The following morning, Candia Marcanda already had her arms in a tubful
of clothes, when the village constable, Biagio Pesce, nicknamed the
Little Corporal, appeared at her door.
“His Honor, the mayor, wants you up at his office right away,” he told
the laundress.
“What’s that?” demanded Candia, wrinkling her brows into a frown, yet
without interrupting the task before her.
“His Honor, the mayor, wants you up at his office, right away.”
“Wants me? What does he want me for?” Candia demanded rather sharply,
for she was at a loss to understand this unexpected summons, and it
turned her as stubborn as a horse balking at a shadow.
“I can’t tell you what for,” replied the Little Corporal, “those were
my orders.”
“What were your orders?” From an obstinacy that was natural to her, she
would not cease from asking questions. She could not convince herself
that it was a reality. “The mayor wants me? What for? What have I done,
I should like to know? I’m not going. I haven’t done anything.”
The Little Corporal, losing his temper, answered: “Oh, you won’t go,
won’t you? We’ll see about that!” and he went off, muttering, with his
hand upon the hilt of the ancient sword he wore.
Meanwhile there were others along the narrow street who had overheard
the conversation and came out upon their doorsteps, where they could
watch Candia vigorously working her arms up and down in the tubful
of clothes. And since they knew about the silver spoon, they laughed
meaningly and interchanged ambiguous phrases, which Candia could
not understand. But this laughter and these phrases awoke a vague
foreboding in the woman’s mind. And this foreboding gathered strength
when the Little Corporal reappeared, accompanied by another officer.
“Step lively,” said the Little Corporal peremptorily.
Candia wiped her arms, without replying, and went with them. In the
public square, people stopped to look. One of her enemies, Rosa Panura,
called out from the door of her shop, with a hateful laugh: “Drop your
stolen bone!”
The laundress, dazed by this persecution for which she could find no
reason, was at a loss for a reply.
Before the mayor’s office a group of curious idlers had gathered to
watch her as she went in. Candia, in an access of anger, mounted the
steps in a rush and burst into the mayor’s presence, breathlessly
demanding: “Well, what is it you want of me?”
Don Silla, a man of peaceful proclivities, was for the moment perturbed
by the laundress’s strident tones, and cast a glance at the two
faithful custodians of his official dignity. Then, taking a pinch of
tobacco from his horn snuff-box, he said to her: “My daughter, be
seated.”
But Candia remained standing. Her beak-like nose was inflated with
anger, and her wrinkled cheeks quivered curiously. “Tell me, Don
Silla.”
“You went yesterday to take back the wash to Donna Cristina Lamonica?”
“Well, and what of it? What of it? Was there anything missing? All of
it counted, piece by piece--and not a thing missing. What’s the matter
with it now?”
“Wait a moment, my daughter! In the same room there was the table
silver--”
Candia, comprehending, turned like an angry hawk, about to swoop upon
its prey. Her thin lips twitched convulsively.
“The silver was in the room, and Donna Cristina found that a spoon was
missing. Do you understand, my daughter? Could you have taken it--by
mistake?”
Candia jumped like a grasshopper before the injustice of this
accusation. As a matter of fact she had stolen nothing.
“Oh, it was I, was it? I? Who says so? Who saw me? I am astonished at
you, Don Silla! I am astonished at you! I, a thief? I? I?”
And there was no end to her indignation. She was all the more keenly
stung by the unjust charge, because she knew herself to be capable of
the action they attributed to her.
“Then it was you who took it?” interrupted Don Silla, prudently sinking
back into the depths of his spacious judicial chair.
“I am astonished at you!” snarled the woman once more, waving her long
arms around as though they had been two sticks.
“Very well, you may go. We will see about it.”
Candia went out without a salutation, blindly bumping into the
doorpost. She had turned fairly green; she was beside herself. As
she set foot in the street and saw the crowd which had gathered, she
realized that already public opinion was against her; that no one was
going to believe in her innocence. Nevertheless, she began to utter
a vociferous denial. The crowd continued to laugh as it dispersed.
Full of fury, she returned home, and hopelessly began to weep upon her
doorstep.
Don Donato Brandimarte, who lived next door, said mockingly: “Cry
louder, cry louder! There are people passing by!”
Since there were heaps of clothing still waiting for the suds, she
finally calmed herself, bared her arms, and resumed her task. As she
worked, she thought out her denials, elaborated a whole system of
defense, sought out in her shrewd woman’s brain an ingenious method of
establishing her innocence; racking her brain for specious subtleties,
she had recourse to every trick of rustic dialectic to construct a line
of reasoning that would convince the most incredulous.
Then, when her day’s work was ended, she went out, deciding to go first
to see Donna Cristina.
Donna Cristina was not to be seen. It was Maria Bisaccia who listened
to Candia’s flood of words, shaking her head but answering nothing, and
withdrawing in dignified silence.
Next, Candia made the circuit of all her clients. To each in turn she
related the occurrence, to each she unfolded her defense, continually
adding some new argument, amplifying her words, growing constantly
more excited, more desperate, in the face of incredulity and distrust.
And all in vain; she felt that from now on there was no further defense
possible. A sort of blind hopelessness took possession of her--what
more was there to do? What more was there to say?