"It is a perfectly healthy heart," he hastened to answer. "It only needs
blood ... and quiet. Come! Come! Be brave! How is your appetite
to-day?"
The invalid made a movement of the lips expressive of disgust. Her eyes
were fixed on the open window, through which entered the warm sunlight.
"It is cold to-day, is it not?" she asked timidly, putting her hands
beneath the bed-covers.
One could see that she was shivering.
*XXXVII.*
The following day Federico and I paid a visit to Giovanni di Scordio.
It was the last afternoon of November. We went on foot, crossing the
tilled fields.
We walked along silent and thoughtful. The sun slowly set on the
horizon. An impalpable golden dust floated above our heads in the quiet
air. The humid earth had a vigorous, brown color, an aspect of tranquil
energy, and, so to speak, a peaceful consciousness of its virtue. From
the furrows mounted a visible breath, like that exhaled from the
nostrils of cattle. Beneath the soft light the white objects took on an
extraordinary whiteness, a snowlike purity. A cow in the distance, a
plowman's shirt, a stretched sheet, the walls of a farm-house, shone
like under the light of the full moon.
"You are sad," said Federico to me, gently.
"Yes, I am sad. I have no hope left."
There was another long silence. Flocks of birds rose from the bushes
with a fluttering of wings. The deadened tinkling of the little bells
of a distant troop reached us.
"Of what are you hopeless?" asked my brother in the same kind way.
"Of Juliana's health, and also of mine."
He remained silent; he did not speak a single word of consolation.
Perhaps he was feeling internally the pressure of pain.
"I have a presentiment," I went on, "that Juliana will never leave her
bed."
He remained silent. We passed along a path bordered by trees, and the
fallen leaves crackled beneath our feet, and at the places where there
were no leaves, the soil had a hollow sound, as if mined by subterranean
cavities.
"When she is dead," I added, "what will become of me?"
A sudden fear came upon me, a sort of panicky terror; and I looked at my
brother, who remained silent, with a frown on his face. I looked about
me at the mute desolation of the day. Never before, so clearly as then,
had I had the sensation of the frightful emptiness of life.
"No, no, Tullio," said my brother. "Juliana _cannot die_."
It was a vain assertion, without any value in face of the fiat of
Destiny. And yet he had pronounced these words with a simplicity that
gave me a shock, so extraordinary did they appear to me. Thus, at
times, children suddenly say things that go straight to the heart, and
as if a prophetic voice spoke through their unconscious lips.
"Can you read the future?" I asked him, without a shadow of irony.
"No, but I have that presentiment, and I believe it."
Once more my brother had inspired confidence in me; once more, thanks to
him, I felt a slight relaxation of the iron band that wounded my heart.
But it was only a short respite. During the remainder of our walk he
spoke to me of Raymond.
When we were near the place inhabited by Giovanni di Scordio, Federico
perceived the tall figure of the old man in a field.
"Look at him! He is sowing. We bring him the invitation at a solemn
hour."
We approached. My inner trembling was as strong as if I were on the
point of committing a profanation. Was I not, in fact, about to profane
a beautiful and great thing? Was I not about to solicit the spiritual
paternity of that venerable old man for the child of adultery?
"See, what a noble figure!" cried Federico, stooping and pointing to the
sower. "He has only a man's stature, and yet he looks like a giant."
In order to watch him we stopped behind a tree at the edge of the field.
Giovanni, attentive to his labor, had not yet perceived us.
He walked straight before him in the field, with measured slowness. His
head was covered by a green and black woolen cap, with two ear-laps that
hung down his cheeks, in the ancient Phrygian fashion. A little white
bag, full of seed and attached to his neck by a leather thong, hung
before him at the waist. With his left hand he held the bag open, while
with his right he took out the seed and scattered it. His gesture was
sweeping, vigorous, and sure, cadenced with an equal rhythm. The seed,
flying from his hand, flashed an instant in the air with golden
scintillations and fell in an equal rain on the humid furrows. The
sower advanced slowly, burying his naked feet in the earth, which
yielded beneath his steps, his head high in the sanctity of the light.
His entire person was simple, sacred, and grand.
We entered the field.
"My respects to you, Giovanni," cried Federico, going forward to meet
the old man. "Blessed be your seed! Blessed be your future bread!"
"My respects to you," I repeated in my turn.
The old man left his work and uncovered his head.
"Giovanni, you must cover yourself, if you wish us to remain covered,"
said Federico.
The old man put on his cap, smiling, confused, almost intimidated. He
asked with a modest air:
"To what do I owe so much honor?"