Matilde Serao (1856-1927) came from a distinguished, if not wealthy, family. Her father was a Neapolitan lawyer and patriot, exiled to Greece from 1848 until the fall of the Bourbon dynasty in 1860. Her mother was a descendant of several Greek noble families. Young Matilde was trained as a schoolteacher, and worked in the Italian telegraph service before becoming a fulltime writer. In her long life she was a prolific journalist, columnist, short story writer and novelist, and a groundbreaking publisher and editor. She also led a dramatic personal life. When her husband’s mistress left her newborn child at their doorstep before shooting herself, Matilde adopted the baby girl, naming her Eleonora in honor of her friend, the actress Eleonora Duse.

This story, which I have titled “The Prison Director’s Wife,” is actually my translation of an excerpt from Serao’s novella, All’erta, Sentinella! (On Alert, Sentinel!, 1889). It is set on the island of Nisida, just off the coast of Naples. This island still houses a working prison. —Steve Eaton

From Stand Guard, Sentinel by Matilde Serao, (translation copyright (c) Steve Eaton, 2025)

….The convicts would look the prison director in the face anxiously, imploring leniency, knowing her husband to be the best of men, cold but gentle, severe but never cruel, and in their eyes she read threats, fury. Oh! Nothing could persuade her that those men had lost the taste for blood, nothing would convince her they weren’t hiding a knife up their sleeves! She didn’t leave her little boy with Grazietta, ever: it always seemed to her that out of revenge for being imprisoned, from the bestial desire for blood, out of murderous instinct, that one day one of those killers would kill him. She would go out, carrying him in her arms like a humble working-class mother, without feeling tired. And when she passed some convict, she would drop her gaze. They would greet her, taking off their caps, stopping to look at the handsome little child, obeying the kind paternal instinct which lies in the heart of the most wicked. One whom she always encountered on the road was a tall, robust young man, with a pale face, quite feminine blue eyes, and red hair.  She always ran into him, this man who wore the red cap of a convict imprisoned for life. It was almost as if he were waiting for her, the young mother with a baby. And when he saw her pass he would look, and look, this tall convict with tender eyes, he would look, standing still, until she reached a turn in that long road. Passing time might lessen her terror, but never overcome it. Frail and pensive, she tried to overcome her depression with sweetness, and her husband always found an affectionate, patient wife at home. She was ashamed of revealing her disgust, ashamed of her fear. She was afraid that these were a reproof of the good generous man who had lifted her, yes, out of poverty, out of an uncertain future, only to throw her into a prison. Sometimes he glimpsed this sense of repulsion, and she would try to suppress it, pained by a vague sense of remorse. And so his wife’s heart closed up, as if suffocating.

Only sometimes was she assailed by a sense of remorse. In truth, she was a very good person, piously devoted to her duties, compassionate towards all the afflicted, and when she managed to conquer her revulsion, her fear, she scolded herself for her own injustice, her own cruelty. The convicts were human beings too, and sometimes her fair-minded husband, so severe with them, would gently tell her this truth: they were men, and Christian, perhaps more unfortunate than guilty. And full of pain and penitence, Cecilia made up her mind to calmly tolerate their gaze when she went for walks on the island, and to greet them when they took off their caps. Just barely, though, just barely! If, on the grassy brow of a meadow where she set down her little boy to pull daisies from the ground, and where she fell bewitched at the sight of the great expanse of sea, while every so often Mario happily shrieked at finding an insect; if, in this oblivion of a dream, a man in brick-red clothes suddenly appeared, laboriously dragging a heavy chain, she would suppress a cry of fear, torn abruptly from her peace, from her dreams, turning pale as though in mortal danger, quickly picking up the little boy, taking him away. And that countryside, that sea, those flowers, that landscape, suddenly infected by the presence of a killer, incited in her a horror. What to do? It was stronger than her. But in her husband’s presence she repressed these feelings, as much as she could. She felt unappreciative, as if she were indirectly insulting him. She venerated him as the very embodiment of goodness and justice, but she was a poor, weak woman, without courage, imprisoned, locked up on that island, in that place of shame, of pain, of punishment, where the terrible company spoiled everything—the place and the house, her love as a bride and as a mother.

