I Malavoglia E-Book

Giovanni Verga

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 508

Beschreibung

An epic struggle against the elements and poverty in 19th c Sicily.

Das E-Book I Malavoglia wird angeboten von Dedalus und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

A drawing of Giovanni Verga

CONTENTS

     Title

The Translator

Introduction

Cast of Characters

Author’s Preface

 1. Chapter I

 2. Chapter II

 3. Chapter III

 4. Chapter IV

 5. Chapter V

 6. Chapter VI

 7. Chapter VII

 8. Chapter VIII

 9. Chapter IX

10. Chapter X

11. Chapter XI

12. Chapter XII

13. Chapter XIII

14. Chapter XIV

15. Chapter XV

In Search of Verga

Chronology

Copyright

The Translator

Judith Landry was educated at Somerville College, Oxford where she obtained a first class honours degree in Italian and French. She combines a career as a translator of fiction, art and architecture with part-time teaching at the Courtauld Institute, London.

Her translations include The Devil in Love by Jacques Cazotte, Smarra and Trilby by Charles Nodier and The Weeping Woman on the Streets of Prague by Sylvie Germain.

INTRODUCTION

Luigi Capuana, the novelist and critic, hailed “I MALAVOGLIA” as the arrival of the modern novel in Italy. The rest of the critics and the Italian reading public disliked Italy’s first modern novel intensely. It was set in the back of beyond, Sicily, and was about illiterate fishermen, written in a style totally at odds with the literary style fashioned by Manzoni. It had nothing to recommend it to the bourgeoisie of the cities and was soon forgotten. The publication of Mastro Don Gesualdo and Verga’s play, “Cavalleria Rusticana”, established Verga’s reputation and fortune in Italy. By the time of his death he was the great old man of Italian letters, his reputation now based on the once despised, “I Malavoglia”.

The preoccupation with heredity and fatalism given to Victorian society by the advent of Darwinism, the arrival of the modern world of railways, telegraphs, taxation and revolution in an enclosed, and hitherto cut off society, with the originality of the style and content makes “I Malavoglia” a powerful literary work, but any critic who dwells on these features misses the essential strength of the novel; its over-whelming emotional content. This is a book which brings the tears gushing into the eyes as the reader is drawn into the Homeric world of Aci Trezza. The elements, combine with Fate and the hubris of young ’Ntoni to bring about the down-fall of the noble Malavoglia family. Padron ’Ntoni is a hero fit for a Greek tragedy, who fights nobly against insuperable odds to keep his family afloat, only to see everything he believes in submerged as he dies in a hospital bed.

Even today the epic qualities of ‘I Malavoglia” haunt the imagination of the reader, while the modernity of the novel has but passing interest. What Verga intended as a sincere and dispassionate study of society will live forever as a lyrical testimony to the indomitable spirit of the individual engaged in a fight he cannot win.

*   *   *   

The novel is set in the Sicily of the 1860’s, shortly after its conquest by Garibaldi from the Bourbons, and its annexation to the new Kingdom of Italy. The aspirations for a better life created by the charismatic Garibaldi, and the replacement of the despotic and backward rule of the Bourbons from Naples, with the constitutional monarchy of Piedmont, were soon disappointed. The new Kingdom had as little to offer to the agrarian masses of Sicily as the dynasty it had deposed. Unification led to the bankruptcy of the protected and inefficient Southern industries, higher taxes, compulsory national service, and the arrival of an industrialized world which Sicily was not prepared for. The opportunities for self-advancement became less rather than more and the gap between the rulers, the Northern monarchy of Savoy, and the ruled Sicilians became even greater, and there were rebellions in the island in favour of the deposed Bourbons.

This aspiration for betterment caused by the arrival of the railways, the telegraphy system, the opportunity given by national service to see how others lived in the city is at the heart of the novel. ’Ntoni of padron ’Ntoni is conscripted, and after a spell in Naples returns a new man — life has to be different, even if he is not sure in what way. In Visconti’s 1947 film of the novel, “La Terra Trema”, it is clear what the solution is, increased class consciousness but in the Sicily of 1860’s there is no solution. You must accept your lot, as not to do so, will lead only to despair. Life might be hard, but least it is clear, and the novel lays great stress in belonging, whether to a village, a family, or a trade. To go outside your environment as ’Ntoni does cannot bring anything better, and will only make it impossible to return, as he and Alfio Mosca learn. As in Hardy and the French Naturalist novels heredity, fate, social determinism, which had penetrated into literature from the works of Darwin, provide the structure of the novel. People might go to Alexandria, in Egypt, or Naples in search of their fortune, but there is no mass exodus to America as a solution to poverty and centuries of neglect. Verga wrote “I Malavoglia” during 1878-81 while thousands went in search of a better life to America, but he deliberately set it in the pre-emigration period, providing his characters with no escape.

The Malavoglias are victims of progress, and the restoration of the house by the Medlar Tree and their boat is only possible by turning against progress and returning to the time honoured values of the grandfather, the family pulling together, each one helping the other, like the five fingers of the hand, with the interests of the family greater than those of any individual member. The religion of the family is vindicated at the end, when the worldy wise ’Ntoni wants nothing better than to stay, now that he knows everything, but cannot, his example having brought shame on his family.

Although it is young ’Ntoni’s inability to do his share which leads to the collapse of the Malavoglia family it is aided and abetted by the grandfather’s moral code. It is the grandfather who speculates in the cargo of lupins, which brings about the death of Bastianazzo, and the debt to zio Crocifisso. It is also the grandfather who accepts to pay when he doesn’t have to, because despite what the law says, it is clear to him and Maruzza what is right and wrong. The spectacle of the Malavoglia scrimping and saving to pay the usurer, zio Crocifisso, for a cargo of lupins which were rotten when he sold them to the Malvoglia family, and losing everything while they do this is at the heart of the novel. There is no criticism of the usurer, as his values are those of the village and of society, while the Malavoglia lose their house and possessions, and must leave at night in shame. This is very much the survival of the fittest, with evolution feeling no compassion for the defeated, however noble. It is this which gives the novel its epic intensity.

