My dear Marianna, if you were expecting to see me, there was no point – we didn’t go through Mascalucia; it would have made our journey much longer and the weather was bad. We’ve been here since yesterday evening, and tomorrow I’m going back to the convent …
We left Monte Ilice at about ten, with rain threatening, but that couldn’t be helped – everything was ready for our departure and mama wouldn’t have wanted to unpack the trunks and cases again, not for all the gold in the world. And so much the better – what was the point of staying there any longer? Even the sky seemed to be driving us away. Nevertheless, I crossed the threshold of that house with a heavy heart.
I wanted to take a last look at those little rooms, the lawn, the steward’s cottage, the dry-stone wall, that fine chestnut tree with its branches spread over the roof. I fondly touched the walls and the furniture in my little room. I opened my window for the last time, to hear the hinges creak. I walked round the house to see my window from the outside, as he must have seen it … to try to identify the place where he stood …
Everyone was happy – Giuditta, Gigi, papa and mama. Vigilante frisked about, poor thing, not realizing that we were deserting him. The steward’s wife wished us a safe journey, while her children clung to her skirts. A little bird shivering with cold came and settled on a small leafless branch of the tree, and it, too, began to cheep plaintively.
We set off on foot. The mules were waiting at the bottom of the valley to take us down to Trecastagne, for as you know, you can’t come any further up these mountains except on horseback. Every now and again, we’d turn to take a last look at the place we were leaving. At the bend in the lane, further down in the valley, we passed by his house … I didn’t have the heart to look, and yet the smallest details are engraved on my mind. His window has green shutters and one of the panes of glass is broken. On the sill there’s a patch of damp where the pot of jasmine used to be. The wind has ripped away the vine from above the door, and cast it to the ground. On the lawn in front of the door lie bits of broken glass and scraps of letters and rain-sodden newspapers blown this way and that by the wind, and there’s still a broken pipe on the sill. All these things speak, and what they say is, ‘He’s not here any more! He’s gone away! We’re alone!’
This was the lane that he took to come to us. He must have walked along it so often! From there, he’d have seen our house peeping through the chestnut trees – countless times he must have seen it! And countless times he must have rested his gaze on these moss-covered stones, and sat here with his splendid dog lying at his feet … Marianna, I can’t bear all these memories!
The mules took us down to Trecastagne, where the carriage was waiting for us. Poor Vigilante was all over us, urging us to take him along. What could I do? I gave him a hug, and it almost brought tears to my eyes to see him being forcibly dragged away by the steward, who put him on a leash.
I turned to take a last look at my beloved Monte Ilice. I could no longer see the house, the cottage, or the vineyard, only the brown mass of the forest; the rest was lost in the mist, and white with snow. We climbed into the carriage and left.
When we came into town, my heart lightened immensely. I looked out of the window and seemed to recognize him in every person I encountered … They must have thought me shameless! When I saw a group of people, I couldn’t help sticking my head out of the window – I was all in a turmoil, sure that I was going to see him there … The carriage went swiftly past, and it wrang my heart to think that I hadn’t time to pick him out among those people. Does anyone know where the Valentini live? This question came to my lips countless times, but I didn’t have the courage to voice it. Catania’s so vast! It’s not like being in our beloved mountains, where you always knew where to find someone you were looking for. These great roads seemed forbidding, all these people looked sad. We arrived at the house – my stepmother’s house … I felt like a stranger in the family … they were all so delighted to be back …
I wonder whether the Valentini will be aware of our arrival, and whether they’ll come? I wonder whether I’ll see him passing in the street? O God! Our street’s so deserted! No one comes here for a walk … unless … But he might … Who knows where he could be walking at this moment? And what if I were seen at the window?
My stepmother’s told me that I’m going back to the convent tomorrow. She must have thought this would comfort me – she doesn’t realize that I felt chilled with terror …
I’d stopped thinking about it … But I must resign myself … That’s my home. God will forgive me and soothe this poor heart that should never have gone away from Him.
I shall see my cell again, my crucifix, my flowers, the church, my fellow postulants … all except you! You’re not coming back to the convent! The Lord’s will be done. At least you’ll occasionally come to visit your poor friend who’s so unhappy … Who knows whether I’ll be able to write to you and confide in you any more?
Goodbye! Goodbye!