But on that particular day she was filled with remorse, more than ever. She’d been ungrateful towards her husband, almost throwing his generosity back at him. He had spoken to her without severity, but seriously. He was so much better than her! Her burning, precious tears, tears of penitence, bathed the little boy’s neck. Familiar with his mother’s occasional outbursts, this frail and melancholy little child caressed her face with his cool little hands, repeating softly, “Don’t cry, mama, don’t cry, mama.”

“No, I’m not crying,” she would say, drying her eyes, getting up. “Now your mama’s going to take her Mario for a walk.”

“In the carriage, mama, in the carriage,” shouted the boy, hanging onto Cecelia’s dress.

“Yes, son, in the carriage,” she replied, repressing a sigh.

There was a crude baby carriage, haphazardly built by those convict carpenters and blacksmiths, more iron than wood, which clanked like the chains they wore, attached to their ankles and belts. It was heavy and hard to push, always about to fall apart. When little Mario was in it, he was so happy that he never wanted to be taken out. He was thin and a bit weak-limbed, happy to lie down on those cushions which the mother had re-stuffed herself, to make them soft. He was happy to be taken around in the carriage, closing his eyes, dozing off in the felt cap that kept his ears warm. His frail mother would tire out after a while, but the little boy would immediately wake up and shout, “Push, mama, push!”

“One moment, Mario,” she would say, breathing hard.

And she stayed leaning on the iron handlebar, resting. But the boy would immediately start up again, in a pleading voice, “Push, mama, push, please, please.” And she would resume the walk, without a sigh. She would never have dared to send Mario on a walk in the carriage, with only Grazietta the housemaid, and it was impossible for both of them to go; there was housework to be done, and she was even vaguely afraid of leaving the house unattended. And so that day she had the heavy baby carriage brought up the steps in front of the door. The little boy jumped in happily, and sat down with a sense of delight. His mother put on a hat and gloves; she’d thrown a cover over the boy’s knees. Grazietta, the forty-year-old maid, silently watched.

“Gennaro Campanile is coming to put in the bookcase,” said her mistress, with emphasis. “Watch him, watch him.”

The housemaid smiled faintly; she was familiar with her mistress’ terrors. This Grazietta was the wife of a convict, a man who’d gotten into a fight and killed someone. Unquestioningly faithful to him, she’d followed him everywhere, from the Portolongone prison to Ischia, from Ischia, here to Nisida, doing the impossible by finding domestic work on each island, and oddly succeeding each time by a miracle of will and obstinance. Whatever she earned went to her husband. Thus, two big portions of her daily food would go to her husband. This sacrifice was performed in silence, almost secretly, such was her fear of being sent away from the island. Her husband, a stocky, fierce-looking man, would cautiously approach the iron-barred kitchen gate, and carry away a covered plate with bread, with fruit, and go off to some nook to wolf it down. She would come back inside, quite happy with her quasi-fast, and when her mistress involuntarily let slip her fear of convicts, Grazietta shook her head, like a woman of experience, convinced that the murderers are unlucky instead of guilty, convinced that such a misfortune could happen to anyone.

“Where do you want to go,” said the mother to her son, before setting out.

“There, there,” said the little boy, pointing ahead.

Nisida’s streets were as wide as those of a small city, with unpaved sidewalks, shaded here and there by acacias that were still green in October. The houses, inhabited by workers, suppliers, foremen, jailers, one story, two stories, had the gracious air of small, well-crafted country nests; the main edifice of the prison, dormitories, refectories, workshops, walkways, infirmaries, prison cells, stood in the middle, tall and dark, like a rock hanging over all those cottages. Every so often, at a turn in the road that belted Nisida, you could see, between the houses and the trees, the distant sparkling sea, a fresh, smiling vision. The little boy, lying in his carriage, opened his eyes wide, almost laughing, vaguely murmuring, “There…there….”

His mother pushed the baby carriage slowly, overcome by weariness, by a lassitude that came from an overworked, excitable nature. She mechanically greeted some of the employees’ wives, some of the suppliers’ daughters, the six or seven ladies who lived on the island along with the officers’ wives, while steadily slowing down, also looking at the sea, her child’s recurring dream. Every so often a soldier passed by, or a convict, one of those who circulated freely. She responded to their greeting, nodding her head slightly; the little boy, smiling, waved his hand. But at some point weariness defeated her; she had to let go of the carriage handle and sit down on a stone bench, pale, almost fainting. It was a half-deserted place, where the houses stopped and the countryside of Nisida began. The boy looked at his mother, her whitened face, her half-closed eyes. A bit intimidated, a bit frightened, he barely dared to murmur, “Push…mama, push.”

