She went out on to the balcony. How much air, how much blue! The apartment buildings seemed to be covered by a blue veil, and below was the alley, like a ravine, with so many ants coming and going … like her relatives. What were they doing? Where were they going? They went in and out of their holes, carrying big crumbs of bread, they were doing this now, had done it yesterday, would do it tomorrow, forever, forever. So many holes, so many ants. And around them, almost invisible in the great light, the world made by God, with the wind, the sun, and out there the purifying sea, so vast … She was standing there, her chin planted on the iron railing, suddenly thoughtful, with an expression of sorrow, of bewilderment, that made her look ugly. She heard the sound of the marchesa’s voice, calm, pious. In her hand, in her smooth ivory hand, the marchesa was holding a small book covered in black paper with gilt letters.

‘It’s the thoughts of the saints, my dear. The youth of today don’t read anything, and so the world has changed course. Take it, I’m giving it to you. But you must promise to read a little every evening, now that you’ve got your glasses.’

‘Yes, Signora,’ said Eugenia, in a hurry, blushing again because the marchesa had found her on the balcony, and she took the book. Signora D’Avanzo regarded her with satisfaction.

‘God wished to save you, my dear!’ she said, going to get the package with the dress and placing it in her hands. ‘You’re not pretty, anything but, and you already appear to be an old lady. God favours you, because looking like that you won’t have opportunities for evil. He wants you to be holy, like your sisters!’

Although the words didn’t really wound her, because she had long been unconsciously prepared for a life without joy, Eugenia was nevertheless disturbed by them. And it seemed to her, if only for a moment, that the sun no longer shone as before, and even the thought of the eyeglasses no longer cheered her. She looked vaguely, with her nearly dead eyes, at a point on the sea, where the Posillipo peninsula extended like a faded green lizard. ‘Tell Papà,’ the marchesa continued, meanwhile, ‘that we won’t do anything about the child’s mattress today. My cousin telephoned, and I’ll be in Posillipo all day.’

‘I was there once, too …’ Eugenia began, reviving at the name of that place and she looked, spellbound, in that direction.

‘Yes? Is that so?’ Signora D’Avanzo was indifferent; the name of the place meant nothing special to her. In her magisterial fashion, she accompanied the child, who was still looking towards that luminous point, to the door, closing it slowly behind her.

As Eugenia came down the last step and out into the courtyard, the shadow that had been darkening her forehead for a while disappeared, and her mouth opened in a joyful laugh, because she had seen her mother arriving. It wasn’t hard to recognize that worn, familiar figure. She threw the dress on a chair and ran towards her.