 Chapter 8 Part 1 of After the Divorce by Grazia de Leda, translated by Maria Horner Lansdale. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham. One morning, about three years after his conviction, Constantino awoke in a bad humour. The heat was oppressive, and the air of the cell was heavy and sickening. One of the prisoners was snoring and puffing, like a kettle letting off steam. Constantino had slept with Giovanna's last letter beneath his head, and a sad little letter it was, short and depressing in the extreme. She told of her and her mother's dire poverty and of the boy's serious illness. It never occurred to Constantino to reflect how cruel it was to write to him in this strain. He wanted to know the truth about them, however bad it might be, and he felt that to share all Giovanna's sorrows and to agonise over his inability to help her was a part of his duty. A barren duty, alas, merely an increase of his misery. He had become quite deft at his trade of shoemaking, and worked rapidly, but he could make very little money. All that was left, however, after the King of Spades had been paid for his supposed good officers, he sent to Giovanna. "'Upon my word,' said the ex-martial, you are a goose, spend it on yourself. They ought to be sending you money. But they are so poor. Poor, not they. Haven't they got the sun? What more did they want?' said the other. "'If you would only eat and drink more, it would be a real charity. "'You are nothing but a stick, my dear fellow. Look at me, I'm getting fat. My bacon may be all rind, but all the same I'm getting fat.' He was, in fact, as round as a ball, but his flesh hung down in yellow, flabby rolls. Constantino, on the other hand, had fallen away. His eyes were big and cavernous, and his hands transparent. "'The sun,' he thought to himself, bitterly. "'Yes, they have indeed got that. But what good is the sun, even, when one has nothing to eat, and is suffering every kind of privation?' He was, no doubt, a great simpleton, but as he thought of these things, he sometimes cried like a child. Yet all the time he never gave up hope. The years passed by, day followed day, slowly, regularly, uneventfully, like drops of water in a grotto, dripping from stone to stone. Almost every convict in the prison, especially those whose terms were not very long, hoped for a remission, and kept close count of the days already elapsed, and of those yet to come. Their accuracy was amazing. They never made a mistake of so much as a single day. Some even carried their calculations so far as to count the hours. Constantino thought it all very foolish. One might die in the meantime, or regain his liberty. It was all in the hands of God. Yet all the same he too counted on being freed before the appointed hour. Only in his case the appointed hour was so desperately, so hopelessly far away. This realization was heavy upon him on that morning when he awoke and fingered the warm paper of Giovanna's last letter. Getting up he sighed heavily, and began to dress himself. The man on his right stopped snoring, opened one sleepy eye, regarded Constantino dully, then closed it again. "'Feeling badly?' he asked as Constantino sighed again. "'Oh, yes, your child is ill. Why don't you tell the director?' "'Why should I tell the director? He would clap me into a cell for receiving the letter, and that would be the whole of it. "'Except pane e polastra,' bred and water, said an ironical voice. There was a general laugh, and Constantino, realizing bitterly the utter indifference of all those men, among whom he was destined to pass his days, felt as though he were wandering alone in a burning desert, gasping for air and water. He went to his work longing impatiently for the exercise-hour, when he would be able to talk over his troubles with the king of spades. The great fat, yellow man whom he despised so in his heart was nevertheless indispensable to him. His soul comforted in fact. He alone in that place understood him, was sorry for him, and listened to him. He was paid for it all to be sure, but what did that signify? He was necessary in the same way to a great many of the convicts, but to none probably as much as to Constantino, who already, with a somewhat selfish regret, was dreading the time when his term expired the king of spades would finally depart. On this particular day a new inmate made his appearance in the workroom. He was a northerner, long and sinuous, with a grey, wrinkled face and small pale eyes. It was not easy to tell his age, but the men laughed when he announced himself as twenty-two. He began at once to complain of the heat and of the sickening smell of fish that filled the room. Ah, he was no cobbler, no indeed! He was the only son of a wealthy, wholesale shoe-dealer, a gentleman in fact. And thereupon he recounted his unfortunate history. He had, it appeared, been so unluckiest to kill a rival in love. There had been provocation and he had ripped him open in the back. Simply that. The woman who was the real cause of the crime had consumption, and now she was dying from grief, dying simply that. Moreover, there was a child in the question, a son of the prisoners by the sick woman. If she died, the boy would be left orphaned and abandoned. Constantino trembled at this, not indeed that the man's story affected him particularly, but because the picture of the woman and the child reminded him of Giovanna and the sick Maltinedo. The newcomer, who was cutting a pair of souls with considerable skill, now became silent, and bent over, intent upon his work, his underlip trembling like that of a child about to cry. Maltinedo, watching him, reflected that though he knew that this man must be suffering intensely, he felt as indifferent as did any of the others. He, too, then, had lost the power of sympathising with the sorrows of others. The thought filled him with dismay, and made him more insanely anxious to get out than ever. That day, as soon as he saw the king of spades, he drew him over to a corner where the sun-baked wall cast a little spot of shade. But when he had got him there, he could not bring himself to begin on his own troubles. Instead, he repeated the story told by the new arrival. The other shrugged his shoulders and spat against the wall. If he wants to, even he can write, he said. But I should advise prudence. Someone is nosing about. How are we ever going to manage after you have gone? said Constantino thoughtfully. You would like to keep me here forever, you rascal! demanded the other in a rallying tone. And forbid, no indeed, I only wish you might get out to-morrow. The king of spades sighed. His enemies, he declared, were forever devising new and diabolical schemes for keeping him out of the way. He had abandoned all hope now of a pardon. In any case, however, his term would expire before long. Then he would go at once to the king and lay a plain statement of the facts before him. The king would order an instant reversal of the verdict, and he himself, his innocence finally established, would be restored to his post. Who could tell there might even be another medal conferred to keep the rest company? But his first care would be to obtain pardons for all his friends, especially for Constantino. That would be a noble work, he observed self-approvingly. Indeed, by virtue of making such assurances frequently, he had come, actually, to believe in them himself. Tomorrow? Yes indeed, a pardon might very possibly come tomorrow, and a good thing that would be for everyone. Good or bad, said Constantino despondently. After all, continued the other, when I am gone, it may be that you will no longer have any use for my surfaces. The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted having spoken, but seeing that Constantino merely shook his head, evidently supposing that he alluded to a possible pardon, he regarded him compassionately. Are you really and truly innocent? he asked. By this time I should think you would be willing to talk to me quite openly. Do you remember that first time when I asked you? You said, May I never see my child again, if I am guilty? Yes, so I did, and now you mean to say I am perhaps not going to see him again? Well, God's will be done, but I am innocent all the same. The King of Spades turned, and again spat upon the wall. Patience, old fellow, patience, patience, he said, and there was a note of real warmth and feeling in his tone. He felt, in fact, quite proud of himself for recognizing and esteeming honesty when he saw it in others, and it was this taste that drew him to Constantino. He saw with wonder that his fellow countrymen were so good, that his soul was so pure, and his whole nature formed of so finer material, that even the boundless corruption of prison life could not sully him. Now it happened that the ex-martial allowed himself, as one of the privileges of his position of go-between, to read the