*   *   *   

Verga intended “I Malavoglia” to be the first in a cycle of five novels in which he would study society and man’s innate aspirations for something more. The second novel, “Mastro Don Gesualdo”, gives us the self-made man whose social pretentions brings about his downfall as his money is insufficient to bring about his acceptance in the rigid structure of 19th c Sicily. The next novel, “La Duchessa di Leyra” was begun but never finished, so Verga’s study of society was limited to the fishermen of Aci Trezza and an enriched peasant. It is in the small enclosed world of Aci Trezza that Verga is most eloquent. Although ostensibly a narrow canvas, the whole of the world is found within its pages, with a penetration and insight and harmony not to be found anywhere else in Verga’s work. We are taken inside the mind and the soul of the characters, so that we believe that we are there watching as a bystander, and not the beneficiaries of the author’s narration.

The language of the book is strange, whether in the original Italian or the English of the translation. It is not there to be transposed elsewhere, it is unique and fashioned to represent the enclosed world of Aci Trezza and nowhere else. It is literary, but distorted to reflect the dialect and speech patterns of the fishermen, with the expressions and proverbs restricted to the elements, the sea, the land and the everyday objects of the peasant and the fishermen. There is a lot of direct speech, the character speaking for themselves, and even more indirect speech, with statements seemingly coming from someone, but no one in particular. This is what a lot of the critics refer to as the mystic village chorus. What in Joyce becomes interior monologue is supplied externally by comments which sound like a villager speaking. This degree of dialogue, whether direct and indirect, gives the novel great freshness and vividness, and makes us feel we are one of the mystic chorus, abiding our turn to have our say. It is this feeling of being part, if only as a bystander which pulls at the heartstrings of the reader, and makes “I Malavoglia” so unforgettable. It is a world where everyone knows everyone else, where people are referred to as uncle, neighbour or cousin, and the sight of a strange face is a cause for suspicion. But it is a world where the stranger is entering, and there is nostalgia for the past. The social order is changing and even in Aci Trezza, people can be conscripted to fight in unknown wars and new taxes be imposed.

What represents the past are the proverbs which give the wisdom of the ancients, tried and trusted statements which do not lie, and have withstood the test of time. There is no need to think, as the proverb has done it for you, with the neighbours exchanging proverbs of an evening. It is only the new men like the apothecary who need to think and argue, as they wish for a different world. For padron ’Ntoni it has all been said before, and it is just a case of finding the right proverb or saying. When padron ’Ntoni loses his wits after an accident at sea, his proverbs become meaningless. The wisdom of the past has no function now, with ’Ntoni in prison and Lia living immorally in the city.

*   *   *   

Italian literature, which was during the Renaissance the world’s greatest literature, declined during the Counter Reformation, and by the 19th c was very second rate. Verga had very little of a narrative tradition to follow. There was Foscolo’s “Le Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis”, written in the romantic style of the early Goethe. A generation later Manzoni produced “I Promessi Sposi”, a historical novel in the grand manner, full of, for the time, realism, psychological perception, with two peasants for its heroes. Idealized and over didactic as it is, it ranks as one of the great achievements of Italian literature, and gave a model which many followed.

Verga began as a romantic novelist, writing novels of passion set in the city. His main influence were the Bohemian poets whom he frequented in Milan. These earlier novels are not read today. It was when Verga forsook the decadence of the town for the struggle for existence going on in his native Sicily that he found his voice as a writer. His florid prose style became shaped into an economical and sharply tuned tool. In 1874 he wrote “Nedda”, his first attempt at a realist story set in Sicily. Other short stories followed, including “Fantasticheria”, which became the model for “I Malavoglia”. Influenced by French Naturalism, and Flaubert’s ideas of impersonalness of the author, and the novels of Zola, Verga produced Italy’s first modern novel.

Eric Lane

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Malavoglia family:

Padron ’Ntoni

Bastianazzo (Bastiano), his son

Comare Maruzza, called La Longa, wife of Bastianazzo

Bastianazzo & Maruzza’s children

Padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni

Comare Mena(Filomena), called Saint Agatha

Luca

Alessi (Alessio)

Lia (Rosalia)

Other inhabitants of Aci Trezza

Uncle Crocifìsso (Crucifix), also called Dumbell, the money lender Comare La Vespa(Wasp), his niece

Don Silvestro, town clerk

Don Franco, pharmacist

La Signora (The Lady), his wife

Don Giammaria, the priest

Donna Rosalina, his sister

Don Michele, customs sergeant

Don Ciccio, the doctor

Dr. Scipioni, the lawyer

Mastro Croce Calla, called Silkworm and Giufa (puppet), mayor and mason

Betta ,his daughter

Padron Fortunato Cipolla, owner of vineyards, olive groves and boats

Brasi Cipolla, his son

Comare Sister Mariangela, called Santuzza, tavern keeper

Uncle Santoro, her father

Nunziata, later Alessi’s wife

Compare Alfio Mosca, carter

Mastro Turi Zuppido(Lame), caulker

Comare Venera, called La Zuppidda, his wife

Comare Barbara, their daughter

Compare Tino (Agostino ) Piedipapera (Duckfoot), middleman

Comare Grazia Piedipapera, his wife

La Locca (The Madwoman), sister of Uncle Crocifisso

Menico, her elder son

“La Locca’s son”, her younger son

Cousin Anna

Rocco Spatu, her son

Mara, one of her daughters

Comare Tudda (Agatuzza )

Comare Sara (Rosaria), her daughter

Compare Mangiacarrube, his daughter

Mastro Vanni Pizzuto, barber

Massaro Filippo, farmer

Mastro Cirino, sexton and shoemaker

Peppi Naso, butcher

Uncle Col, fisherman

Barabba, fisherman

Compare Cinghialenta, carter

Explanation of Italian terms

padron - self employed man

mastro - master craftsman

compare(male) - close neighbour

comare (female) - close neighbour

Note: In the small enclosed world of Aci Trezza, neighbours are often referred to as uncle or cousin.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

This story is the honest and dispassionate study of the way in which the first strivings after well-being might possibly be born, and develop, among the humblest people in society; it is an account of the sort of disquiet visited upon a family (which had lived relatively happily until that time) by the vague desire for the unknown, the realization that they are not well-off, or could be better.

