Mastro Don Gesualdo E-Book

Giovanni Verga

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

Seitenzahl: 650

Beschreibung

Gesualdo is a self-made man who is envied and hated.

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

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

Giovanni Verga Chronology

About the Author

First Part

Second Part

Third Part

Fourth Part

Copyright

GIOVANNI VERGA CHRONOLOGY

1840

2 September. Giovanni Verga was born in Catania, Sicily. His family were landowners and members of the minor nobility.

1848/9

Year of Revolutions in Italy.

1857

Wrote his first novel, “Amore e Patria” (unpublished).

1858

Enroles as a student of law at Catania University.

1859

Beginning of the Italian War of Independence.

1860

Insurrections in Sicily in April are followed by the arrival of Garibaldi and his volunteers who take Sicily from the Bourbons.

Verga joins the National Guard founded after the arrival of Garibaldi. He is one of the founders and the editor, of the weekly political magazine, Roma degli Italiani.

1861

The Bourbons are forced out of Naples, and Garibaldi surrenders Naples and Sicily to Victor Emanuel, the Piedmontese king. In plebiscites the people of Southern Italy vote to be part of the newly formed Italian Kingdom under Victor Emanuel.

Verga abandons his legal studies and publishes his first novel, “I Carbonari della Montagna,” at his own expense.

1863

His patriotic novel, “Sulle lagune”, is published in a magazine.

His father dies.

1864

Florence becomes the new capital of Italy, replacing Turin.

1865

Verga’s first visit to Florence. He becomes a frequent visitor and takes up permanent residence in 1869.

1866

The Austrians retreat from Venice which becomes part of Italy.

His novel, “Una Peccatrice” is published.

1869

Settles in Florence, where he meets Luigi Capuana, the realist writer and theorist. Begins an affair with the 18 year old, Giselda Foljanesi.

1870

Rome is taken, and becomes the Italian capital in 1871.

1871

Zola’s “La Fortune de Rougon”, the first book in the Rougon-Macquart cycle, is published. Zola’s theories and Naturalism become increasingly important and controversial in Italy.

Verga publishes “Storia di una capinera”, which is an immediate success.

1872

Goes to live in Milan, where he spends most of the next 20 years. Frequents the literary salons of the city, making a name for himself in the capital of Italian publishing. Giselda Foljanesi marries the Catanese poet Mario Rapisardi.

1873

“Eva” is published, and is criticized for its immorality.

1874/6

“Tigre Reale”, “Eros”, and the novella “Nedda” are published.

1877

“L’Assommoir” of Zola is published and has an overwhelming influence in Italy. Verga publishes his collected short stories, “Prima vera e altri racconti.”

1878

His mother dies, to whom he was greatly attached.

1880

“Vita dei Campi” is published. Visits Giselda Foljanesi.

1881

“I Malavoglia” is published. Verga is disappointed by its lack of success. Begins an affair with countess Dina Castellazi, who is married and in her twenties. It lasts most of his life.

1883

Goes to Paris, and visits Zola at Meridan. Also goes to London. Publishes “Novelle Rusticane” and the novel “Il Marito di Elena”, and “Per le Vie”. Visits Catania where he sees Giselda Foljanesi. In December Rapisardi discovers a compromising letter from Verga to his wife, and so Giselda is forced to leave and settle in Florence.

1884

The play of “Cavalleria Rusticana” is put on with great success in Turin, with Eleonora Dusa playing Santuzza.

The end of Verga’s affair with Giselda Foljanesi.

1886–7

Passes most of his time at Rome. The publication of a French translation of “I Malavoglia” is without success.

1888

Returns to live in Sicily.

1889

“Mastro-don Gesualdo” is published and is an immediate success. D’Annunzio publishes his novel, “Il Piacere”.

1890

Mascagni’s one act opera of “Cavalleria Rusticana” is put on and enjoys an overwhelming success. Verga sues Mascagni and Sonzogno for his share of the royalties.

1891

Publishes a volume of stories, “I Ricordi del capitano d’Arce”. Wins his case in the Court of Appeal, getting 143,000 lire, (which was a large sum then and put an end to the financial problems which had beset him).

1895

Goes with Capuana to visit Zola in Rome.

1896

The defeat at Adua puts an end to Italy’s colonial expansion. Verga criticizes the demonstrations against the war. Begins writing the third novel in his “I Vinti” cycle, “La Duchessa di Leyra”, but never completes it.

1898

There are riots in Milan, after the price of bread is increased, which are violently put down by the army. Verga applauds their actions as a defence of society and its institutions.

1900–3

Various of his plays are put on, but Verga’s energies turn away from his writing to managing his business interests and living quietly in Sicily.

