on the verge of being double or even triple, his gentle myopic eyes, his cassock stretched to bursting across his massive chest. He excels at deciphering ancient religious manuscripts. Recently he has been summoned to the monastery of San Calogero di Messina to decipher the secrets of a few books from the thirteenth century that no one understands any more. And he has made a copy of them word for word, making a few additions of his own, and as a result has been lauded with gratitude and gifts.
And then Geraldo, who is "studying to become a general", as Aunt Manina used to say. Polished, ceremonious, frigid, wearing uniforms that appear still hot from the ironing board,
he pays court to women, by whom he is much sought after; but he refuses to get married because he does not possess either large estates or titles. However, there is the possibility of a match that has Aunt Agata's blessing, a certain Domenica Rispoli, the wealthy daughter of a farming family who have made their money through the ignorance of a lazy landowner. But Geraldo is not interested. He says he will not mingle his blood with that of a farm girl, even if she is as beautiful as Helen of Troy. But now he has learned that his father has left him some land of his own at Cuticchio. So long as he is able to turn it to good account, he should reap sufficient profit to keep a carriage and have a house in town. But he aspires to something more showy. Even shopkeepers in the Piazza San Domenico have carriages!
Perched on the edge of a chair like a little girl, her arms covered in midge bites, is Agata, the beautiful Agata, given in marriage at the age of twelve to Prince Diego di Torre
Mosca. Once upon a time the two sisters understood each other simply by exchanging a look, Marianna recollects. Now they have become almost like strangers. Every so often Marianna goes to the Torre Mosca Palazzo in the Via Maqueda. She admires their tapestries, their Venetian furniture, their enormous gilt-framed mirrors, but each time she has found her sister gloomy, overwhelmed by distant, dismal thoughts. Since the birth of her first-born son, Agata has begun to get smaller. That white skin, so beloved by the mosquitoes for its fragrance, has grown withered and wrinkled before her time; her features have become slack and disfigured; and her eyes have grown sunken as if the very act of seeing consumes her with pain.
Fiammetta, who was considered to be the ugly one of the family, has become something of a beauty, hoeing the kitchen garden and kneading bread in the convent; but Agata, who at fifteen "made all the angels fall in love with her", as her father wrote, at twenty-three has taken on the look of a wizened Madonna, one of those Madonnas whose picture, painted by an unknown hand, hangs over people's beds and who are so worn out that they seem about to crumble away.
She has had six children but two of them have died. After her third son was born, she suffered from a
blood infection which almost carried her away. She has recovered, but only partially. Now she suffers from sores on her breasts. Every time she feeds the baby she writhes in agony, and ends up giving her own son more blood than milk. Her husband has engaged wet-nurses for her but she persists in wanting to feed him herself. Obstinately determined to sacrifice herself until she is reduced to a shadow, continuously racked by puerperal fevers, her eyes sunk into the cavity of their sockets beneath her soft fair eyebrows, she is unwilling to accept advice or help from anyone.
An almost heroic will can be divined in this tight-lipped young mother, her forehead divided by a furrow, her chin rigid, her smile forced and her teeth yellow, decayed and prematurely chipped. Every so often her husband grasps her hand, gives her a kiss and gazes at her. Who knows what the secret of their marriage can be, Marianna says to herself. Every marriage has its secrets that are never revealed, even to a sister. Her own is
And then Geraldo, who is "studying to become a general", as Aunt Manina used to say. Polished, ceremonious, frigid, wearing uniforms that appear still hot from the ironing board,
he pays court to women, by whom he is much sought after; but he refuses to get married because he does not possess either large estates or titles. However, there is the possibility of a match that has Aunt Agata's blessing, a certain Domenica Rispoli, the wealthy daughter of a farming family who have made their money through the ignorance of a lazy landowner. But Geraldo is not interested. He says he will not mingle his blood with that of a farm girl, even if she is as beautiful as Helen of Troy. But now he has learned that his father has left him some land of his own at Cuticchio. So long as he is able to turn it to good account, he should reap sufficient profit to keep a carriage and have a house in town. But he aspires to something more showy. Even shopkeepers in the Piazza San Domenico have carriages!
Perched on the edge of a chair like a little girl, her arms covered in midge bites, is Agata, the beautiful Agata, given in marriage at the age of twelve to Prince Diego di Torre
Mosca. Once upon a time the two sisters understood each other simply by exchanging a look, Marianna recollects. Now they have become almost like strangers. Every so often Marianna goes to the Torre Mosca Palazzo in the Via Maqueda. She admires their tapestries, their Venetian furniture, their enormous gilt-framed mirrors, but each time she has found her sister gloomy, overwhelmed by distant, dismal thoughts. Since the birth of her first-born son, Agata has begun to get smaller. That white skin, so beloved by the mosquitoes for its fragrance, has grown withered and wrinkled before her time; her features have become slack and disfigured; and her eyes have grown sunken as if the very act of seeing consumes her with pain.
Fiammetta, who was considered to be the ugly one of the family, has become something of a beauty, hoeing the kitchen garden and kneading bread in the convent; but Agata, who at fifteen "made all the angels fall in love with her", as her father wrote, at twenty-three has taken on the look of a wizened Madonna, one of those Madonnas whose picture, painted by an unknown hand, hangs over people's beds and who are so worn out that they seem about to crumble away.
She has had six children but two of them have died. After her third son was born, she suffered from a
blood infection which almost carried her away. She has recovered, but only partially. Now she suffers from sores on her breasts. Every time she feeds the baby she writhes in agony, and ends up giving her own son more blood than milk. Her husband has engaged wet-nurses for her but she persists in wanting to feed him herself. Obstinately determined to sacrifice herself until she is reduced to a shadow, continuously racked by puerperal fevers, her eyes sunk into the cavity of their sockets beneath her soft fair eyebrows, she is unwilling to accept advice or help from anyone.
An almost heroic will can be divined in this tight-lipped young mother, her forehead divided by a furrow, her chin rigid, her smile forced and her teeth yellow, decayed and prematurely chipped. Every so often her husband grasps her hand, gives her a kiss and gazes at her. Who knows what the secret of their marriage can be, Marianna says to herself. Every marriage has its secrets that are never revealed, even to a sister. Her own is
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