The mainspring for the human activity which produces the stream of progress is here viewed at its source, at its humblest and most down-to-earth. The mechanism of the passions which are vital to such progress in these low realms is less complicated, and can thus be observed with greater accuracy. One has simply to allow the picture its pure, peaceful tones, and its simple design. This search for betterment eats into the heart of man, and as it spreads and grows, it also tends to rise, and follows its upward movement through the social classes. In I Malavoglia we still have merely the struggle to fulfil material needs. When these are satisfied, the search becomes a desire for riches, and is to be embodied in a middle-class character, Mastro-don Gesualdo, set within the still restricted framework of a small provincial town, but whose colours are beginning to be more vivid, and whose design is broader and more varied. It then becomes aristocratic vanity in La Duchessa de Leyra; and ambition in L’Onorevole Scipioni, culminating in L’Uomo di Lusso (The Man of Luxury) who combines all these yearnings, all these vanities, all these ambitions, to embrace and suffer them, to feel them in his blood and to be consumed by them. As the sphere of human actions broadens out, the mechanism of the passions becomes more complicated; the various characters do indeed emerge as less genuine but more eccentric, because of the subtle influence which upbringing exerts on them as well as the considerable component of artificiality to be found in civilized society. Language too tends to become more individual, to be embellished with all the half-tones which express half-feelings, with all the devices of the word which may give emphasis to the idea, in an era which, as a rule of good taste, insists on a pervasive formalism to mask a uniformity of feelings and ideas. In order for the artistic reproduction of these settings to be accurate, the norms of this analysis have to be scrupulously observed: one has to be sincere in order to show forth the truth, since form is as inherent in subject-matter as any part of the subject-matter itself is necessary to the explanation of the general argument.

The fateful, endless and often wearisome and agitated path trod by humanity to achieve progress is majestic in its end result, seen as a whole and from afar. In the glorious light which clothes it, striving, greed and egoism fade away, as do all the weaknesses which go into the huge work, all the contradictions from whose friction the light of truth emerges. The result, for mankind, conceals all that is petty in the individual interests which produce it; it justifies them virtually as necessary means to the stimulating of the activity of the individual who is unconsciously co-operating to the benefit of all. Every impulse towards this intense universal activity, from the search for material well-being to the loftiest ambitions, is justified by the mere fact that it works towards the goal of this ceaseless process; and when one knows where this immense current of human activity is tending, one certainly does not ask how it gets there. Only the observer, himself borne along by the current, as he looks around him, has the right to concern himself with the weak who fall by the wayside, with the feeble who let themselves be overtaken by the wave and thus finish the sooner, the vanquished who raise their arms in desperation, and bow their heads beneath the brutal heel of those who suddenly appear behind, to-day’s victors, equally hurried, equally eager to arrive, and equally certain themselves to be overtaken to-morrow.

I Malavoglia, Mastro-don Gesualdo, L’Onorevole Scipioni and L’Uomo di lusso are so many vanquished whom the current has deposited, drowned, on the river bank, after having dragged them along, each with the stigmata of his sin, which should have been the blazing of his virtue. Each, from the humblest to the highest, has played his part in the struggle for existence, for prosperity, for ambition — from the humble fisherman to the parvenu, to the intruder into the upper-classes and to the man of genius and firm will, who feels strong enough to dominate other men, to seize for himself that portion of public consideration which social prejudice denies him because of his illegitimate birth and who makes the law, despite himself being born outside the law; and to the artist who thinks he is following his ideal when he is in fact following another form of ambition. The person observing this spectacle has no right to judge it; he has already achieved much if he manages to draw himself outside the field of struggle for a moment to study it dispassionately, and to render the scene clearly, in its true colours, so as to give a representation of reality as it was, or as it should have been.

Milan, 19 January 1881

CHAPTER I

At one time the Malavoglia had been as numerous as the stones on the old Trezza road; there had been Malavoglia at Ognina too, and at Aci Castello, all good honest sea-faring folk and, as is often the case, quite the opposite of their nick-name, which means ‘men of ill-will’. Actually, in the parish records they were called Toscano, but that didn’t mean anything because they had always been known as the Malavoglia from generation to generation, ever since the world began, in Ognina, in Trezza and in Aci Castello, and they had always had sea-going boats and a roof over their heads. But now the only ones left in Trezza were padron ’Ntoni and his family from the house by the medlar-tree, who owned the Provvidenza which was moored on the shingle below the public wash-place, next to zio Cola’s boat Concetta and padron Fortunato Cipolla’s fishing-boat.

The squalls which had scattered the other Malavoglia had passed without doing much harm to the house by the medlar-tree and the boat moored below the wash-place; this miracle was explained by padron ’Ntoni who would show his clenched fist, which looked as if it were carved out of walnut wood, and would say that the five fingers of a hand had to pull together to row a good oar, and also that ‘little boats must keep the shore, larger ships may venture more.’

And padron ’Ntoni’s little family was indeed like the fingers of a hand. First there was padron ’Ntoni himself, the thumb, the master of the feast, as the Bible has it; then his son Bastiano, called Bastianazzo or big Bastiano because he was as large and solid as the Saint Christopher painted under the arch of the town fishmarket; but large and solid as he was, he did his father’s bidding like a lamb, and wouldn’t have blown his own nose unless his father said to him ‘blow your nose’, and indeed he took La Longa as his wife when they said to him ‘Take her’. Then came La Longa, a short person who busied herself weaving, salting anchovies and producing children, as a good housewife should; then came the grandchildren in order of age: ’Ntoni, the eldest, a great layabout of twenty or so, who still got the odd slap from his grandfather, and the odd kick lower down to redress the balance if the slap had been too hard; Luca, ‘who had more sense than his elder brother,’ as his grandfather used to say; Mena (short for Filomena) nicknamed Saint Agatha because she was always at her loom and, the saying goes, ‘a woman at her loom, a chicken in the hen-run and mullet in January are the best of their kind;’ Alessi (short for Alessio), a snotty-nosed brat who was the image of his grandfather; and Lia (Rosalia) who was too young to be fish, flesh or good red herring. On Sundays, when they went to church one behind the other, they were quite a troupe.