1915

Declares himself in favour of Italian involvement in WW1, and anti-pacificism.

1920

His eightieth birthday is celebrated in Rome and Catania. In November he becomes a senator.

1922

27 January Verga dies in Catania. Mussolini comes to power.

1925/28

D.H. Lawrence translates “Mastro Don Gesualdo” and “Novelle Rusticane” into English.

1984

Dedalus European Classics begins with D.H. Lawrence’s translation of “Mastro Don Gesualdo”.

Book by Giovanni Verga available from Dedalus:

I Malavoglia (The House by the Medlar Tree)

translated by Judith Landry

Mastro Don Gesualdo

translated by D.H. Lawrence

Short Sicilian Novels (Novelle Rusticane)

translated by D.H. Lawrence

Cavalleria Rusticana (Vita dei campi)

translated by D.H. Lawrence

(new edition in autumn 2000)

forthcoming in 2001:

Sparrow and other tales from Sicily

translated by Christine Donougher

FIRST PART

1

THEY were ringing sunrise mass at San Giovanni; but the village still slept heavily, because for three days it had been raining, and on the plough-land you sank half up to your knees. All of a sudden, upon the silence, there was an uproar, the shrill bell of Sant’ Agata ringing for help, doors and windows banged open, people running out in their shirts, crying: ‘Earthquake! – Saint Gregory the Great!’

It was still dark. Far off, in the wide, dark expanse of the Alia, blinked only a light from the charcoal burners, and more to the left the morning star, over a big low cloud that cut across the dawn of the long tableland of the Paradiso. From all the open country came a lugubrious howling of dogs. And suddenly, out of the lower quarter struck up the heavy sound of the big bell of San Giovanni, giving the alarm as well; then the cracked bell of San Vito; then another from the mother church, further off; then the one from Sant’ Agata which seemed to fall right on the heads of the inhabitants of the little square. One after the other the bells of the monasteries had also aroused: the College, Santa Maria, San Sebastiano, Santa Teresa; a general clanging which ran frightened over the roofs, in the darkness.

‘No! No! It’s a fire! … Fire in the Trao house! … Saint John the Baptist!’

The men came running, shouting, with their trousers in their hands. The women put a light in the windows; all the village, on the hillside, swarming with lights, as if it were the Good Friday eve, when they ring the second hour of the night; something to make your hair stand on end, if you saw it from a distance.

‘Don Diego! Don Ferdinando! – ’ you could hear them shouting at the bottom of the square, and somebody banging at the entrance door with a stone.

Out of the street up from the big square, and from the other alleys, people arrived continually; a continual clatter of heavy boots on the cobblestones; from time to time a name called from the distance; and always that insistent banging at the big entrance door at the bottom of Sant’ Agata Square, and that voice calling:

‘Don Diego! Don Ferdinando! Are you all dead?’

From the house of the Traos, above the dilapidated cornice, you could now actually see in the paling dawn globes of dense smoke billowing up, sprinkled with sparks. And a ruddy reflection, showered down from above, lit up the anxious faces of the neighbours gathered in front of the battered door, their noses in the air. All at once you heard a window rattle, and a shrill voice crying from above:

‘Help! – Thieves! – Christians, help!’

‘The fire! Your house is on fire! Open the door, Don Ferdinando!’

‘Diego! Diego!’

From behind the frantic face of Don Ferdinando Trao now appeared at the window the dirty nightcap and the flying grey hair of Don Diego: And then the hoarse consumptive voice also shrieking:

‘Help! – Thieves in the house! Help!’

‘What thieves? Why, what would they want up there?’ jeered somebody out of the crowd.

‘Bianca! Bianca! Help! Help!’

At that weary moment Nanni l’Orbo appeared, swearing he had seen the thieves, in the Traos’ house.

– ‘With my own eyes! One of them trying to escape out of Donna Bianca’s window, and he had to climb in again, seeing the people coming!’

‘The mansion is burning, do you understand! All the neighbourhood will be in flames. And I’ve got my house next here, by God!’ began to shout Mastro-don Gesualdo Motta. The others, however, pushing and prising at the doorway, succeeded in penetrating into the courtyard, one after the other, and the grass in there half up to their knees, shouting, brawling, armed with buckets, with pitchers full of water, neighbour Cosimo with the wood-axe; Don Luca the sexton wanting to ring the bells once more, to call to arms; Pelagatti as he was when he ran up at the first alarm, with his rusty pistol which he had rushed to fish out from under the straw.