letters that passed through his hands. Not long before an anonymous letter had come for Constantino, written in a villainous hand, with great sprawling characters that looked like insects crawling over the page. Venomous creatures they proved indeed to be, and capable of inflicting wounds as deadly as those of any living reptile. In short, the letter announced that Giovanna, wife of the prisoner, was permitting Bronto de Jas to pay court to her, and that Aunt Bacchissia was about to go to Nuoro to consult a lawyer about applying for a divorce for her daughter. On reading this precious communication the ex-martial became furious. His friend, the delegate, immersed as he was in his great scientific researchers, heard him snorting and puffing out his fat yellow cheeks. Idiots! Fools! Sardinian asses! he spluttered. Why on earth tell him about it at all? What can he do except butter out his brains against the wall? He did not deliver the letter. And every time he saw his friend, he regarded him compassionately, feeling at the same time pleased at his own goodness of heart, for caring so much. Three days later the boy died. Constantino was notified immediately of the event. He wept silently and by stealth trying hard to bear up with fortitude before his companions. When Arnolfo Bellini, the man whose mistress was dying, heard of the Sardinian's misfortune, he fell into a fit of nervous weeping, emitting curious noises like an angry hen, his grey old young face, doubling up in such grotesque contortions that one of the quarrelsome brothers from the Abruzzi burst out laughing. One of the others leaned across and punched him in the leg with an awl whereupon the Abruzzi started, ceased coughing, and continued his work without protest. Constantino, after staring a moment at Bellini in amazement, shook his head and turned to his bench. Silence reigned and presently the man calmed down. The low room was filled with the hot reflected glare from the courtyard, and the overpowering heat drew a sickening odour from the leather and the perspiring hands and feet of the convicts. There were thirteen of them under the surveillance of a tall red moustached guard who never opened his lips. The uniformity of dress, the close cropped heads and shaven faces, and the general vacuity of expression lent them all a certain mutual resemblance. They might have been brothers, or at least nearly related to one another, and yet never more than on that particular day had Constantino felt himself so utterly apart, so wholly out of sympathy with his companions in misery. He stitched and stitched, bending over the shoe, which rested between his knees in the hollow of his leather apron. From time to time he would pause, examine his work attentively, then go on again, drawing the thread through with both hands with a jerk that seemed almost angry. Yes, one must work, now that the boy was dead. Had he loved him very dearly? Well, he could hardly say, perhaps not so very much. He had only seen him once during that time at Nuoro, through the iron grating of the reception room, held fast in the arms of his weeping mother. The baby, he remembered, had a little pink face, somewhat rough and scarred like certain kinds of apricots when they arrived. His round, violet-coloured eyes shone like a pair of grape seeds from beneath their long fringe of lashes. He had cried the whole time, terrified at the sight of the stern-faced rigid guards, and grasping the iron bars convulsively with his little red hands. This was the only memory Constantino had preserved of his son. Years had gone by since then, yet he always imagined him flushed, tearful with little violet eyes shining out from beneath the dark lashes. But he often pictured the future when Malthinedo, grown to be big and strong, would drive the wagon and ride the horse and sow and reap and be the comfort and support of his mother. The prisoner constantly hoped that some day or other he would be cleared and able to return to his home, but when at times this hope seemed to be more than usually vain, then his thoughts would instantly revert to the boy, and how he would be able to take his place in a way. Thus his feeling for him was more a part of his love for Giovanna than that more selfish affection which is the result often of habit and propinquity. Now the boy was dead, and the dream shattered. The will of God be done, and Constantino, dwelling upon Giovanna's grief, suffered himself acutely. When the king of Spades accordingly met his friend that day in the shadow of the sun-baked wall, he at once perceived that the other's grief was far more for his wife than for the loss of the child. Nevertheless, his method of imparting comfort was to say banteringly, Why, my dear fellow, if, as you say, the Lord has taken the little innocent soul back to himself, why do you take it so much to heart? It must be for his own good. Why must it? said Constantino, his head drooping and both arms hanging down with limp, open palms. Why must he be better off? Simply because he was poor. The king of Spades happened to be in a philosophizing mood. He explained, therefore, that poverty was not always a misfortune, nothing of the sort. It might at times be looked upon as a blessing, even an unqualified one. There are many worse things than poverty, said he. Reflect for a moment. Your wife will become reconciled. Oh, of course, she has the sun, said Constantino, clenching his hands, this burning sun and just how is it going to help her? puffed the other, inflating his big yellow cheeks. Then he grew thoughtful and fell to examining the little finger of his right hand with minute attention. Suppose, he said suddenly, your wife with a marry again? Constantino did not quite take in what he meant, but his arms stiffened instinctively. I hardly should have thought, said he in a hurt tone, that you would say such a thing as that. The ex-martial swelled and puffed meditatively. Then, after a short pause, he began again. But listen, my dear fellow, you don't understand. I don't, for a moment, mean to say that your wife is not a perfectly honest woman. What I do mean is, suppose she were actually to marry someone else. And still you don't understand, upon my word, this Christian is extraordinarily slow at taking an idea. One would suppose he were free, you are so innocent. Perhaps, though, he added, you don't know that people can get divorces nowadays. Any woman whose husband has been sentenced for more than ten years can be divorced and marry someone else. Constantino threw his head up for a moment, and his sunken eyes opened round and wide, then the lids dropped again. Giovanna would never do it, he said simply. There was another brief interval of silence. Giovanna would not do it, he repeated. Yet even as he pronounced the words, he had a strange sensation as though a frozen steel was slashing his heart in twain. One part was convulsed with agony, while the other shrieked again and again. She would never do it, she would never do it! And neither part gave a single thought to the little dead child. She would not do it, she would not do it! reiterated one half of his heart with loud insistence, until at last the other was convinced, and they came together again, but only to find that both were now devoured by that torturing pain. See here, said the king of spades, I don't believe she would either, but tell me one thing. Now that the child is dead, and now that the mother has nothing more to hope for, from either him or you, would it not, after all, be the very best thing she could do, supposing she had the opportunity? For my own part, I think that if a chance came along for her to marry again, she would be very foolish not to take it. Bronto de Jas, said Constantino to himself, but he only repeated, no, she would not do it! But you are a Christian, my friend, if she were to do it, would she not be in the right? But I am going back some day. How is she to know that? Why, I have told her so all along, and I shall never cease telling her so. The king of spades had a strong inclination to laugh, but he restrained himself, feeling quite ashamed of the impulse. Presently he murmured, as though in answer to some inward question, it is all utter foolishness. Yes, of course, said Constantino, but all the time he was thinking of Bronto de Jas, of his house with the portico, of his tankers and his flocks, and then of Giovanna's poverty. Alas, the knife was cutting deep into his heart now! That very night he wrote a long letter to Giovanna, comforting her, and assuring her of his unshaken faith in the divine mercy. It may be, he wrote in the simple goodness of his heart, that God wishes to prove us still further, and so has taken from us the offspring that we conceived in sin. May his will be done! But now a presentiment tells me that the hour of my restoration to liberty is at hand. He considered long whether or not to