Padron ’Ntoni also knew certain sayings and proverbs which he had heard the old folks use, and he felt the old folks’ sayings were tried and true: a boat couldn’t go without a helmsman, for instance; if you wanted to be Pope, first you had to be sexton; a cobbler should stick to his last, a beggar could never be bankrupt and a good name was better than riches, he said. He had quite a stock of such prudent sayings.

This was why the house by the medlar-tree flourished, and padron ’Ntoni passed for a sensible fellow, to the point where they would have made him a town councillor if don Silvestro, the town clerk, had not put it about that he was a rotten die-hard, a reactionary who approved of the Bourbons and was plotting for the return of King Francis II, so that he could lord it over the village as he lorded it in his own home.

But padron ’Ntoni didn’t know the first thing about Francis II, and simply minded his own business, and used to say that some must watch while some must sleep, because Old Care has a mortgage on every Estate.

In December 1863 ’Ntoni, the eldest grandchild, was called up for naval service. So padron ’Ntoni rushed to the village bigwigs, who are the people who can help in such cases. But don Giammaria, the parish priest, told him he’d got his just deserts, and that this was the result of that fiendish revolution they had brought about by hanging that tri-coloured bit of flag from the belltower. While don Franco the chemist began to snicker, and promised him gleefully that if they ever managed to get anything like a republic under way, everyone connected with conscription and taxes would be given short shrift, because there wouldn’t be any more soldiers, but everyone would go to war, if need be. Then padron ’Ntoni beseeched him for the love of God to have the republic come quickly, before his grandson ’Ntoni went for a soldier, as though don Franco had it all buttoned up; and indeed the chemist finally ended up by losing his temper. While don Silvestro the town clerk split his sides laughing at these discussions, and finally told padron ’Ntoni that a certain sum slipped into a certain pocket, on his advice, could produce a defect in his grandson that would get him exempted from military service. Unfortunately the boy was conscientiously built, as they still make them at Aci Trezza, and when the army doctor looked at the strapping lad before him, he told him that his defect was to be set like a column on great feet that resembled the shovel-like leaves of a prickly pear; but such shovel-feet are better than neat-fitting boots on the deck of a battleship on a rough day; and so they took ’Ntoni without so much as a ‘by your leave’. When the conscripts were taken to their barracks at Catania, La Longa trotted breathlessly alongside her son’s loping stride, busily urging him to keep his scapular of the Virgin Mary always on his chest, and to send news every time anyone he knew came home from the city, and he needn’t worry, she would send him the money for the writing paper.

His grandfather, man that he was, said nothing; but he too felt a lump in his throat, and he avoided his daughter-in-law’s gaze, as if he were annoyed with her. So they went back to Aci Trezza in silence, with their heads down. Bastianazzo had hastily tidied up the Provvidenza so as to go and wait for them at the top of the street, but when he saw them coming along like that, all crestfallen and with their boots in their hands, he didn’t have the heart to open his mouth, and went home with them in silence. La Longa immediately rushed to shut herself straight in the kitchen, as though she couldn’t wait to be alone with her pots and pans, and padron ’Ntoni said to his son: ‘Go and have a word with the poor creature, she can’t take any more.’

The next day they all went back to the station at Aci Castello to see the convoy of conscripts on their way to Messina, and they waited over an hour behind the railings being jostled by the crowd. At last the train came, and they saw all those boys flapping their arms about, with their heads sticking out of the train windows, like cattle on their way to market. There was so much singing, laughing and general din that it was almost like the feast day at Trecastagni, and amid the hubbub and racket the earlier sense of pain was almost forgotten.

‘Goodbye, ’Ntoni!’ ‘Goodbye, mother!’ ‘Goodbye, and remember what I told you.’ And there at the roadside was Sara, comare Tudda’s girl, apparently cutting grass for their calf; but comare Venera, known as ‘la Zuppidda’, the lame, was spreading the rumour that in fact she had come to say goodbye to padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni, who she used to talk to over the garden wall, she herself had seen them as sure as she would wind up before God her maker. Certain it is that ’Ntoni waved goodbye to Sara, and she stood there with her sickle in her hand staring at the train until it moved off. La Longa felt she personally had been cheated of her own goodbye; and for a long time afterwards, every time she met Sara in the square or at the wash-place, she turned her back on her.

Then the train had left, whistling and roaring in such a way as to drown everyone’s songs and goodbyes. And when the onlookers had gone their own ways, there was just a group of women left, and the odd poor soul who carried on standing up against the railings without quite knowing why. Then gradually even they ambled off, and padron ’Ntoni, guessing that his daughter-in-law must have a bitter taste in her mouth, treated her to two centesimos worth of lemon water.

To comfort La Longa, comar Venera la Zuppidda came out with: ‘Now you may as well resign yourself — for five years you’ll just have to act as though your son were dead, and shut him out of your mind.’

But they continued to think about him, in the house by the medlar-tree, sometimes because of an extra bowl that La Longa kept coming across when she set the table, sometimes because of a running bowline for securing the rigging which ’Ntoni could do better than anyone else, or when a rope had to be pulled as taut as a violin string, or a hawser hauled up by hand when you really needed a winch. Between his puffings and pantings, his grandfather would interpolate remarks like ‘Here’s where we could do with ’Ntoni,’ or ‘I haven’t got that boy’s wrist, you know.’ And as his mother plied her comb rhythmically across her loom she would remember the pounding of the engine which had taken her son away, a pounding which had stayed with her, amid all that bewilderment, and whose insistent beat seemed to be with her still.

His grandfather had some odd ways of comforting himself, and others: ‘After all, let’s be honest: a bit of soldiering will do that boy good. He always did prefer loafing about of a Sunday to using that good pair of arms of his to earn an honest crust.’

Or: ‘When he’s tasted the salt bread you eat elsewhere, he’ll stop complaining about the soups he gets at home.’