“In…a minute,” she said, in a voice so low it was only a breath, and her son didn’t hear.

“Your Excellency, I can push the carriage,” said a voice, masculine, but humble. Where had that convict with a white face and soft blue eyes come from, so suddenly? What was he asking, what did he want? She looked at him, stunned, confused, as if he were a vision.

“The little sprout’s heavy,” murmured the convict more humbly, “the carriage too. Your Excellency, I can push it.”

Then, she understood. Turning pale again, with pursed lips, she said, “no.”

“It’s not work for your hands. Let me carry him, the little sprout.”

“No,” she said again, getting angry.

“Excuse me, excuse my insistence. I’d be able to carry him, the little sprout, without getting tired. Don’t be afraid.” He finished speaking, with such tenderness that his voice seemed full of tears.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said curtly, getting up. “But I don’t want you to carry ‘the little sprout’.”

She stood up resolutely and began to push the carriage again, with heroic strength. He opened his arms wide; the chain hanging from his belt clanked in a sinister way, but he remained silent, watching mother and child move away. She was still trembling with anger, as if insulted by the very humility with which the convict had offered his services. Now they were in the open countryside, on a path between the meadows where the horses of two or three officers would come to graze, and those that pulled the carts used to bring up supplies from the beach.

“Mama,” said the boy thoughtfully.

“What do you want?”

“Why did you say no to that convict?”

“Because.”

The little boy fell silent, sensing the disturbance in his mother’s voice.

“You’re getting tired from pushing the carriage,” he observed after a while.

“No, darling.”

“Pick me up, mama, let me out.”

“Stay, dear, stay. Let’s go further, I’ll rest further on.”

They went a little further, in silence. They had already passed two or three sentry boxes. The child always looked at the soldiers, smiling at them.

“Mama,” said the child.

“What do you want, darling?”

“That convict wanted to carry me around, a long way, right?”

“Yes, yes.”

“He’s a poor fellow.”

“Who told you that?”

“Papa said it,” he responded triumphantly.

She bowed her head without answering.

“Are the soldiers poor fellows too, mama?” asked the child, after giving it some thought.

“The soldiers are gentleman,” she answered immediately.

“I see,” said the little boy. “The convicts are poor fellows and the soldiers are gentleman. What am I, mama? ‘The little sprout.’”

“My dear, dear little son,” she said, tenderly hugging and kissing him.

They’d reached a field all green, all fresh, all in bloom. A waist-high wall separated it from the one beside it. The mother stopped, overcome with fatigue, and dropped down to sit on the grass. The little boy looked at the grass and the flowers and the sea, as if thinking, thinking too much, too seriously, for his age. A strong odor of roses was in the air, those four-season roses that sprout in a day, intensely alive for just one day, along with the odor of mint, the wild herb found all over Nisida. Cecilia felt recovered from her fatigue, while the little boy almost dozed off in the carriage.

“Such a perfume of flowers,” she said, as if to herself.

Flowers there were, in that field, but there had to be more in the one beyond the wall. Had a vegetable garden been put in there, perhaps? Curious, she stood up. First she marveled, then felt shocked, as the spectacle unfolded, first sad, then terrible.

It was a wide, sloping field. It was poorly enclosed by a brick wall, here and there collapsed into a mound of rubble, eaten by the grass taking root in it, corroded by rain, battered by the wind, in short a pitiful defense that no longer resisted the passage of men or animals and perhaps no longer marked the boundary of the field. The grass grew in uneven clumps, on ground bizarrely uneven; a ground that swelled here, dipped there, like the waves of an angry sea. Among the grass grew bunches of four-season roses, beyond which the summer poppies were withering, leaving on their slender stalks the black and brittle pouches of sleep-inducing seeds. A sharp odor of wild herbs, of wild roses: the violent perfume of abandoned fields, where no one’s been for months or years, where the vegetation grows rank, expanding on its own, dying and reborn, wilting again, free, forgotten, abandoned, perhaps cursed. Fascinated, Cecilia looked, searching closely, and more closely, wanting to divine the mystery of that field bizarrely in motion, like the waves of the sea, surrounded by a wall but abandoned by men. She saw; she saw that here and there, in four or five places in the abandoned field, stood a small cross of blackened wood, which time had discolored and twisted; on the crosses, on some of them, was a yellowed placard, dirty, on which there were large, wobbly, handwritten characters, two initials and a number, the one the dead man wore in life, the number that man’s justice had given him in place of his name. The crosses seemed to be randomly scattered, as if by a caprice of the wind or man’s neglect. Maybe, once fallen over, found lying on the ground, they had been replanted by chance, where the body it was supposed to shield with its sacred little shadow no longer existed.