tell her of the dreadful thing hinted at by the ex-martial, and thought himself quite shrewd and cunning, where he decided it would be better to let her think that he did not so much as know of the existence of that infernal law. His letter dispatched, he felt more tranquil. But a little worm had begun to gnaw and gnaw in his brain. The ex-martial, moreover, from that day on, with a pity that was heartless in its operations, never ceased to instill the subtle poison into his veins. He must become accustomed to the idea, thought this diplomatist to himself, or else the poor simple soul will die of heartbreak. There were times, however, when he thought that it might be better, after all, to let him die and have done with it. Then, remembering all his promises about obtaining a pardon, he would pretend to himself that he was really going to do this, and continue the torture so that his victim might survive the shock when news of the divorce actually came. He had no doubt that his friend's wife was seriously contemplating the step, and it made him angry to hear Constantino speak affectionately of her. My dear fellow, said he one October day, puffing as usual, you don't know women. Empty jugs, that's what they are, nothing but empty jugs. I was once engaged to be married myself. You can hardly believe it? Well, I can hardly believe it, either. What then? Nothing, except that she betrayed me before I had even married her, and that you irritate me beyond measure. Here is your wife in an altogether different situation. She is young and poor, and has blood in her veins. She has blood in her veins, I suppose, hasn't she? Well, if this Dejas fellow wants her to marry him, I say she would be a great goose not to do it. Dejas? Why, what, who told you? stammered Constantino in amazement. Oh, didn't you tell me yourself? Constantino thought he most certainly had not, but then his mind had been in such a confused state for some time back, but merciful God, dear son Constantino, how had he ever come to do such a thing? What had made him utter that man's name? Well, then, he burst out. Yes, I am afraid of him. He courted her before we were married. He wanted her himself. Ugh, he's a drunkard, and as weak as mud. No, no, she could never do anything so horrible, for pity's sake, let's talk of something else. So they did talk of something else, still in the Sardinian dialect, so as not to be understood by the other prisoners. They talked of the consumptive student who was drawing visibly nearer to the door of the other world, of Anolfo Bellini, who began to sob whenever his eye fell on the dying man, of the delegate whom they could see pacing back and forth by the fountain, of the magpie who was growing feeble and losing all his feathers from old age. Gossip, envy, hatred, identical interests, cowardice, railery, fear, such were the bonds which united or kept apart the different members of the little community, prisoners, guards, and officials alike. To Constantino they were all equally objects of indifference. He, the delegate, and the student seeming to live apart in a little world of their own, with the ex-martial, the pivot about which every detail in the prisoner's lives seemed to revolve, he, meanwhile, appearing to be as superior as he was necessary to them all. Many envied the friendly intercourse existing between Constantino and him, and frequently the former would be implored to use his influence with the king of Spades to procure some favour. He merely shrugged his shoulders on such occasions, though when they offered him money, as sometimes happened, he was sorely tempted to take it, so intense was his longing to be able to support Giovanna, he had no other idea. The king of Spades with his eternal insinuations that cut like knives was becoming more and more hateful to him, one day they actually quarreled, and for some time did not speak to one another. But Constantino could not stand it. He felt as though he should suffocate, as though he had been shut up in a cell and cut off from all communication with the outer world. He soon apologised and begged for a reconciliation. The autumn drew on, the air grew cool, and the sky became a delicate, velvety blue, distant, unreal, dreamlike. Sometimes the breeze would waft a perfume of ripening fruit into the prison enclosure. Constantino was less acutely miserable, but he had sunk into a state of settled melancholy. He grew thinner and thinner, and deprived himself continually of things which he stood in need of in order to have more money to send to Giovanna. The other prisoners all received presents of some sort from their friends and relatives. He alone denied himself even the little pittance he was able to earn. I don't understand it, said the ex-martial to him one day. Your complexion is pink, and you look younger than you did when you came, and yet you are almost transparent. Sometimes Constantino would flush violently, and the blood would rush to his head. Then he would be utterly prostrated, and in his weakness he would suffer more from homesickness than he had done even in the first year of his imprisonment. He would see before him the boundless sweep of the uplands, sleeping in the autumnal haze, glowing and yellow beneath the crystal sky. He would get the breath of the vineyards, the scent of such late maturing fruits as flourish in that land of flocks and beehives. Images would rise before him of the foxes and hares, the wild birds and cattle, the hedges thick with blackberries, all the hundred and one natural objects which had constituted the sole element of enjoyment in his otherwise miserable and barren childhood. Then his thoughts would turn to his uncle, the cruel old vulture who having tormented him in his lifetime seemed able to torment him still. An impulse of bitter hatred would rise up in his heart, only to be repressed on remembering that he was dead, and succeeded by a prayer for the murdered man's soul. There was no one else whom he was even tempted to hate, no one at all, not even the real murderer. Or Bronthu de Jass, who in fact had as yet given him no cause for complaint, or the king of spades, though he subjected him to this continual martyrdom. Indeed it hardly seemed as though he had sufficient strength effectually to hate anyone. A feeling of gentle melancholy pervaded him, a sort of numbness like that of a person about to fall asleep. His only sensation was one of tender, pitiful, passionless love, as tranquil, as mild, and all embracing as an autumnal sky, and for having its one object, Giovanna. She was a part of the love itself, and waking or sleeping, he thought only of her, only of her, only of her. As time went on this love became more and more engrossing. She came to represent the far-off home, family, liberty, life itself. All, all was comprehended in her, hope, faith, endurance, peace, the very love of life. She became his soul. When the inexorable king of spades threatened him with that horrible thing, he did not know it, but it was the death of his soul that he was holding over him. For the certainty of not losing Giovanna, Constantino would gladly have agreed to pass forty years in prison, and at the same time he panted for his freedom precisely in order that he might not lose her. End of chapter 8 part 1 Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 8 part 2 of After the Divorce by Grazia de Leda translated by Maria Horner Lansdale This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham During the winter that followed he suffered intensely from cold, his face and nails were livid, and during the exercise hour, even when he stood in the sun, his teeth chattered like those of an old man. He asked often to confess, and confided all his troubles to the young chaplain. Who put such ideas as these into your head, my son? asked the confessor, his dark eyes flashing. A fellow countryman of mine, the ex-martial Burey, the king of spades, they call him. May God bless and protect you, said the other, becoming thoughtful. He knew the king of spades well. Then he administered what comfort he could, and asked what Giovanna had written herself, and when. Alas! she wrote but seldom now, and never more than a few lines at a time. It seemed almost as if, after the child's death, she had nothing to write about. In her last letter she had told him that the weather was bitterly cold, that there had been two snowstorms, in one of which, a man while attempting to cross the mountains, had been frozen to death. And then she had added that they were having a famine. These accounts, of course, prayed upon Constantino's mind. He would dream constantly, that he had been taken to Nuoro, and given his liberty. From thence he would set forth on foot for home. It was cold, bitterly cold. He could go no further. He was dying, dying. Then he would wake up shivering and wither heavy weight on his heart. You are so weak, my