At last the doctor’s given me permission to step outside in the middle of the day when the weather’s fine. They say that I need lots of care because my health’s delicate. My poor mother’s health was delicate, too, and she died young. Yesterday was Christmas, that wonderful festival that at the convent meant a night of carols and joy, and the moving experience of midnight mass … do you remember? The Valentini came every night of the Novena before Christmas to play cards with my family. I heard them talking and laughing in the dining room, where a warm fire had been lit, with doors and windows tightly closed, while the wind moaned outside, and sometimes hail-stones thundered down on the roof. How they must have enjoyed being together, all warm and snug, with the cold and rain outside!
To celebrate the festival we had a special lunch, but without the Valentini … because of me, I realized, so that I wouldn’t meet him. It was a cheerless occasion compared with the meal we had on my father’s name-day, do you remember?
In the morning there was brilliant sunshine. I went and stood outside the door for a while. They wrapped me up in shawls and scarves, and papa supported me. How pleasant and agreeable everything was: a bright sky of the purest azure, the sun gilding the snows that covered Mount Etna, the deep-blue sea, the belltowers of the villages that appeared as white smudges among the trees, the fields with their green grass contrasting with the whiteness of the snow, the wood that was silent because there was no wind and it had no leaves to shed, the lawn on which we’d danced and had such fun, the chickens scratching around in the straw, the little shed that steamed as the snow melted in the sunshine, the birds twittering on the roof, Vigilante stretched out across the threshold, sunning himself, the steward’s wife who was hanging out the washing to dry on the bare branches of the chestnut tree, and singing to herself, glancing with ineffable maternal contentment at her two children playing on the doorstep.
Blessed be God! Praise be to God, for the joy and delight He grants to the bird that sings, to the burgeoning leaf, and the basking snake, and the sun that shines, to the mother who holds her baby to her breast, and to my poor soul that rejoices and gives Him thanks.
How early it gets dark in winter! I’d like to have stayed outside for a long time filling my poor tired lungs with that invigorating breeze, and, leaning on my father’s arm, to have managed somehow to reach the edge of that lovely chestnut grove where I’ve spent so many happy hours! I’d like to have sat on that little wall that’s covered with green moss. It was cold, the sun was disappearing, down in the valley a thick fog was gathering, and the birds had stopped singing. How mournful the silence of sunset is in winter! My father wanted me to return to the house and go to bed, while the most beautiful moon in the world was glistening on the windowpanes. I wish that at least they’d left me with that lovely moonlight, but they even closed the shutters. I’m ill, you see? It’s cold … so they had to …
They were expecting the Valentini for supper. How wonderful Christmas evening is! Even here, in this solitude, everything has a festive air: the peasant who comes home from the plain, singing, to spend Christmas with his family, the fire crackling beneath a big cauldron, the village girls who dance to the sound of bagpipes. I saw the preparations going on in the kitchen for the meal, the wood in the grate, the candles and playing cards left ready on the table, and a plate of sweets and a few bottles of liqueur set out on the desk by the window – all the pleasant trappings of a homely Christmas evening. I counted the chairs placed around the table – there were eight … mine wasn’t there any more … I saw the place where I used to sit and the chair that he took beside me when he looked at my cards.
I thought about all these things as I lay in bed, all alone, in that tiny little room which is dark, silent and gloomy-looking. I would like to have fallen asleep, and not to have heard the talking, those voices, that festiveness close by … I spent an extremely restless night, without a wink of sleep. I think I’ve still got a fever. I feel so weak! I held my breath all evening trying to hear what he said and to tell from the sound of his voice whether he was sad or happy. I heard him three times: once he said, ‘thank you’, then ‘it’s my turn’, and the last time, ‘signorina’. If you could only imagine all that these words convey! If I could only express it!
They played until midnight. I could hear them from here. Then they sat down to eat … Now I’m tired, my head is swimming … I wrote to you to keep myself awake … to give myself something to do …
Let’s talk about you instead … Did you have a good Christmas? Are you happy and cheerful?
I want to amaze myself; I want to regain my strength in the next few days; I want to overcome this terrible affliction. God who is merciful will help me! Write to me, write to me! Perhaps we’ll see each other soon, and we’ll have so much to tell each other!