II
The following morning, when Candia Marcanda had her hands in the soap-suds, there appeared at her door-sill the town guard Biagio Pesce, popularly known as “The Corporal.” He said to her, “You are wanted by Signor Sindaco at the town-hall this very moment.”
“What did you say?” asked Candia, knitting her brows without discontinuing her task.
“You are wanted by Signor Sindaco at the town-hall this very moment.”
“I am wanted? And why?” Candia asked in a brusque manner. She did not know what was responsible for this unexpected summons and therefore reared at it like a stubborn animal before a shadow.
“I cannot know the reason,” answered the Corporal. “I have received but an order.”
“What order?”
The woman because of an obstinacy natural to her could not refrain from questions. She was unable to realise the truth.
“I am wanted by Signor Sindaco? And why? And what have I done? I have no wish to go there. I have done nothing unseemly.”
Then the Corporal cried impatiently, “Ah, you do not wish to go there? You had better beware!” And he went away muttering, with his hand on the hilt of his shabby sword.
Meanwhile several who had heard the dialogue came from their doorways into the street and began to stare at the laundress, who was violently attacking her wash. Since they knew of the silver spoon they laughed at one another and made remarks that the laundress did not understand. Their ridicule and ambiguous expressions filled the heart of the woman with much uneasiness, which increased when the Corporal appeared accompanied by another guard.
“Now move on!” he said resolutely.
Candia wiped her arms in silence and went. Throughout the square everyone stopped to look. Rosa Panara, an enemy, from the threshold of her shop, called with a fierce laugh, “Drop the bone thou hast picked up!”
The laundress, bewildered, unable to imagine the cause of this persecution, could not answer.
Before the town-hall stood a group of curious people who waited to see her pass. Candia, suddenly seized with a wrathful spirit, mounted the stairs quickly, came into the presence of Signor Sindaco out of breath, and asked, “Now, what do you want with me?”
Don Silla, a man of peaceable temperament, remained for a moment somewhat taken aback by the sharp voice of the laundress and turned a beseeching look upon the faithful custodians of the communal dignity. Then he took some tobacco from a horn-box and said, “Be seated, my daughter.”
Candia remained upon her feet. Her hooked nose was inflated with choler, and her cheeks, roughly seamed, trembled from the contraction of her tightly compressed jaws.
“Speak quickly, Don Silla!” she cried.
“You were occupied yesterday in carrying back the clean linen to Donna Cristina Lamonica?”
“Well, and what of it? Is she missing something? Everything was counted piece by piece ... nothing was lacking. Now, what is it all about?”
“One moment, my daughter! The room had silver in it...!”
Candia, divining the truth, turned upon him like a viper about to sting. At the same time her thin lips trembled.
“The room had silver in it,” he continued, “and now Donna Cristina finds herself lacking one spoon. Do you understand, my daughter? Was it taken by you ... through mistake?”
Candia jumped like a grasshopper at this undeserved accusation. In truth she had stolen nothing. “Ah, I? I?” she cried. “Who says I took it? Who has seen me in such an act? You fill me with amazement ... you fill me with wonder! Don Silla! I a thief? I? I?...”
And her indignation had no limit. She was even more wounded by this unjust accusation because she felt herself capable of the deed which they had attributed to her.
“Then you have not taken it?” Don Silla interrupted, withdrawing prudently into the depths of his large chair.
“You fill me with amazement!” Candia chided afresh, while she shook her long hands as if they were two whips.
“Very well, you may go. We will see in time.” Without saying good-bye, Candia made her exit, striking against the door-post as she did so. She had become green in the face and was beside herself with rage. On reaching the street and seeing the crowd assembled there, she understood at length that popular opinion was against her, that no one believed in her innocence. Nevertheless she began publicly to exculpate herself. The people laughed and drifted away from her. In a wrathful state of mind she returned home, sank into a condition of despair and fell to weeping in her doorway.
Don Donato Brandimarte, who lived next door, said to her by way of a joke:
“Cry aloud, Candia. Cry to the full extent of your strength, for the people are about to pass now.”
As there were clothes lying in a heap waiting to be boiled clean she finally grew quiet, bared her arms and set herself to work. While working, she brooded on how to clear her character, constructed a method of defence, sought in her cunning, feminine thoughts an artificial means for proving her innocence; balancing her mind subtly in mid-air, she had recourse to all of those expedients which constitute an ignorant argument, in order to present a defence that might persuade the incredulous.
Later, when she had finished her task, she went out and went first to Donna Cristina.
Donna Cristina would not see her. Maria Bisaccia listened to Candia’s prolific words and shook her head without reply and at length left her in a dignified way.
Then Candia visited all of her customers. To each one she told her story, to each one she laid bare her defence, always adding to it a new argument, ever increasing the size of the words, becoming more heated and finally despairing in the presence of incredulity and distrust as all was useless. She felt at last that an explanation was no longer possible. A kind of dark discouragement fastened upon her mind. What more could she do! What more could she say!