brother, said the confessor. It is bodily weakness that makes you imagine all these things. Your wife is a good Christian. She would never wrong you in the world. Come, put all such ideas out of your head. You should try to get back your strength. You must eat more, and drink something now and then. Are you earning anything? A little, but I send it all to my wife. She is so terribly poor. Oh, I eat plenty, and I don't like to take anything to drink. It gives me nausea. Well, take heart. I will talk to Burai. He shall not bother you any more. He did, in fact, have an interview with the King of Spades, and took him severely to task for putting such wicked ideas into Ladder's head. The poor fellow is far from strong as it is, said he. If you don't let him alone, he will be ill. Burai regarded the priest calmly out of his shrewd little pig eyes. Then he gave a puff and shook his head. I only do it for his own good, he said confidently. But what good, what possible good, you! I tell you, my dear fellow, I beg your pardon, but here it is for the present. As long as the cold weather lasts, there is very little to be feared, so far as the young woman is concerned. That is, I fancy, that now it is only the old one, Constantino's mother-in-law, who is at work, advising and tormenting her daughter not to let her chance slip by. But when the spring comes, then you'll see. That's all. The chaplain's face fell. He was disturbed and puzzled. The other, watching him out of his sharp little eyes, concluded that the present would be a good time to explain himself more fully, and accordingly began to enlarge upon the mother-in-law's grasping disposition, the youth of her daughter, the dangers of the spring season, and so forth. The chaplain now became really angry. This is too much, he exclaimed, as he strode up and down, striking the palms of his hands together and his eyes flashing. How dare you imagine all this string of things that may possibly happen, and then repeat them to that poor creature as though they were actual occurrences! Because the young woman once had another suitor, you mean to say, my dear friend, there is no need to get so angry, said the other. Here, look at this! And he showed him the anonymous letter. The chaplain saw at once that the matter was more serious than he had supposed. He read the letter, and then asked if Ledder paid him money. Of course, a trifle now and then. Perhaps you think it wrong. Well, don't I take the risk of being put in a cell in order to serve him? And you consider that you are doing right when you act in this manner? What is doing right? If it is helping your neighbour, then I most certainly think that I am. The chaplain re-read the letter attentively. Yes, pursued the other, I certainly am. And what is more, if when I get out of here they don't reinstate me in my position, I intend to arrange a system of correspondence for all the prisons in Italy. It will be a sort of agency. I see, my friend, that it will not be long before we have you back again. Hey, hey! I shall know how to manage the thing. A secret agency, and pardons too, said the priest, folding the letter and returning it. How can you have the heart to fool these poor creatures so? Yes, pardons too, replied Burai, calmly. Well, and suppose they are fooled. If it gives them any comfort to hope, is not that an act of kindness in itself? What is there for any of us but hope? Well, said the other more mildly, at least do me the favour to leave that poor fellow alone. Allow him to enjoy the pleasures of hope, otherwise he will certainly fall ill. The ex-martial promised, though with bad grace. It seemed to him a poor method. He will die of heart stroke, I verily believe, he said to himself, Wait till the spring, then we will see whether a man of the world knows what he is about or know, and he laid one hand on his breast. When they next met, Constantino asked with a smile, if he had seen Supraedaru, as they called the chaplain between themselves, and what he had said to them. The ex-martial was leaning against the damp and dingy wall, softly cursing some individual unknown in the Sardinian dialect. I wish a ball would hit him in the pouch, the he-wolf, he murmured, as Constantino approached. What is it, who? Oh, nothing. You want to know if I have seen the priest? Yes, and he scolded me like a child. What a child it is, a little pig, really and truly a little pig, but the lard is yellow and rancid. Do you know I read somewhere that in Russia they think very highly of rancid lard? But tell me what he said. What he said? Let me see, what did he say? I don't remember. Oh yes, he told me that I had imagined all that. What we have been talking about. Yes, that was it, my dear fellow. I have, it seems, a vivid imagination, and your wife will never wrong you in the world. Never as surely as we are standing here. Constantino looked at him eagerly. No, the man was not chaffing. He was perfectly serious and evidently meant what he said. Aha! He scolded you, did he? Good enough! he cried. This wall, said the King of Spades, straightening himself and regarding his hands which were red and scarred from contact with the rough stones, this wall looks as though it were made of chocolate. It is warm and damp. If it only were, there would be two advantages. We could eat it and then escape. Have you ever eaten any chocolate? Why, of course, in Giovanna too, she is very fond of it, but it is fearfully dear. Well, and what then? What then? exclaimed the other impatiently. My dear fellow, you drive me crazy. Oh, she will wait for you twenty-three years, never fear. No, not that long. I shall be out of here long before that, replied Constantino confidently. Then too, he added with a gleam of humour, there is the pardon. You were to see the King, you know, about a pardon for me. Precisely, said the other. I was to see the King. You don't believe me? I shall, however, go to him at once. He receives every official, and what am I, if not an official? He is fond of the army, he is young. I hear he is getting fat. Ah, not as fat as I, though, and he laughed. From then on, whenever Constantino tried to bring the conversation around to the old subject, the other contrived to head him off, but at all events he was no longer tormented. One day about this time, Constantino was informed that five francs had been paid into his account. He did it, he exclaimed. I am sure it was the priest what a kind man he is, but I don't need it. No indeed, I don't need the money at all. You stupid, said the King of Spades. Take it! If you don't, he will be offended. I don't want it, a pretty way dark to acknowledge your present. But I should be ashamed to take it, and what could I do with it, anyhow? Why eat, drink? You have need too, I can assure you. You would like to send it home, I suppose, the devil take you. If you do such an idiotic thing as that, I will spit in your face. Why, see here, she doesn't even write to you any more. She, what is there for her to write about, said Constantino, trying vainly to think of some excuse. Besides, he added, she will be working now, the winter is nearly over. Yes, it is nearly over, and then the spring will come, said the other in a tone that had almost a menace in it. It will come. Well, of course it will come. When does the warm weather begin with you? We have it in March. Oh, with us, not till June. But then it is so beautiful. The grass grows always tall as that, and they clip the sheep, and the bees are making honey. An idyll, truly. You don't know what an idyll is? Well, I'll tell you it is. Sometimes it is infidelity. Wait till June. How long is it since you've been to confession? Oh, I've not been for a fortnight. A long time I declare what a good Christian you are, my friend. For my own part, I've never been at all. My conscience is as clear and unsullied as a mirror. Now there, said he, pointing to the pasty-faced student, whose hair was so white that it looked as though it had been powdered. There is one who had better confess without delay. He is knocking now at the door of eternity. Sure enough, only a few days later, the student was removed to the infirmary, and at the end of March he died. Bellini, the man whose mistress was dying of the same disease, asked after him anxiously every day, and when he died, cried for hours in a weak, childish fashion. It was not from any grief he felt at parting from the sick man, but at the thought of what might happen to his mistress. His grief subsided at length, and then, as he no longer had the reminder of the student before his eyes, he gradually came to think less and less about his own sorrow. The death of the student had a totally different effect upon the King of Spades. He became quite melancholy, took to philosophizing about life and death, and would engage in lengthy discussions with the delegate, who rolled his eyes about and expounded his views