At last ’Ntoni’s first letter arrived from Naples, and it set the whole neighbourhood buzzing. He said that the women in those parts wore silken skirts which swept the ground, and that on the quay you could watch Pulcinella, and they sold pizza at two centesimos, the sort rich people ate, and that you couldn’t exist without money, it wasn’t like being at Aci Trezza, where you couldn’t spend a brass farthing unless you went to Santuzza’s wine shop. ‘We’d better send that greedy boy some money to buy himself some pizza,’ said padron ’Ntoni grudgingly; ‘It’s not his fault, that’s just how he is; he’s like a codfish, which would swallow a rusty nail given a chance. If I hadn’t held him at the font with my own arms, I’d swear don Giammaria had put sugar in his mouth instead of salt.’

When comare Tudda’s Sara was at the wash-place, the Mangiacarrubbe girl kept saying:

‘I can just imagine it! Women dressed in silks simply waiting to get their hands on padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni. They don’t have that kind of booby there.’

The others guffawed, and from then on the more disgruntled girls called him the booby.

’Ntoni also sent a photograph of himself, all the girls at the wash-place had seen it, because comare Tudda’s Sara let them pass it round from hand to hand, under their aprons, and the Mangiacarrubbe girl was sick with jealousy. He looked like the archangel Michael in flesh and blood, with those feet of his resting on the carpet, and that curtain at his head, like the one behind the Madonna at Ognina, and so handsome, sleek and clean that his own mother wouldn’t have recognised him; and poor La Longa couldn’t see enough of the carpet and the curtain and that column against which her son was standing so stiffly, with his hand scratching the back of a fat armchair; and she thanked God and his saints that they had placed her son in the midst of all that finery. She kept the portrait on the chest-of-drawers, under the glass dome with the statue of the Good Shepherd — to whom she told her beads — said la Zuppidda, and she thought she’d got a real treasure there on that chest-of-drawers, while in fact sister Mariangela la Santuzza had another one just like it, for anyone who cared to look, given her by compare Mariano Cinghialenta, and she kept it nailed on the counter in the wine-shop, behind the glasses.

But after a bit ’Ntoni got hold of a lettered comrade, and then he let fly with complaints about the wretched life he led on board ship, his superiors, the discipline, the thin soup and tight shoes. ‘That letter isn’t worth the twenty centesimos it cost to send,’ grumbled padron ’Ntoni. La Longa lost patience with all those scrawls, which looked like fish-hooks and couldn’t possibly say anything good. Bastianazzo shook his head as if to say no, it wasn’t right, if it had been him he would have covered that paper with cheerful things only, to make people feel better — and he thrust out a finger as thick as a rowlock pin — if only out of consideration for La Longa, who couldn’t seem to resign herself, and was like a mother cat that has lost her kittens. Padron ’Ntoni went in secret to have the letter read out to him by the chemist, and then by don Giammaria, who was a man of the opposite persuasion, so as to hear both sides, and when he was convinced that the letter was indeed as it had first seemed, he repeated to Bastianazzo and his wife:

‘Didn’t I say that that boy ought to have been born rich, like padron Cipolla’s son, so he could scratch his stomach all day long without doing a hand’s turn?’

Meanwhile it had been a bad year and fish had virtually to be given away like alms, now that Christians had learned to eat meat on Fridays like so many Turks. Furthermore there weren’t enough hands left at home to manage the boat, and at times they had to take on Menico della Locca, or someone else. Because the king’s trick was to take boys away for conscription when they were ready to earn their own bread; but as long as they were a drain on family resources, you had to bring them up yourself, so they could be soldiers later; and in addition to all this Mena was nearly seventeen and was beginning to turn young men’s heads when she went to mass. ‘Man is fire, and woman the straw; the devil comes, and blows.’ That was why the family from the house by the medlar-tree had to sweat blood to keep the boat seaworthy.

So, to keep things going, padron ’Ntoni had arranged a deal with zio Crocifisso Dumb-bell, a deal in connection with some lupins which were to be bought on credit and resold at Riposto, where compare Cinghialenta had said there was a boat loading up for Trieste. Actually the lupins were not in the peak of condition; but they were the only ones in Trezza, and the artful Dumb-bell also knew that the Provvidenza was wasting good sun and water moored up there by the wash-place, not doing anything; that was why he persisted in acting dumb. ‘Eh? Not a good deal? Leave it then! But I can’t make it one centesimo less, so help me God!’ and he shook his head in such a way that it did indeed resemble a bell without a clapper. This conversation took place at the door of Ognina church, on the first Sunday in September, the feast of the Virgin Mary, and all the people from the nearby villages were there, including compare Agostino Piedipapera, or Duckfoot, who was so bluff and blithe that he managed to bring about an agreement on the price of two onze and ten per salma, to be paid on the never at so much a month. Things always turned out like that for zio Crocifisso, he could always be wheedled into agreeing because, like some girls, he couldn’t say no. ‘That’s it. You simply can’t say no when you should,’ sniggered Piedipapera, ‘You’re like those…’ and he said what he was like.

When La Longa heard about the deal with the lupins, after supper, when they were sitting chatting with their elbows on the tablecloth, her mouth fell open; it was if she could feel that huge sum of forty onze weighing physically on her stomach. But women have no business sense, and padron ’Ntoni had to explain to her that if the deal went well they would have bread for the winter, and ear-rings for Mena, and Bastiano would be able to go to Riposto and back in a week, with Menico della Locca. Meanwhile Bastiano was snuffing out the candle without saying a word. That was how the lupin deal came about, and with it the voyage of the Provvidenza, which was the oldest of the village boats but which had a lucky name anyhow. Maruzza still felt black at heart, but she kept quiet, because it wasn’t her business, and she quietly went about organizing the boat and everything for the trip, the fresh bread, the pitcher with the oil, the onions and the fur-lined coats stowed under the footrest and in the locker.