From the courtyard the fire was not yet to be seen. Only, from time to time, as the wind blew from the northwest, great waves of smoke rose up, passing away behind the dry-stone wall of the little, shut-in garden, between the branches of the flowering almond trees. Under the lean-to shed was piled the chopped firewood; and at the far end, right against the house of the neighbour Motta, was more, heavier timber, flooring planks, rotten joists, a mill-post which they had never been able to sell.

‘Worse than tinder, look you!’ exclaimed Mastro-don Gesualdo. ‘Stuff to set fire to all the neighbourhood! – Saints and blessings! – And so they put it against my wall; because they’ve got nothing to lose, saints and blessings! – ’

At the top of the stairway, Don Ferdinando, bundled in an old greatcoat, his head tied up in a rag of a kerchief, unshaven for eight days, rolling his greyish eyes, which looked like a mad-man’s in that parchment face of an asthmatic subject, kept on repeating like a duck:

‘Quick! Up here! Quick! Up here!’

But nobody dared risk himself on the shaky stairs. A perfect hole that house; the walls broken, corroded, the plaster fallen; cracks which ran from the eaves right to the ground; the windows off their hinges and without glass; the worn-out coat-of-arms, battered at the corners, hung from a rusty hook over the door. Mastro-don Gesualdo wanted first of all to pitch out all that wood piled up in the courtyard, throw it into the square.

‘It would take a month,’ replied Pelagatti, who stood there yawning, his pistol in his hand.

‘Saints and blessings! Piled against my wall! – Will you hear, or won’t you?’

Giacalone said, ‘Better knock down the shed’; Don Luca the sexton assured them that for the moment there was no danger; a tower of Babel!

Also other neighbours had come running. Santo Motta with his hands in his pockets, his face jovial, always ready with a joke. Speranza, his sister, green with bile, pressing her flabby breast in her baby’s mouth, spitting poison against the Traos. ‘My sirs! – just look! – We’ve got our stores next here! – ’ And she turned on her husband Burgio, who was there in his shirt-sleeves: ‘You don’t say anything! You stand there like an owl! What have you come for then?’

Mastro-don Gesualdo was the first to dash yelling up the stairs. The others behind like so many lions through the dark, empty rooms. At every step an army of rats scaring the people. ‘Look out! Look out! The garret is coming in! – ’ Nanni l’Orbo, who had still got that fellow at the window on his mind, shouting every time: ‘There he is! There he is! – ’ And in the library, which was falling to pieces, he was within a hair’s breadth of massacring the sexton with Pelagatti’s pistol. Always in the darkness you could hear the hoarse voice of Don Ferdinando calling: ‘Bianca! Bianca!’ And Don Diego was knocking and storming at a door, catching everybody by the coat as they passed and screeching the same: ‘Bianca! My sister!’

‘What are you playing at?’ replied Mastro-don Gesualdo, red as a tomato, ripping himself free. ‘I’ve got my house next door here, see? The whole street is going in a blaze.’

There was a wild running in the big dismantled old house: women carrying water; children running about rowdily in all the confusion, as if it was a feast; inquisitive creatures who wandered round open-mouthed, tearing the rags of stuff which still hung from the walls, touching the carvings of the door-frames, shouting so as to hear the echo of the big empty rooms, lifting their nose in the air to look at the gilding of the mouldings and at the family portraits; all these smoky Traos who seemed to peel their eyes, seeing such a mob in their home. A come-and-go that made the floors dance.

‘There you are! There you are! At this minute the roof is going!’ jeered Santo Motta, tramping about in the water; wells of water at every stride, between the displaced tiles or the missing tiles of the floor. Don Diego and Don Ferdinando, shoved about, dazed, upset in the midst of the crowd which ransacked every corner of misery in their house, continued to cry:

‘Bianca! My sister!’

‘Your house is on fire, do you know?’ Santo Motta shouted in their ears. ‘It’ll be a fine flare-up, with all this old stuff!’

‘Over here! Over here!’ a voice was heard from the alley. ‘The fire is upstairs in the kitchen.’

Master Nunzio, the father of Gesualdo, clambering up a ladder, was making signs in the air, from the roof of his own house, there opposite. Giacalone had fastened a pulley to the rail of the balcony to draw up water from the Motta’s cistern. Master Cosimo the joiner, mounted on the eaves, was giving furious blows with his axe at the skylight.

‘No! No!’ they shouted from below. ‘If you give the fire air, the whole mansion will go in a minute.’

Don Diego then struck his forehead with his hand, stammering: ‘The family papers! The papers of the law-suit!’

And Don Ferdinando went running off, clutching his hair in his hands, shouting also.

At the windows, at the balcony, as the wind blew, whirl-winds of thick smoke billowed in making Don Diego cough as he kept on crying outside the door: ‘Bianca! The fire!’