in a deep bass voice. When talking with Constantino, the ex-martial was up to drop into rather homesick reminiscences about the distant land of their birth. Yes, he said one day, I was once quite close to your home or its neighborhood. I can't tell you precisely, but I know there was a wood, all-arbuted, and cork-trees, and rock-roses, it looked as though there had been a rain of blood all over them, and those a smell, all the queerest kind of smell, it was something like tobacco. Then there was a cross on a stone, and you could see the water far away in the distance. Why, of course, cried Constantino, that was the forest of Kebomine, stag-man. I should say I did know it. Once a hunter saw a stag there with golden horns, he fired and shot it dead, but as the stag fell, it gave a cry like a human being, and said the penance is completed. They say it was some human soul that had been forced to expiate a terrible sin of some sort. The cross was erected afterwards. And how about the horns? They say that as the hunter drew near, the horns turned black. Poof! Poof! How superstitious you all are, you peasants! Ah, here is the spring coming at last, he continued, staring up at the sky. For my own part the spring gets on my nerves, if I could but go hunting once. There was one time, when I was hunting in the marshes near Calieri, ah, those marshes, they looked just like ever so many pieces of looking-glass thrown down from somewhere above, and all around, there were quantities of purple lilies. A long line of flamingos were flying in single file. This stood out against the sky which was so bright you could hardly raise your eyes to it. Poof! Poof! One of the flamingos fell, the others flew on without making a sound. I rushed right into the middle of the marsh to get the one I had shot. I was as quick and agile as a fish in those days. I was only eighteen years old. What if flamingos good for? Nothing, they stuffed them. They have great long legs like velvet. Have you ever been in that part of the country? Oh yes, I remember, when you worked in the mines you passed through Calieri. I shall go back there some day to die in blessed peace. You are melancholy nowadays. What would you have, my friend? It is the spring. It is so depressing to have to pass Easter in prison. I shall take the Easter instruction this year. I have taken it already. Ah! You have taken it already? And the two prisoners fell into a thoughtful silence. Thus April passed by, and May and June. The dreary prison walls turned into ovens. Unpleasant insects came to life, and once more prayed upon the unfortunate inmates. Again the air was filled with sickening odours, and in the workroom presided over by the same red-faced taciturn guard. Perspiration, fish and leather fought for preeminence in the fetid atmosphere. Constantino, weaker than ever, suffered tortures from the insects. In former years he had slept so profoundly that nothing could disturb him, but now it was different. And a sudden sting would arouse him with a bound and leave him trembling all over. Then insomnia set in, and periods of semi-consciousness that were worse than actual sleeplessness haunted as they sometimes were with nightmare. Sharp twingers, not always from insects, shot through his entire body, and he would toss from side to side, gasping and sighing. Sometimes the torture became almost unendurable, and often the orange glow of sunrise would shine through the window before he had been able to close an eye. Then, overpowered by exhaustion, he would fall into a heavy slumber, just as it was time to get up. Giovanna had now entirely ceased writing. Once only towards the end of May a letter had come, begging him not to send her any more money, as she now earned enough to live on with care. After that there was nothing more. And yet he maintained his tranquil faith in her loyalty. Even this last letter he took as a fresh proof of her affection for him. Every day the king of spades, waiting for his friend in the exercise hour, would betray a certain anxiety. Well, he would say uneasily, his sharp little demon eyes snapping out of the big, clean-shaven yellow face. Well, what news? And when Constantino would seem to be surprised at the question, he too would look surprised, though he would never say at what. It is warm weather, he would observe. Yes, very warm. The spring is over. I should say that it was. Have they finished harvesting where you come from? Of course they have. My wife says there is no need to send her anything more now. Ah! I knew that already, my dear fellow. The ex-martial hardly knew what to think. He was almost annoyed to find that his forebodings were not being verified. One day, however, Constantino failed to put in an appearance at the exercise. And when the ex-martial was told that his friend had been taken to the infirmary, he felt a strange tightening at the heart. Presently the old magpie came fluttering about, and settling down with a shake of its half-balled, rumpled head, croaked out dismally, Constanti, Constanti, Constanti has had a stroke, my friend, said the King of Spades. The other convicts began to crowd around him curiously, but he waved them all off. I know nothing about it. He said, let me alone. Up to nine o'clock, Bellini told them, Constantino had been at work with the rest as usual. Then a guard had said that he was wanted. No one knew what for. He had gotten quickly up, and gone off with him as white as a sheet, and his eyes starting out of their sockets. He had not returned. To the last day of his life Constantino never forgot that morning. It was hot and overcast. The shadows of the clouds seemed to hang over the workroom, throwing half of it into deep gloom. The convicts all looked livid by this light. The leather aprons exhaled a strong and very disagreeable odor, and everyone was out of humour. A man who was afraid of ghosts had been telling how in his part of the country long white flowing forms could be seen on dark nights, floating on the surface of the river. He asked Bellini if he had ever seen them. I? No! I don't believe in such foolishness. Ah! You think it's foolishness, do you? said the other, in a dull monotonous tone, and staring into the shoe he was at work on. Cough! murmured another, without looking up from his work. The believer in ghosts thereupon raised his head with an angry movement, and was about to reply in kind when the first broke in, protestingly, Oh! really? said he. Can't I talk to myself? If I choose to say cough, or arm, or sheep, or dog, what business is it of yours? Can't I say things to my shoe? I'd like to know. It was at this point that the guard had come and called Constantino away, and the latter, who had passed a sleepless night, had opened his drowsy eyes, turned pale, and leapt to his feet. Who wants me? he had asked. And then he had followed the guard. He was taken to a dingy room filled with shelves of dusty papers. The dirty windows were closed. Beyond them, through a red grating, could be seen the sky, dull and gray, as though it too were dirty. A man was seated, writing, at a tall, dusty desk, piled so high with papers, that between the papers and the dust, the man himself could hardly be seen. As the prisoner entered, he raised a flushed face, the small chin completely hidden by a heavy, blonde moustache. He fixed a pair of big, round, dull blue eyes upon Constantino, but apparently without seeing him, for he dropped them again immediately and went on writing. Constantino, who had seen this man before, stood waiting, his heart thumping in his breast. Mechanically, his thoughts dwelt upon the description of the water-fantoms he had just been listening to, and the voice saying, cough. He wondered vaguely if one would be justified in feeling angry at that. Not a sound broke the silence of the room, except the scratch, scratch of the pen, as it travelled over the coarse paper. Again the pale blue eyes were fixed upon the prisoner, and again lowered to the sheet. Constantino, trembling and unnerved, gazed desperately around the room. Still the man wrote on. The prisoner could feel his heart beating furiously, a thousand dark fancies hideous, terrifying rush through his brain, like clouds driven before an angry tempest. And still the man wrote on and on. Suddenly, without warning, all the dark fancies vanished, dispersed, and swallowed up, as it were, in a single glorious flood of light. A thought so dazzling and beautiful as almost to be painful shot into his mind. They have discovered that I am innocent. The idea did not remain for long, but it left behind a vague, tremulous light. The man was still writing, and did not stop, as he presently said in a loud, hard voice. You are named Constantino Leda. Where from? Olé in Sardinia, province of Sassary. Very good. Silence. The man wrote a little while longer, then suddenly he dug his pen into the paper, raised his red