The men had been up against it all day, what with that shark zio Crocifisso, who had sold them a pig in a poke, and the lupins, which were past their prime. Dumb bell said he knew nothing about it, honest to God. ‘What’s been agreed is fair indeed,’ was his contribution. And Piedipapera fussed and swore like a maniac to get them to agree, insisting heatedly that he had never come upon such a deal in his whole life; and he thrust his hands into the pile of lupins and showed them up to God and the Virgin, calling upon them as witnesses. Finally, red, flustered and beside himself, he made a last desperate offer, and put it to zio Crocifisso who was still acting dumb and to the Malavoglia who had the sacks in their hands: ‘Look. Pay for them at Christmas, instead of paying so much a month, and you’ll save a tari per salma. Now can we call an end to it?’ And he began to put the lupins into the sacks: ‘In God’s name, let’s call it a day!’

The Provvidenza set sail on Saturday towards evening, and the evening bell should already have rung, though it hadn’t, because mastro Cirino the sexton had gone to take a pair of new boots to don Silvestro the town clerk; that was the time of evening when the girls clustered like a flock of sparrows around the fountain, and the evening star was already shining brightly, so that it looked like a lantern hanging from the Provvidenza’s yard. Maruzza stood on the seashore with her youngest child in her arms, not saying a word, while her husband unfurled the sail, and the Provvidenza bobbed like a young duckling on the waves which broke around the fangs of rock offshore.

‘When the north is dark and the south is clear, you may set to sea without any fear,’ padron ’Ntoni was saying from the shore, looking towards Etna which was all black with clouds. Menico della Locca, who was in the Provvidenza, shouted something, but the sea swallowed it. ‘He said you can give the money to his mother, la Locca, because his brother is out of work,’ added Bastianazzo, and this was the last word they heard him speak.

CHAPTER II

The whole village was talking of nothing but the lupin deal, and as La Longa came home with Lia in her arms, the neighbours stood on their doorsteps to watch her pass.

‘What a deal!’ bawled Piedipapera, clumping along with his twisted leg behind padron ’Ntoni, who had gone to sit down on the church steps, alongside padron Fortunato Cipolla and Menico della Locca’s brother, who were enjoying the cool of the evening. Old zio Crocifisso was squawking like a plucked fowl, but there was no need to worry, the old man had plenty of feathers to spare. ‘We had a hard time of it, didn’t we, padron ’Ntoni?’ — but he would have thrown himself off the top of those sharp rocks for padron ’Ntoni, as God lives, and zio Crocifisso paid heed to him, because he called the tune, and quite a tune it was, more than two hundred onze a year! Dumb-bell couldn’t blow his own nose without Piedipapera.

La Locca’s son, overhearing mention of zio Crocifisso’s wealth — and zio Crocifisso really was his uncle, being la Locca’s brother — felt his heart swell with family feeling.

‘We’re related,’ he would say. ‘When I work for him by the day he gives me half-pay, and no wine, because we’re relatives.’

Piedipapera snickered. ‘He does that for your good, so as not to get you drunk, and to leave you the richer when he dies.’

Compare Piedipapera enjoyed speaking ill of people who cropped up in conversation; but he did it so warmly, and so unmaliciously, that there was no way you could take it amiss.

‘Massaro Filippo has walked past the wine shop twice,’ he would say, ‘and he’s waiting for Santuzza to signàl to him to go and join her in the stable, so they can tell their beads together.’

Or he might say to La Locca’s son:

‘Your uncle Crocifisso is trying to steal that smallholding from your cousin la Vespa; he wants to pay her half of what it’s worth, by giving her to understand that he’s going to marry her. But if she manages to get something else taken from her too, you can say goodbye to any hope of that inheritance, along with the wine and the money that he never gave you.’

Then they started to argue, because padron ’Ntoni maintained that when all was said and done, zio Crocifisso was a decent member of the human race, and had not thrown all judgment to the dogs, to consider going and marrying his brother’s daughter.

‘How does decency come into it?’ retored Piedipapera. ‘He’s mad, is what you mean. He’s swinish rich, while all la Vespa has is that pocket-handkerchief smallholding.’

‘That’s no news to me,’ said padron Cipolla, swelling like a turkey-cock, ‘it runs along the side of my vineyard.’

‘Do you call that couple of prickly pears a vineyard?’ countered Piedipapera.

‘There are vines among those prickly pears, and if St. Francis sends us rain, it will produce some fine grape must, you’ll see. The sun set behind the clouds to-day — that means wind or rain.’

‘When hidden by cloud the sun goes to rest, then you may hope for a wind from the west,’ specified padron ’Ntoni.

Piedipapera couldn’t bear that pontificating pedant padron Cipolla, who thought he was always right just because he was rich, and felt that he could force those who were less well off than himself to swallow his rubbish wholesale.

‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison,’ he went on. ‘Padron Cipolla is hoping for rain for his vineyard, and you’re hoping for a west wind for the Provvidenza. A rippling sea means a fresh wind, as the proverb has it. The stars are all out to-night, and at midnight the wind will change; listen to it blowing.’

You could hear carts passing slowly by on the road. ‘There are always people going about the world, day and night,’ compare Cipolla then observed.

And now that you couldn’t see either land or sea any more, it seemed as if Trezza were the only place in the whole world and everyone wondered where those carts could be going at that hour.

‘Before midnight the Provvidenza will have rounded the Capo dei Mulini,’ said padron ’Ntoni, ‘and then this strong wind won’t be against her any more,’

All padron ’Ntoni thought about was the Provvidenza, and when he wasn’t talking about his own affairs he made no more contribution to the conversation than a discarded broom handle.

So Piedipapera said to him, ‘You ought to go and join the chemist’s lot, they’re discussing the pope and the king. You’d cut a fine figure there. Listen to them bellowing.’

The chemist held forth at the door of his shop, in the cool, with the parish priest and one or two others. As he knew how to read, he would read the newspaper aloud to the rest, and he also owned the history of the French Revolution, which he kept to hand, under the glass mortar, and that was why he quarrelled all day long with don Giammaria, the parish priest, to pass the time, and this made them almost ill from bad temper; but they wouldn’t have lasted a day without seeing each other. Then on Saturdays, when the newspaper arrived, don Franco would actually run to half an hour’s candle, or even an hour, at the risk of being scolded by his wife, so as to parade his ideas and not just go to bed like a dumb beast, like compare Cipolla or compare Malavoglia. And during the summer there wasn’t even any need for the candle, because you could stay out at the front door under the lamp, when mastro Cirino lit it, and sometimes don Michele, the customs guard, would come along too; and so would don Silvestro, the town clerk, pausing for a moment or two on his way home from his vineyard.

