People were
exactly like flies. She wished there were nets for keeping them off
too. She hit at them with words and frowns, and like the fly they
slipped between her blows and were untouched. Worse than the fly, they
seemed unaware that she had even tried to hit them. The fly at least
did for a moment go away. With human beings the only way to get rid of
them was to go away herself. That was what, so tired, she had done
this April; and having got here, having got close up to the details of
life at San Salvatore, it appeared that here, too, she was not to be
let alone.
Viewed from London there had seemed to be no details. San
Salvatore from there seemed to be an empty, a delicious blank. Yet,
after only twenty-four hours of it, she was discovering that it was not
a blank at all, and that she was having to ward off as actively as
ever. Already she had been much stuck to. Mrs. Fisher had stuck
nearly the whole of the day before, and this morning there had been no
peace, not ten minutes uninterruptedly alone.
Costanza of course had finally to go because she had to cook, but
hardly had she gone before Domenico came. He came to water and tie up.
That was natural, since he was the gardener, but he watered and tied up
all the things that were nearest to her; he hovered closer and closer;
he watered to excess; he tied plants that were as straight and steady
as arrows.
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