After the Divorce Grazia Deledda (white hot kiss .TXT) 📖

so much as to take in what he said, and continued to rock her head from side to side. Aunt Porredda, however, spoke up in a decided tone: “What an idea! as though anyone but God could undo a marriage!”

“Yes, I read about that in the papers,” said Uncle Efes Maria jocularly. “Those are the divorces they get on the Continent, where men and women marry over and over again without troubling themselves about priests, or magistrates either, for that matter, but here!⁠—shame!”

“No, Daddy Porru, that’s not on the Continent, it’s in Turkey,” said Grazia.

“Here too, here too,” said Aunt Bachissia, who had eagerly followed every word.

As soon as supper was over the two Eras went off to see their lawyer.

“What room have you given them?” asked Paolo. “The ‘strangers’ room’?”

“Why, of course; why?”

“Because I really thought I should like to sleep there myself; it is suffocating down here. What better ‘stranger’ could there be than I?”

“Be patient just till tomorrow, my boy. Remember these are poor guests.”

“O Lord! what barbarous customs! Will there ever be an end to them?” he exclaimed impatiently.

“That’s just what I should like to know,” said Uncle Efes Maria. “These women are draining my pockets. Well, what do you think of the new Ministry?”

“I don’t think anything of it at all!” laughed the student, recalling a character in the Dame chez Maxim, a favourite play at the Manzoni Theatre, which he frequented. Then he sauntered off to look at some books he had left on a shelf at the other end of the room. Minnia and the boy had run out into the courtyard; Grazia, seated at the table, with both cheeks resting on her closed fists, was still gazing at her uncle. He turned towards her:

“You read novels, don’t you?”

“I? No,” she answered, turning red.

“Well, I only wanted to say that if I ever catch you reading certain books⁠—I’ll rap you over the head with them.”

Her under-lip began to tremble, and, not to let him see her cry, she jumped up and ran out. In the courtyard she found the two children still quarrelling over the purse with the picture of the Pope. “As for stealing,” the boy was saying, “you had better keep quiet about that; you, and she there⁠—the bean-pole⁠—you two sold some wine today, and kept the money!”

“Oh, what a lie!” cried Grazia, falling upon him and dealing him a blow, but crying herself bitterly all the while.

The courtyard was filled with the chirping of the crickets and the noise of the horses’ hoofs; and the warm, starlit air was heavy with the scent of the hay.

“You must not be hard on her, she is a poor orphan,” said Aunt Porredda, speaking in Grazia’s behalf (they were the three children of an older son of the Porrus’, a well-to-do shepherd whose wife had died the year before). “And why not let her read if she wants to?”

“Yes, yes, let her read by all means,” said Uncle Efes Maria pompously. “Ah! if they had only allowed me to read when I was young⁠—I would have been an astronomer, as learned as a priest!” To Uncle Efes Maria an astronomer represented the height of learning and cultivation⁠—a philosopher, as it were.

“Have you seen the Pope, my son?” asked Aunt Porredda, from an association of ideas.

“No.”

“What! You have never seen the Pope?”

“Oh! what do you expect? The Pope is kept shut up in a box; if you want to see him, you’ve got to pay well for it.”

“Oh, go along!” said she. “You are an infidel,” and, going out to where the children were still fighting, she made a rapid descent upon them, separated the belligerents, and sent each flying in a different direction. “On my word!” she cried, “you are just like so many cocks. The Lord have mercy on me! Here they are, the chicken-cocks! Bad children, every one of you, bad, bad children!”

And the lamentations of the youngsters arose and mingled with the noises of the summer evening.

II

The next morning Giovanna was the first to awaken. Through a pane of glass set in the door came a faint, roseate, sunrise glow; and the early morning silence was broken only by the chattering of the swallows. Not yet fully aroused, her first sensations were agreeable; then, all at once it was as though a terrific clap of thunder had sounded in her ear. She remembered!

This was the day that was to decide her husband’s fate. She knew for a certainty that he would be condemned, and yet she persisted in hoping still. It mattered very little to her whether or no he were guilty; probably she had not at any time troubled herself much with that aspect of the case, and what wholly concerned her now were the consequences. The thought of being parted, perhaps forever, from this man, young, strong, and active as a greyhound, with his caressing hands and ardent lips, was agony; and as the full consciousness of her misery came over her, she jumped out of bed, and began drawing on her clothes, saying breathlessly: “It is late, late, late.”

Aunt Bachissia opened her little firefly eyes, and then she also got up; but she realised too clearly what that day, and the next, and the year following, and the next two, and five, and ten years would probably be like, to be in any haste to begin them. She dressed deliberately, plunged her hands into water, passed them across her face, and dried it, then carefully arranged the folds of her scarf about her head.

“It is late,” repeated Giovanna. “Dear Lord, how late it is!” But her mother’s calm demeanour presently quieted her. Aunt Bachissia went down to the kitchen and Giovanna followed. Aunt Bachissia prepared the café-au-lait and bread for Costantino (the two women were allowed to take food to the prisoner), placed them in a basket, and started for the jail, Giovanna still following.

The streets were deserted; the