face, and said, raised his red face, and fastened his round, expressionless eyes upon the man standing before him. Constantino's own eyes dropped. Very good. Have you a wife? Yes. Any children? We had one, but he died. Are you fond of your wife? Yes, replied Constantino, and raised his terrified eyes as far as the fat red hand resting on the desk, with a ring on one finger having a purple stone, and between the thumb and forefinger, the stiff black point of the pen. Not knowing where to fix his perplexed gaze, Constantino followed the movements of this pen, conscious all the while only of a feeling of supreme agony, as when one dreams that he is about to be swallowed up in a cataclysm. The hard voice was speaking again in a low measured tone. You know, of course, that your wife's whole life has been ruined by your fault. Young, handsome, and blameless, the rest of her days must be spent in struggle and privation. The world holds out no promise of happiness for her, and yet she has never done any harm at all. As long as your child lived, she endured her lot patiently. Her hopes were fixed upon him. But now that he is dead, what has she left? When you return to her, if indeed God should be so merciful as to allow you to do so, you will be old, broken down, useless, and she will be the same. She sees, stretching before her, a terrible future, nothing but sorrow, shame, poverty, and a miserable old age. No resource but to beg. Thus her life is a worse punishment even than yours. Constantino, as white as death, panting, agonising, tried to protest to say that he would surely be liberated before long, but the words died away on his lips. The other meanwhile gave him no chance, but pursued his theme in smooth, even tones, his dull eyes never leaving the prisoner's face. Her life is thus a worse punishment even than yours. You should think of these things and abandoning all hope, repent doubly of your crime. He cleared his throat and then continued in a different tone. Now, however, the law has provided a means by which this great injustice can be rectified. You, of course, know very well that an act of divorce has gone into effect, which enables a woman whose husband is guilty of a certain class of crime to marry a game. Should your wife sit down, keep quiet. Should your wife apply for such a divorce, it would be your duty to grant it at once. I know that you are, or pretend to be, after all, a good Christian. Constantino, who was leaning on the table shaking in every limb, but making a heroic effort to control himself, now broke in. Has she applied for it? he demanded. Sit down. Sit down there, said the other, motioning with his pen. He wanted to continue his harangue, but Constantino again spoke in a clear, firm voice that contrasted strangely with the trembling of his limbs. I know my duty perfectly, he said, and I shall never give my consent. I shall undoubtedly be freed before very long, and then my wife would bitterly repent of her mistake. Two deep wrinkles furrowed the red cheeks of the lecturer, and an ugly smile shone from his dull eyes. Indeed, he said, well, the consent of the prisoner is asked merely as a formality. It is, of course, his duty to give it, and his good will counts for something in his favour. But it all comes to the same thing whether he gives it or not. Hey there, what, why, what is the matter? For Constantino had given a sudden lurch, and collapsed on the floor like a bundle of limp rags. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Tom Denham Part 2 Chapter 9 of After the Divorce by Grazia de Leda Translated by Maria Horner Lansdale This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham 1910 In the stranger's room of the Poro House Giovanna was looking over some purchases made that day in Nuoro. She was stouter than ever, and had lost something of her girlish look, but nevertheless she was both fresh and handsome still. She examined the pieces of linen and woolen stuff attentively, turning them over and over and feeling them with a preoccupied air, as though not altogether satisfied with the selection. Then folding them carefully, she wrapped them in newspaper, and laid them away in her bag. These things were the materials for her wedding outfit, for having at last obtained her divorce, she was shortly to marry de Gias. She and her mother had come to Nuoro for the express purpose of making the purchases. The money had been borrowed with the utmost secrecy from Aunt Anna Rosa de Gias, Jacoby's sister, who had always taken a particular interest in Giovanna because of having been for a short time her foster mother. It was the dead of winter, but the two women had courageously defied the fatigues and discomforts of the journey in order to lay in a supply of linen, cotton, kerchiefs and woolen stuff. The ceremony, a purely civil one, was to be conducted in the strictest privacy, more so even than on the occasion of a widow's marriage. But this made no difference to Aunt Bakithia, who was determined that her daughter should enter her new home fitted out in every respect, like a youthful bride of a good family. The countryside was still wandering and gossiping over the scandalous affair. And it was rumoured that another couple contemplated applying for a divorce by mutual consent. A great many people already looked to scans at the eras, and some said that Bronto had evil designs upon Giovanna. Jacoby de Gias is a doropane and a number of other friends had stopped going to the house after making final scenes that were almost violent. Jacoby had snalled like a dog and had used prayers and even threats in a last vain effort to dissuade Giovanna from the step, until Aunt Bakithia had at length driven him out. Even Aunt Porreda at Nuoro, although it was her son who had obtained the divorce for Giovanna, had received her friends with marked coolness. The doctor, as she called her son, was on the contrary most quarrelling an attempt of in his manner towards their guests. So Giovanna was folding up her possessions in a thoughtful mood, her preoccupation having, however, to do solely with those bits of stuff. The linen it appeared was somewhat tumbled. The fringe of the black Tibet handkerchief with its big crimson roses was too short. One piece of ribbon had a spot on it, worrying matters all of them. Night was falling like that other time, but the surroundings and the weather and her heart were all quite quite different. The stranger's room now had a fine window through whose panes shone the clear cold light of a winter evening. The furniture, all entirely new, exhaled a powerful smell of varnished wood, while its surface glistened like whorefrost. The door opened on the same covered gallery, but new granite steps now led down to the courtyard. The doctor's practice was growing and the entire house had been done over. He now had an office in the busiest part of the town and was much in demand, both for civil and penal processes. The most desperate cases, the worst offenders, all that class of clients who have the least hope from the law entrusted their affairs to him. Giovanna folded, wrapped, and packed her possessions. And then, the bag being somewhat overful, she shook it vigorously to make the contents settle down. This accomplished, she turned with knitted brows and slowly descended the outer stair. Both hands thrust deep in the pockets, always to be found just below the waist in the skirt of a Sardinian costume. It was an evening in January, clear but extremely cold. Some silver stars set in the cloudless blue of the sky seemed to tremble in the frosty atmosphere. Crossing the courtyard, Giovanna could see through the window of the lighted dining room, Grazia's pale face and great eager eyes as she sat turning over the leaves of a fashion paper. The child had developed into a tall and pretty girl. She was dressed in the latest fashion, with great lace wings extending from the shoulders behind the arms. They obliged their wearers to walk sideways through any narrow aperture, but made them look, by way of compensation, like so many angels before the fall. Grazia, seeing the guest, smiled at her without getting up, and the latter entered the kitchen. Here, too, everything was new. The white walls, the stove of glistening bricks, the petroleum lamp hanging from the ceiling. It was all so gorgeous that Aunt Bacchissia could not refrain from gazing about her the whole time, her shining little green beads of eyes, snapping and sparkling in the sallow hawk-like face set in the folds of a black scarf. She, at least, was unchanged, the old witch. She was seated beside the servant-maid, a dirty, dishevelled young person, whose loud and frequent laugh displayed a set of protruding teeth. Aunt Porrena was cooking and scolding the maid for this annoying habit of hers. Only fancy! Here was the mistress doing the cooking, while the servant sat by the stove and laughed. What