Then, rubbing his hands, don Franco would say that they were quite a little Parliament there, and he would go and settle in behind the counter, running his fingers through his bushy beard with a special sly smile as though he wanted to eat a man for breakfast, and at times he would let slip the odd brief phrase to the public, getting up on his short legs, so that you could tell he was shrewder than the others, and indeed he induced in don Giammaria a feeling of such intense gall that he found him quite unbearable, and would spit assorted Latin tags in his direction. Whereas don Silvestro relished the bad blood they generated, by trying fruitlessly to square the circle; at least he didn’t get riled, as they did, and that, as they said in the village, was why he owned the finest smallholding in Trezza — where he had arrived barefoot, as Piedipapera pointed out. He set them one against the other, and then cackled fit to burst, just like a hen.

‘There’s don Silvestro laying another egg,’ La Locca’s son observed.

‘And they’re golden eggs he lays down there at the Town Hall,’ said Piedipapera.

‘Hm,’ padron Cipolla said sharply, ‘not all that golden. Comare Zuppidda wouldn’t give him her daughter’s hand in marriage.’

‘That means that mastro Turi Zuppiddo prefers the eggs from his own hens,’ replied padron ’Ntoni. And padron Cipolla nodded in agreement.

‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ added padron Malavoglia.

Then Piedipapera retorted that if don Silvestro had been content to flock together with birds of his own sort, he would be holding a spade instead of a pen to this day.

‘Would you give your grand-daughter Mena to him?’ padron Cipolla asked finally, turning to padron ’Ntoni.

‘What’s bred in the bone will not out in the flesh.’

Padron Cipolla carried on nodding, because in fact there had been some talk between him and padron ’Ntoni of marrying Mena to his son Brasi, and if the lupin deal went well, Mena would have her dowry in ready cash, and the matter could be promptly wrapped up.

‘A girl’s worth lies in her upbringing, and the quality of the hemp lies in the spinning,’ said padron Malavoglia after a bit, and padron Cipolla confirmed that everyone in the village felt that la Longa had known how to bring up her daughter, and everyone who passed down the little street at that hour, hearing the clicking of Saint Agatha’s loom, agreed that comare Maruzza hadn’t wasted her efforts in that direction.

When she arrived back home, la Longa had lit the lamp and had sat down on the balcony with her winder, filling up the spools she would be needing for her week’s weaving.

‘You can’t see comare Mena, but you can here her at her loom day and night, like Saint Agatha,’ the neighbours would say.

‘That’s what girls should be brought up to do,’ Maruzza would reply, ‘instead of standing at the window. A woman at the window is a woman to be shunned.’

‘But you do sometimes catch a husband that way, with all those men passing by,’ observed cousin Anna from the door-step opposite.

Cousin Anna was in a position to know about such things; because her son Rocco, that great dolt, had let himself be ensnared by the Mangiacurrubbe girl, a brazen-faced starer out of windows if every there was one.

Hearing conversation in the street, comare Grazia Piedipapera came out on to her doorstep as well, with her apron full of the beans she was shelling, and started complaining about the mice which had riddled her sack as full of holes as a sieve, and seemed to have done it on purpose, as though they were blessed with human judgment; and at that the conversation became general, because Maruzza too had suffered a lot of damage from those dratted little beasts! Cousin Anna’s house was teeming with them since her cat had died, an animal which had been worth its weight in gold and which had been killed by a kick from compare Tino. Grey cats were the best mousers, and as elusive as the eye of your needle. Nor should you open the door to cats at night, because an old woman from Aci Sant’Antonio had been killed that way, as the thieves had stolen her cat three days earlier and then brought it back to her half dead with hunger, mewing piteously in front of her door; and the poor woman didn’t have the heart to leave the dumb creature out on the street at that hour, and had opened the door, and that was how the thieves had got into her house.

Nowadays mischief-makers got up to all kinds of tricks; and at Trezza you saw faces which had never been seen there before, on the cliffs, people claiming to be going fishing, and they even stole the sheets put out to dry, if there happened to be any. Poor Nunziata had had a new sheet stolen that way. Poor girl! Imagine robbing her, a girl who had worked her fingers to the bone to provide bread for all those little brothers her father had left on her hands when he had upped and gone to seek his fortune in Alexandria in Egypt. Nunziata was like cousin Anna, when her husband had died and left her with that brood of children, and Rocco, the largest of the little ones, not even knee-high. Then cousin Anna had had to bring up that great shirker, just to see him stolen from her by the Mangiacarrubbe girl.

Then into the midst of this chatter walked la Zuppidda, the wife of Turi the caulker, who had been at the end of the alley; she always appeared to put her oar in, like the devil in the litany, so that no one ever knew where she had popped up from.

‘Anyhow,’ she now muttered, ‘your son Rocco didn’t help you, and if he did earn a penny he’d go straight to the wine shop and spend it on drink.’

La Zuppidda knew everything that went on in the village and that was why people said she went around barefoot all day, acting the informer with the excuse of her spindle, which she always held up in the air so that it wouldn’t whirr on the cobbles. She always spoke the gospel truth, this indeed was her mistake, and that was why her comments were far from welcome, people said that she had the devil’s own tongue in her mouth, the kind of tongue that leaves a track of spittle. ‘A sour mouth spits forth gall,’ and her mouth tasted bitter indeed because of her Barbara whom she had not managed to marry of, and she wanted to give her to the son of King Victor Emanuel himself, for all that.

‘A fine piece, the Mangiacarrubbe girl,’ she continued, ‘a brazen-faced minx, who has had the whole village passing under her window.’ A woman at a window is a woman to be shunned, and Vanni Pizzuto used to take her prickly pears stolen from massaro Filippo’s the greengrocer, and they ate them together in the vineyard, among the vines, under the almond tree, she herself had seen them. And Peppi Naso, the butcher, after a sudden pang of jealousy brought on by compare Mariano Cinghialenta, the carter, had had the bright idea of dumping the horns of all the animals he’d slaughtered into her doorway, since people had said that he used to go and preen under the Mangiacarrubbe girl’s window.

