The Church of Solitude

Pages 61 - 90

Grazia Deledda 61 garden. And the mountains cast off, once and for all, their winter pelts. A small man of an indefinable age and station, still slim in his black overcoat cut in the old way, but smart and clean, with a shiny bowler hat on his small and restless head like that of a bird, with gloves, a cane, and patent leather shoes, entered the little church. He bowed without kneeling towards the Holy Sepulchre; but it seemed he did it more than anything else to examine the carpet, one edge of which he adjusted with the point of his cane, and to smell the flowers. Then he went to the house of the women. There too, he looked around well, gave a light sniff, and said in a slightly shaky voice, “Father Serafino gave me the task of telling you that he cannot come today because he is busy with the ceremonies in the cathedral. I happened to run into him in the piazza, and knowing that I was going to take a stroll in these parts, he asked me to stop in at your house. So I have also visited your graceful sepulchre; the word ‘graceful’ doesn’t seem right, by the way, but imagining that our lovely Concezione put it together, I couldn’t find a more apt one. Well done, well done; you have taste, young lady. And, by the way, how is your health? It’s been awhile since I last saw you.” “It’s true; you haven’t been around here much, Doctor. But you must have had a lot to do: many ailments come in the winter.” If it hadn’t been the good Giustina who said these things, the man would have smiled suspiciously; for he was an old phlebotomist, a bloodletter who had, it’s true, practiced medicine illegally, but had lost all prestige after the opening of the hospital and the new theories about bloodletting. And now, half an alcoholic and without one client left, he lived in complete misery. Remembering Serafino’s words, “I will send you some poor needy one who is ashamed that he is,” Concezione understood immediately what this was about. The gaunt but clean face of the man, his sunken and pale blue eyes, the bitter fold of his gray lips, even the suit that 62 The Church of Solitude recalled his former dignity, awakened in her a profound pity. Without knowing why, she thought of Aroldo as an old man; of Aroldo worn out by a life of work, of mistakes, of vices, those vices which, once they take hold of a man, rot him to the bone. And the restlessness that had gnawed at her in the previous days gave way to tenderness and charity. “Listen,” she said, knowing that she was giving a double alms, “you are just the person I need. I was thinking about you just yesterday. Maybe you know that I was in the hospital for twenty days, for an operation. I won’t talk about that because, thank God, everything went well. But I’ve been left with a great weakness, and I don’t know how to cure it. I don’t want to return to the hospital, not at all. I still hate it. But you could order something for me, Doctor. If you don’t want me to pay you for the visit, I’ll make you a little gift.” “Nothing, nothing, he said proudly, tapping his cane on the stones of the fireplace. “Let me feel your pulse.” The pulse beat regularly. Her appearance was fairly good. He looked into her eyes, and a spark was lit in his. “You know what you have, Maria Concezione? You have the urgent need of a husband.” She laughed, and drew back the hand that he was palpating with his nervous fingers. “And where will I find this husband?” “Rascal, daughter of rascals! Where will you find him? Wherever your siren’s eyes happen to fall. If you want, I’ll send you one, within an hour at the most, at a full gallop.” “Don’t disturb yourself, doctor. In the meantime, let’s have some coffee, to the health of this future husband.” The man never accepted anything, out of fear that he would be taking alms; but Concezione’s way was so graceful that he accepted not only a big cup of coffee, but also the cookies that she offered him...