kind of way to do was that? And, moreover, the good woman could never have one single moment's peace, and she, the mother of a famous lawyer. Giovanna seated herself at some little distance from the stove, stooping over with her hand still buried in the pockets of her skirt. Just look, exclaimed Aunt Bacchissia, in a tone of envy. This kitchen might be a parlor. You must do your kitchen up like this, Giovanna. Yes, said the young woman, absentmindedly. Yes? Well, upon my soul, I should say so. Godmother Malthina is close, but you have got to make her understand that money is meant to spend. A kitchen like this? Why, it is heaven, upon my soul. This is living. What do you always say upon my soul, for, has the giggling servant made? If she doesn't choose to spend her money, how am I to make her? said Giovanna, with a sigh. The servant was still laughing. But Aunt Porreda, who wanted to keep out of her guest's conversation, turned on her, and sharply ordered her to grate some cheese for the macaroni. The girl obeyed. What is the matter with you? asked Aunt Bacchissia, as Giovanna sighed again. She remembers, said Aunt Porreda to herself. After all, she is a Christian, not an animal, and she can't help herself. But Giovanna spoke up, crossly. Well, it's just this. They've cheated us. That is not good linen, and the ribbon is spotted. Oh, it is too much. Upon my soul, said the maid, mimicking Aunt Bacchissia's voice and accent, and grating away vigorously on the cheese. Aunt Porreda, thereupon, let out upon her all the vials of wrath she would feign of emptied upon her guests, calling her by all the names which in her secret heart she was applying to Giovanna, shameless vials! Ungrateful, despicable, and so on, and threatening to strike her over the head with the ladle. In her terror, the girl grated the skin off one finger, and she was in the act of displaying it with the blood streaming down when the lawyer's son limped briskly into the room. He was enveloped in the long black overcoat, so full that it looked like a cloak with sleeves. His smooth, fresh-coloured little face beamed with the self-satisfied expression of a nursing child. Asking immediately what there was to eat, he dropped into a seat beside Aunt Bacchissia, and sat there chatting until supper was ready. After him, the little Minna came running in, rosey, breathless, and dishevelled, and threw herself down by the servant-maid. The boy had died three years earlier. The little girl's dress of black and red flannel was pretty enough, but her shoes were torn and her hands dirty. She had spent the entire day tearing around in a neighbouring truck-garden, and began to pour out confidences to the servant in an eager undertone. Upon my soul, repeated the servant in the same tone as before. Next Uncle F.S. Murray, as big-face, with its thick, wide-open lips, appeared in the door, wanting to know why they could not have supper right away. The dining-room was now furnished with two tall, shining cupboards of varnished wood, and the whole apartment had quite an air of elegance. Strips of carpet on the stone floor, a stove, and so on. Poor Aunt Porrada, with her big feet and hobnailed shoes, never felt really at home there, while Uncle F.S. Murray had not yet cured himself of the habit of staring proudly around him. Grazia, tall and elegant, all was withdrew into herself when her relations came into this room, where she passed most of her time, eagerly devouring the unique mod, the petit parisienne, and the fashion articles of her family journal, sufficiently immoral in its tone, since it fomented such unhealthy dreams in her foolish head. Ah! those low-cut gowns covered with embroidery, those scarves worked in gold, those bodices with their great wings of silver lace, the rainbow hues, the spangles glittering like frost. Ah! those hats covered with artificial fruits, and the long flower boars, and petticoats trimmed with lace at thirty lira a yard, and the painted gloves and fans made of human skin. How beautiful it all was, horribly, terrifyingly beautiful! Merely to read about these things gave her a sort of spasm. They were so beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful. And afterwards how ugly and common and flat everything seemed, the simple old grandmother with her fat wrinkled face, and the dull grandfather gazing about him with such ignorant satisfaction and pride. It was all simply stultifying. Just as on that other faraway evening Aunt Pareda came in, bearing triumphantly the steaming dish of macaroni, and all the members of the party seated themselves around the table. Aunt Paquicia, finding herself in the shadow, so to speak, of Grazia's wings, forthwith broke anew into loud exclamations of wonder and admiration, this time apropos of those glorious objects. No, we have never seen anything like that in our neighbourhood, but then we have no ladies there. Here they all look like angels, the ladies. Oh, bats! said Uncle F. Esmeria. Hey, it's the fashion medias. Why, I remember when I was a child, the ladies were all big and round. They looked like copulas. There hardly were any ladies in those days, the superintendent's wife, the family, and then that thing behind interrupted Aunt Pareda. Oh, I remember that. It looked like a saddle. Well, if you'll believe me, upon my word and honour, I remember one time someone sat down on one of them. The last time we were here, said Aunt Paquicia, those wings were little things. Now they're growing, growing. Grazia sat, eating her supper, as though she did not hear a word of what the others were saying. The doctor ate his too, like a grist mill, staring at his niece all the while with the look of a pleased child. Growing, growing, said he, the next thing we know, they'll all take flight. Grazia shrugged her shoulders, or rather her wings, and neither spoke nor looked up. She frequently found her uncle, that hero of her first young dream, very trying, and worse than trying, foolish. It was the common talk of the town that the uncle and niece were going to marry, and he, when interrogated on the subject, would answer, neither yes nor no. The conversation continued for some time on impersonal topics. Every now and then Aunt Pereda would get up and pass in and out of the room, and occasionally the talk would die away, and long pauses ensue that were almost embarrassing. Like that other time, everyone instinctively avoided the subject uppermost in the minds of the guests, who, on the whole, were just as well pleased to have it so. But, just as before, it was Aunt Bakissia, this time without intending to, who introduced the unwelcome topic. She asked if the report that the doctor was to marry his niece were true or no. The porous looked at one another, and Grazia, bending her head still lower over her plate, laughed softly to herself. Paolo glanced at the girl, and with an irony that seemed a little forced, replied, hey, no, she is going to marry the very right honourable sub-prefect. Grazia raised her head with a sudden movement, and opened her lips. Then, as quickly lowered it, the blood, meanwhile, rushing up to her forehead. Oh, he's old, said Menia. I know him. He's always walking about the station. He has a long red beard and a high heart. A high heart, too? Yes, a high heart. A widower. The high heart is a widower. You shut up, said the child sharply, turning on her sister. No, I'm not going to shut up. He's a freemason. He won't have his children baptised or be married in church. That's the way of it. He'll not marry in church. The young lady is well informed, said Uncle Efes Maria, polished as usual. Thereupon, Aunt Pareda, who had almost shrieked aloud at the word freemason, waved both arms in the air and burst out, yes, a freemason, one of those people who prayed the devil. Upon my word, I believe my granddaughter there would just as leave have him. We are all on the road to petition here, and why not? There's Grazia forever reading bad books and those infernal papers, till now she doesn't want to go to confession any more. Ah, those prohibited books! I lie awake all night, thinking of them. But now this is what I want to say. Grazia reads bad books. Paolo, you see him, that one over there, Dr Pedeadu. Well, he studied on the continent where they don't believe in God anymore. Now that's all right at least, isn't it? It's all wrong. But you can understand a little why those two poor creatures have stopped believing in God. But the rest of us who don't know anything about books, and who have never in our lives ridden on a railroad, that devil's horse, why should we cease to believe in God in our kind savior who died for us on the cross? Why? Why? Tell me why? You there, Giovanna era, tell me why you should be willing to marry a man by civil ceremony when you already have a husband living? The final claws of Aunt Pereda's oration fell with startling effect upon her