But cousin Anna, that happy soul, smiled through it all.

‘Don Giammaria says you’re committing a mortal sin by speaking ill of your neighbour!’

‘Don Giammaria would do better to preach to his sister donna Rosolina,’ retorted la Zuppidda, ‘and not let her carry on with don Silvestro when he happens to pass by, or with don Michele the sergeant, thirsting for a husband as she is, and so old and fat, poor thing!’

‘God’s will be done,’ concluded cousin Anna. ‘When my husband died, Rocco was no taller than this distaff and his little sisters were all smaller than he was. But did I lose heart for that? Problems are something you get used to, they help you get down to work. My daughters will do as I have done, and as long as there are slabs in the wash-place, we won’t lack for the bare essentials. Look at Nunziata, she has more sense than many an old woman, and manages to bring up those little ones as though she’d given birth to them.’

‘By the way, where is Nunziata?’ asked la Longa of a crowd of tattered urchins who were whimpering on the doorstep of the little house opposite; they set up a chorus of wailing at mention of their sister’s name.

‘I saw her going out on the sciara, the lava field, gathering broom, and your Alessi was there too, walking with her,’ said cousin Anna. The children were quiet for a moment, and then all began to grizzle in unison, and the least tiny of them, who was perched on a large stone, said after a bit.

‘I don’t know where she is.’

The neighbourhood women had come out, like slugs after the rain, and you could hear a continuous chattering from one doorway to the next, all along the lane. Even Alfio Mosca’s window was open, Alfio Mosca, that is, who had the donkey cart, and from it came a strong smell of broom. Mena had left her loom and come out on the balcony as well.

‘Oh, Saint Agatha,’ exclaimed the neighbours; and everyone was glad to see her.

‘Aren’t you thinking of marrying off your Mena?’ la Zuppidda asked comare Maruzza in a low voice. ‘She’ll be eighteen at Easter; I know because she was born the year of the earthquake, like my Barbara. Anyone who is interested in my Barbara must first suit me.’

At that point a rustle of branches was heard down the street, and Alessi and Nunziata arrived, barely visible under the bundles of broom, they were so small.

‘Oh Nunziata!’ called the neighbours. ‘Weren’t you afraid out on the sciara at this hour?’

‘I was there too,’ said Alessi.

‘I stayed out late with comare Anna at the wash-place, and I didn’t have any wood for the fire.’

The young girl lit the lamp and moved quickly about, preparing things for supper, while her little brothers trailed after her up and down the room, so that she looked for all the world like a hen with her chicks. Alessi had removed his load, and was gazing gravely from the doorway, with his hands in his pockets.

‘Oh Nunziata,’ called Mena from the balcony, ‘when you’ve put the water on to boil, come over here for a bit.’

Nunziata left Alessi to keep an eye on the fire, and ran to perch on the balcony alongside Saint Agatha, so that she too could have a moment of well-earned, rest.

‘Compare Alfio Mosca is cooking his beans,’ observed Nunziata after a pause.

‘You’re two of a pair, neither of you has anyone at home of an evening to make your soup for you when you come home tired.’

‘Yes, that’s true; and he even know how to sew and wash, and he mends his own shirts’ — Nunziata knew everything about her neighbour Alfio, and she knew his house like the back of her hand. ‘Now,’ she would say, ‘he’s going to get wood; now he’s seeing to his donkey’ — and you could see the light in the courtyard, or in the shed. Saint Agatha would laugh, and Nunziata would say that all he lacked to be a thorough-going woman was a skirt.

‘Anyway,’ concluded Mena, ‘when he marries, his wife will go around with the donkey cart, and he will stay at home and mind the children.’

In a huddle in the street, the mothers too were talking about Alfio Mosca, and even la Vespa swore she wouldn’t have wanted him for a husband, according to la Zuppidda, because la Vespa had her own precious smallholding, and if she decided to marry, she certainly wouldn’t want someone whose only possession was a donkey cart: ‘your cart is your bier,’ says the proverb. She had set her sights on her zio Crocifisso, her uncle, the cunning little piece.

Privately, the girls took Mosca’s part agains that vicious Vespa; and personally Nunziata flinched at the scorn they heaped upon compare Alfio, just because he was poor, and had no one in the world, and suddenly she said to Mena; ‘If I were grown up I would have him, if I were told to.’

Mena had been about to say something; but she suddenly changed the subject.

‘Will you be going into town for the All Souls’ Day fair?’

‘No, I can’t leave the house empty.’

‘We’ll being going, if the lupin deal goes well; grandfather said so.’

Then she thought for a moment, and added:

‘Compare Alfio Mosca usually goes too, to sell his walnuts.’

And they both fell silent, thinking of the All Souls’ Day fair, where Alfio went to sell his walnuts.

‘Zio Crocifisso, all meek and mild as he is, is going to get his hands on la Vespa,’ said cousin Anna.

‘That’s just what she’d like,’ la Zuppidda promptly retorted, ‘that’s just what she’d like, to have him get his hands on her. As it is she’s always hanging around the house, like the cat, with the excuse of bringing him choice morsels, and the old man doesn’t refuse, after all he’s got nothing to lose. She’s fattening him up like a pig, with all that coming and going. I’m telling you, la Vespa wants him to get his hands on her!’

Everyone had their contribution to make on the subject of zio Crocifisso, who was always bleating and groaning like Christ crucified between the thieves, and yet he had pots of money, because one day when the old man had been ill, la Zuppidda had seen a coffer under the bed as long as your arm.

La Longa felt the forty onze from the lupin debt weighing her down, and changed the subject, because even walls have ears, and you could hear zio Crocifisso talking nearby with don Giammaria, as they walked through the square, so that even la Zuppidda broke off the vituperations that she was casting in his direction, to greet him.

Don Silvestro was cackling away, and his way of laughing got on the chemist’s nerves, though in fact the chemist had never been endowed with much patience anyway, and he left that virtue to donkeys and people who were satisfied with the revolution as it stood.