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

a dreary pleasure in living over the past in that little cottage where he had once been so happy. Moreover, he enjoyed listening to Aunt Bachissia’s never-ending abuse of everything connected with the house of Dejas.

Did the old woman know of her daughter’s renewed relations with Costantino? Neither of them had said a word to her on the subject; yet, like Isidoro, she suspected how matters stood, though, unlike him, she made no effort to interfere. Costantino had made her a present of a pair of shoes, and from time to time he performed other little services for her. Had he asked her to allow him to meet Giovanna in her house, it is quite possible that she would have offered no objection; but up to the present time he had neither told nor asked her anything.

On this day, however, he arrived visibly anxious and perturbed, and Aunt Bachissia, who was sitting by the door spinning, laid down her spindle and gave him a steady look out of her sharp little eyes.

Night was falling, and Costantino, who had worked hard all day, was tired, sad, unhappy. The soft brilliance of the summer night, the silence of the little house, the peaceful solitude of the common, the warm, sweet breath of the evening, all combined to create a flood of homesickness for the past, and an acute sense of present misery that was well-nigh unbearable. He threw himself down on a stool and rested his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his interlocked hands. For a few moments neither of them spoke; the man was thinking of Malthineddu, of his little dead child; he seemed to see him then, playing before the door, and hot tears trembled in his eyes.

“Do you know,” said Aunt Bachissia suddenly, “the old colt is going crazy?”

“Who?” asked Costantino.

“Who? Why, the old miser, Martina Dejas. She got up out of her bed last night, and went and banged on my Giovanna’s door. She said she heard some one talking to her. Upon my soul, fancy such a thing! She has gone entirely mad; she always was half so.”

“Ah!” was all that Costantino said.

“Listen, my soul,” said Aunt Bachissia, lowering her voice. “Giovanna tells me that the old colt suspects⁠—”

“What?” asked Costantino, raising his head quickly.

“Suspects that you and Giovanna⁠—you understand? She has not said a word, the old maniac, but Giovanna has guessed that she has some idea in her head, and on that account⁠—”

“I understand,” said Costantino.

He did understand. Evidently Giovanna had taken this method of warning him that they would have to be prudent.

“And so, my soul,” Aunt Bachissia went on, “for the present it will be as well for you to stop coming here⁠—just so as not to arouse suspicions. I will go every once in a while to see you⁠—for a chat, you know. Ah!” she gave a weary sigh, “you⁠—yes, you are a man! Look at you, standing there now, as tall and handsome as a banner! When I think of that little freak of nature⁠—Brontu Dejas⁠—I declare, I wonder what on earth Giovanna could have been thinking of to⁠—forget you. Ah, if she had only listened to me!”

Costantino, who had risen and was standing in the doorway, crimsoned with anger when he heard these outrageous lies being calmly offered for his acceptance.

“Hold your tongue,” he began in a hoarse voice. But Aunt Bachissia was not listening; she was looking intently up at the white house; presently she whispered: “Look, my soul, we are being watched now. Giovanna is right. Do you see the old harpy peering at us? Oh! I could tear out her eyes!”

Sure enough the figure of Aunt Martina could be seen lurking in the shadow of the portico. For the moment Costantino, who had never really borne any especial ill-will towards Brontu’s mother, felt all the anger, and sorrow, and rebelliousness in his nature concentrate into one bitter longing to do the old woman some bodily harm. He would dearly have liked to make a wild dash across the common, fall upon her without warning, and tear her eyes out, as Aunt Bachissia had said.

“Never mind, let her alone,” said the latter. “Giovanna has told me that she is doing everything she can to make them ill-use her and drive her out of the house. Then we will apply for another divorce⁠—you, my soul, all you have to do is to be careful and⁠—wait.”

“What have I to wait for?” he asked roughly. “Nothing can happen now that I want.”

She said something more, but he was not listening. Standing erect and motionless on the threshold of the door that had once been his door, he stared across at the portico of the Dejas house, feeling even more desolate and forlorn than usual. So, then, his one remaining consolation, that of holding intercourse with Giovanna, was about to be torn from him, and by the same people who had stolen from him everything else that made life pleasant; moreover they might deprive him even of life itself should he continue his relations with her who really was his own wife!

Ah, Dejas! accursed race! Yes, now the old mother as well was included in his hatred of that house, and the longing to cross the common, fling himself on the portico, and make the still summer evening resound with her shrill screams of agony, at last overmastered him. With a sudden movement, right in the middle of one of Aunt Bachissia’s sentences, he stepped out into the twilight, and with rapid strides began to cross the common. When he had gone about half-way, he stopped, stood motionless for a moment, and then, altering his direction, walked away. Aunt Bachissia watched his figure as it was slowly swallowed up by the shadows; and the silence and languor of the dusk deepened into night.

After that evening Costantino visited her cottage no more.

One day, towards the end of October, Uncle Isidoro Pane had an unexpected visitor. The old fisherman, seated before