audience. Grazia, who with a smile upon her lips had been busily engaged in rolling pieces of bread into little pellets, raised her head quickly, and the smile died away. Paolo, who likewise smiling had been fitting the blade of a knife in and out of the prongs of his fork, straightened himself with a brusque movement, and Uncle Efes Maria turned his dull round face towards Giovanna, and fixed her with an impassive stare. Giovanna herself, the object of this wholly unlooked-for attack, though she flushed crimson, replied with cynical indifference. I haven't any husband, my dear Aunt Pereda. Ask your son over there. My son, exclaimed the other angrily, I have no son, he's a child of the devil! It almost seemed as though Giovanna had succeeded in throwing the responsibility of her act upon Paolo because he had won her case for her. Everyone laughed at Aunt Pereda's outbreak, even Minia, and the servant who entered the room at that moment, carrying the cheese. Notwithstanding her wrath, Aunt Pereda took the dish, and handed it politely to her guests. Upon my soul, said Aunt Paquisia, carefully cutting herself a slice, and speaking in a tone of gentle melancholy, gentle melancholy, you are as good as gold, there is no doubt about that, but you live at your ease. You have a house like a church, and a husband like a strong tower, Uncle Efes Maria Coft, and you have a circle of stars about you, motioning towards them, so it is easy enough to talk like that. Ah, if you knew once what it meant to be in want, and to look forward to having to beg your bread in your old age, do you understand, in your old age? Bravo! cried Paolo, but I would like to have a clean knife. What difference does that make, Paquisia era? answered Aunt Pereda. You are afraid to trust in divine providence, and that means you have lost your faith in God. How do you know whether you will be poor or rich when you are old? Is not Constantino Leda coming back some day? Yes, to be a beggar too, said Aunt Paquisia, coldly. And God alone knows whether he ever will come back, observed the young lawyer brutally, taking the knife which the servant held out to him blade foremost. They had all heard that Constantino was ill, and there was a report that his lungs were affected. In order to appear agitated, and possibly she really was so to some extent, Giovanna now hid her face in her hands and said brokenly, Besides, if it is only to be a civil ceremony, it is, it is because, then she stopped. Well, why don't you go on? cried Paolo. You want to be married by civil ceremony, because the priests won't give you any other. They don't understand, and they never will understand, just as you will never understand Mama Porredda. What is marriage after all? It is a contract made between men and binding only in the sight of men. The religious ceremony really means nothing at all. It is a sacrament, cried Aunt Porredda, beside herself. Means nothing at all, continued Paolo. Just as some day the civil ceremony will mean nothing at all. Men and women should be at liberty to enter spontaneously into unions with one another and to dissolve them when they cease to be in harmony. The man, ah, you are no better than a beast, exclaimed Aunt Porredda, though it was in fact not the first time she had heard her son express these views. It is the end of the world. God has grown weary and who can wonder? He is punishing us. This is the deluge. I have heard that there have been terrible earthquakes already. There have always been earthquakes, observed Uncle Effeth Maria, who did not know whether to side with his wife or his son. Probably in the bottom of his heart. His sympathies were with the former, but he did not want to say so openly for fear of being looked down upon by the gifted Paolo. The latter made no reply. Already he regretted having said so much, being too truly attached to his mother to wish to give her needless pain. Giovanna now took her hands from her face and spoke in a tone of gentle humility. Listen, said she, when I was married before, to that unfortunate, I had only the civil ceremony, and if he had not been arrested, who knows when we ever would have had the religious marriage, and yet were we not just as much man and wife. No one ever said a word, and God, who knows all, was not offended, but he punished you, said Aunt Pareda quickly. That remains to be seen, shouted Aunt Paquisia, whose bile was beginning to rise. What's the punishment for that, or for Basilileta's murder? If it had been for the murder, only Constantino would have been punished. Well, said the old witch, her green eyes glittering with triumph is not that just what I am saying. My Giovanna here is not to be punished any longer for his fault, since God has given her the opportunity to marry a young man who is fond of her, and who will make her forget all her sufferings. And who is also rich? remarked Uncle F.S. Maria, and no one could tell whether he spoke ingenuously or no. Giovanna, who had quite lost the thread of her discourse, was nevertheless determined to continue her role of patient martyr. Oh, my dear Aunt Pareda, said she, you don't know all but God, who alone can see into our hearts. He will forgive me even if I live in mortal sin, because he will know the fault is not with me. I would gladly have the religious ceremony, but it cannot be. Yes, because you are married already to someone else, you child of the devil. But that other one is as good as dead. Just tell me now, can he help me to earn a living? And if the lawyers who are educated and learned and do know what life really is, can dissolve civil marriages, why can't the priests resolve religious ones? Perhaps they don't understand about it. There is that priest whom we have, Elias Portolou, the one who is so good, you know him? He talks like a saint and never gets angry with anyone. Well, even he can't say anything, but no, no, no, marriage can only be dissolved by death, and go and be blessed if you don't know what is right. Does a body have to live? Yes or no? And when you can't live, when you are as poor as Job and can't get work and have nothing, nothing, nothing, and just tell me you and Paredda, suppose I had been some other woman, and suppose there had been no divorce, what would have happened? Why, mortal sin, that is what would have happened, mortal sin. And in your old age, want, said Aunt Bakissia, the servant brought in the fruit, bunches of black shining dried grapes and wrinkled pears as yellow as autumn leaves. The old hostess handed the dish to her old guest with an indescribable look of compassion. Her anger and disdain and indignation had suddenly melted away as she realized the sordid natures of the mother and daughter. Good San Francisco, forgive them, she prayed inwardly because they are so ignorant and blind and hard. Then she said mildly, you and I, Bakissia era, are old women, and you Giovanna will be old someday. Now tell me one thing, what is it that comes after old age? Why death? Death, yes, death comes after, and after death what is there? Eternity, said Paolo, laughing softly to himself as he devoured his grapes like a greedy child, holding the bunch close to his mouth and detaching the seeds with his sharp little teeth. Eternity, precisely, eternity comes after, where are you going Minia, stay where you are. But the child, tired of the conversation, slipped out of the room. What do you say Giovanna era? Does eternity follow, yes or no? Bakissia era, yes or no? Yes, and yet you never think of it? Oh, what is the use of thinking of it? said Paolo, getting up and wiping his mouth with his napkin. He felt that it was high time for him to be off. He had already wasted too much time on these women, who after all were interesting solely from the fact that they had not yet paid him. There are some people waiting to see me at the office, several people in fact. He said, I will see you again, you are not leaving yet or what? Tomorrow morning at daybreak. Not really? Oh, you had better stay longer, he said, indifferently, as he struggled into his huge overcoat. When it was on, and Bakissia, watching him out of her sharp green eyes, thought that the little doctor looked like a magia, that is one of those grotesque and frightening figures whom wizards evoke by their arts. He departed, and immediately afterwards Miss Grazia, who had hardly spoken throughout the entire meal, arose and left the room as well. Uncle Efes Maria settled himself back in his chair, and began to read the new Sardinia. Bursts of laughter came from the two girls in the kitchen, and the women sat, each eating a pear, in perfect silence. A weight hung over them, upon Aunt Pareda as well as upon the others, for she was realising in her simple, untutored mind, that the disease that had attacked the souls of her ignorant guests was one and the same as that from which her sophisticated son and granddaughter were suffering.