tall figure issue forth, and move down in the direction of their cottage. This was the first time that he had seen her, and he recognised her instantly, notwithstanding that it was by the fading light of a damp, overcast evening. His heart beat violently, and each throb gave him an added pang, a fresh memory, a new impulse of despair. His instinct was to throw himself upon her then and there, clasp her in a close embrace⁠—kill her. Before long, however, he was no longer satisfied to catch only furtive glances, secretly and in the dark; he became possessed with the desire to see her and to be seen of her in broad daylight; but she never left the house, and he dared not go by there in the daytime. On another evening, a Saturday, he heard Brontu’s laugh ring out from the portico, and he fancied that hers mingled with it. His eyes filled, and he had much the same sensation of nausea as on that first morning of the sea voyage when he woke up ill.

All this time he continued to feign the utmost indifference, without quite knowing why he did so. The Orlei people had, however, become almost hateful to him, even Uncle Isidoro. Sometimes he asked himself in wonder why he had ever come back.

“I am going away,” he said one day to the fisherman, gazing across the interminable stretch of uplands to the blue and crimson sky beyond, against which the thickets of arbute seemed to float like green clouds. “I have written to a friend of mine⁠—Burrai⁠—he can do anything, you know; he could have gotten me a pardon, even if I had really been guilty.”

“You have told me all that before; I am tired of hearing it,” said Isidoro. “All the same, I notice that he has never even answered your letter.”

“He is going to get me a position; yes, I really mean to go. But tell me why is it that the priest is so anxious for it? Is he afraid that I will kill Brontu Dejas?”

“Yes, he is. He’s afraid of just that.”

“No, he’s not; that’s not it. I said to him: ‘Priest Elias, you must know perfectly well that if I had wanted to kill any one, I would have done it right off.’ And all he said was: ‘Go away, go away! It would be far better.’ What do you think about it, Uncle Fisherman; shall I go or not?”

“I don’t think anything about it,” answered the other in a tone of strong disapproval. “What I do think is that you are an idle dog. Why aren’t you at work, tell me that? It’s because you do nothing but think all the time of your good-for-nothing Burrai, who, however, never gives you a thought.”

“Oh! he doesn’t give me a thought?” said Costantino, piqued. “Well, I’ll just let you see whether he does or not. Look here!”

He drew a letter from the inside pocket of his coat, and proceeded to read it aloud. It was from Burrai, written at Rome, where the ex-marshal had opened a little shop for the sale of Sardinian wines. Naturally, being himself, he had improved upon the facts, and announced that he was the proprietor of a large and flourishing establishment; he invited Costantino to pay him a visit, and reproached him for not having come at once to Rome, where, he said, he could find him a position without difficulty.

The fisherman’s blue eyes grew round with innocent wonder.

“To think, only to think!” he exclaimed. “And you never told me a word about it! What made you hide the letter? How much does it cost to go to Rome?”

“Oh! only about fifty lire.”

“And have you got that much?”

“Why, of course I have!”

“Then go, go by all means!” exclaimed the old man, stretching his arms out towards the horizon.

They were both silent for a moment. The fisherman, bending his head, gazed at the pebbles lying at his feet, while Costantino stared absently ahead of him. Beyond the brook, the tall, yellow, meadow-grass was bowing in the wind, and the long stems of the golden oats rippled against the blue background of the sky.

Uncle Isidoro made up his mind that the moment had come to tell Costantino plainly why all his friends wanted him to leave the village.

“Giovanna,” he began quietly, “does not love her husband; you and she might meet⁠—”

“She and I might meet? Well, and if we did, what then?”

“Nothing; you might, that’s all.”

“Oh, nothing!” cried Costantino, and his voice rang out scornfully in the profound stillness; “nothing! I tell you that I despise that low woman. I don’t want her.”

“You don’t want her, and yet you hang about her house all the time, like a fly about the honey-pot.”

“Ah, you know about that?” said Costantino, somewhat crestfallen. “It’s not true, though⁠—well⁠—yes; perhaps it is. But suppose I do hang about her house, what business is it of yours?”

“Oh! none at all, but⁠—you had better go away.”

“I am going. I suppose the truth is you are getting tired of having me on your hands!”

“Costantino, Costantino!” exclaimed the old man in a hurt voice.

Costantino pulled up a tuft of rushes, threw it from him, and gazed again into the distance. His face was working as it had done on the morning of his return, after he had closed the door of Isidoro’s hut; his brain swam, once or twice he gulped down the bitter saliva that rose in his throat; then he spoke:

“Well, after all, why does the priest insist so on my going? Am I not actually her husband? Suppose even that she were to come back to me? Wouldn’t it be coming back to her own