But Cecilia kept looking, as if a presentiment of unknown grief, of terror told her there was something more to see. And yes, focusing her gaze, she saw, she saw distinctly, among the yellowish earth and green grass, bleaching like a piece of old ivory, some human bones. Poorly buried, poorly covered by earth, in their splitting caskets, from the natural movement of the sprouting earth, from the natural, terrible movement of decomposition, the dead were emerging again from the earth, and their white bones were being washed by the rain; the white bones of the dead were shining in the sun. The graveyard of the convicts had no caretakers. Beside the fragrant growths of wild mint, among the wide four-season roses with their falling petals, these strange human shoots were sprouting. No merciful hoe returned them to the earth. They appeared here and there, there was one everywhere, so insistent that they seemed to have violently dug up the earth, so overwhelming that the frightened eye was almost afraid of seeing the entire skeleton outlined and then emerging from the ground. Cecilia looked wide-eyed at this horrendous crop of death, this retribution by the world which punishes even after death, which grants to the corpse of a killer not even the mercy of a deep grave, not even the care given to any other body, not even a final rest to bones which have shed their flesh. The graveyard of the convicts didn’t even have the services of a convict gardener. The bodies were flung down in haste, between four disjointed planks, and no one came to tend, to pray. The dead were emerging, as if a last, sharp hunger for freedom remained in the bones of these forced laborers. Along with grievous pity, a horrible vision came to Cecilia in that solitude, a vision of herself, her husband, her baby, buried in that field which seemed cursed by God and men, buried without pity or care, among the wild vegetation, on that soil battered by sun and wind, a vision of three abandoned corpses, rising again, lifting their bones to the light amid those of the thieves and murderers. And a high-pitched scream of grief, of fear formed in her breast, but, strangled, did not escape, and she dropped, leaden, by the wall, her face in the grass.

When she came to and opened her eyes, all she heard above the great silence was just a rustling. Her child was still lying in the carriage, but he’d opened his eyes and was smiling, smiling with his eyes and his lips at that convict, big, tall, with his red hair and white face. Lying on the ground, he was waving a broad grape leaf over the boy’s face, to keep him cool, to keep the flies away. As the grape leaf passed over him, the little boy would close and open his eyes, laughing silently. Twice, looking at his mother, stretched out, he’d said, “Shh! Mama’s sleeping.”

And the convict waved the big grape leaf over the boy’s face more slowly, to avoid making noise. That great body, dressed in reddish canvas, lying in the grass, looked like that of a colossus, friendly and childlike. Further away, among the flowers, he’d tossed the red cap that bore his number, 417. It looked like a poppy, a big late-blooming poppy.

On awakening, Cecelia felt nothing except a great weakness. Leaning on her elbow, she looked at her son and the convict, without anger, without fear. Rocco Traetta got to his feet, and stood there embarrassed, rolling the grape leaf between his fingers. The memory of what she had seen came back in its entirety, but without frightening her. Only a light shiver passed over her skin.

“Let’s go,” she said, getting up.

And in a gentle manner she pointed out the baby carriage to Rocco. He quickly picked up his cap and started to push the carriage, happily. She followed behind, weakly, letting herself be led, defeated, broken.

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Steve Eaton is a literary translator residing in Austin. His translations of the novels A Conspiracy of Talkers (Gaetano Savatteri, 2000, translation, 2021) and The Priest’s Hat by Emilio De Marchi (1887, translation, 2023) are available in Kindle and paperback editions. His translations of other stories by 19th and 20th century Italian writers can be read for free on the Corylus Press website and on the online Stories for a Year project of the Pirandello Society of America.