Mastro-don Gesualdo, who had rushed furiously up by the kitchen stairs, came back blinded with smoke, pale as death, his eyes almost out of their sockets, half suffocated:

‘Saints and blessings! – You can’t get from this side. … I am ruined!’

The others shouted all together, each one saying his say; a row enough to daze you: ‘Chuck the tiles down! – Lean the ladder against the chimney flue! – ’ Master Nunzio, standing on the roof of his own house, capered like one obsessed. Don Luca, the sexton, had now really run to hitch himself on to the bells. The people in the piazza thick as flies. From the corridor mistress Speranza succeeded in making herself heard, raucous with screaming, tearing the clothes off the backs of people to make way for herself, her nails unsheathed like a cat and scum at her mouth: ‘From the staircase down there, at the end of the corridor!’ – Everybody ran there, leaving Don Diego to call at his sister’s door: ‘Bianca! Bianca!’ A confused noise was heard behind that door; a wild running as of folks who have lost their head. Then the sound of a chair thrown over. Nanni l’Orbo began to shout again from the bottom of the corridor: ‘There he is! There he is!’ And the explosion of Pelagatti’s pistol sounded like a cannon going off.

‘The authorities! Hey, here are the police!’ came the voice of Santo Motta shouting from the courtyard.

Then the door opened unexpectedly, and Donna Bianca appeared, her dress not fastened, pale as death, waving her hands convulsively, without offering a word, fixing on her brother her eyes mad with terror and with anguish. All at once she dropped on to her knees, clutching the doorpost, stammering:

‘Kill me, Don Diego! – Kill me then! But don’t let anybody come in here.’

What happened then, behind that door which Don Diego had shut again, pushing his sister back into her little room, no one ever knew. Only his voice was heard, a voice of desperate anguish, stammering:

‘You? … You here?’

Came running the Captain, the fiscal attorney, all the authorities. Don Liccio Papa, the chief of the police, crying from a distance, brandishing his unsheathed sabre:

‘Wait! Wait! Stop! Stop!’ – and the Captain with his stick: ‘Make way! Make way! Make way!’ behind him, fatigued like Don Liccio, beating his way for the Law! – The fiscal attorney gave orders to have the door beaten down. ‘Don Diego! Donna Bianca! Open! What has happened?’

Don Diego appeared, having aged ten years in a minute, embarrassed, rolling his eyes, with a terrible vision in the depths of his grey pupils, a cold sweat on his brow, his voice choked with an immense grief:

‘Nothing! – My sister! – Frightened! – Nobody must come in!’

Pelagatti furious with Nanni l’Orbo:

‘A nice thing he made me do! – As near as nothing I was to murdering Neighbour Santo!’

Then the Captain gave him a dressing down:

‘With firearms, eh! – What are you playing at! – You beast, for you are one!’

‘Oh, Captain, sir, I thought it was the robber, down there in the dark. I saw him with my own eyes!’

‘Shut up! Shut up! You drunken lout!’ chimed in the fiscal attorney. ‘Anyhow: let’s go and see the fire.’

And now, in the corridor, on the stairs to the kitchen-garden, everybody carrying water. Neighbour Cosimo had climbed on to the roof and was hacking away at the cross-beams with his hatchet. From every side they showered tiles, stones, broken pots on the smoking ceiling. Burgio, on the ladder, firing shots upwards, and Pelagatti on the other side, ambushed beside the chimney-flue, loading and discharging his pistol mercilessly. Don Luca ringing the bells full clang; the crowd in the square yelling and gesticulating; all the neighbours at their windows. The Margarones stood on their terrace above the roofs opposite to look on, the daughters with their hair still in curl papers; Don Filippo giving advice from the distance, directing the operations of those who were busy extinguishing the fire, with his malacca cane. Don Ferdinando, returning at that moment with his arms full of old papers, bumped his nose against Giacalone, who was running in the dark passage.

‘Beg pardon, Don Ferdinando. I’m just going to fetch the doctor for your honour’s sister.’

‘Fetch Doctor Tavuso!’ screamed Aunt Macrì after him; she being a relation poor as they were themselves. She had been the first to come rushing. ‘Near here, at Bomma’s pharmacy.’

Bianca had gone into convulsions; a terrible attack; four people couldn’t hold her down on the bed. Don Diego, also beside himself, was trying to drive the people back, with his bony, trembling hands.

‘No! – It’s nothing! – Leave her alone!’

The Captain began to land out right and left with his stick, hitting at haphazard the neighbours who crowded inquisitively round the door.

‘What are you looking at? – What do you want? – Clear out! – Good-for-nothings, vagabonds! You, Don Liccio Papa, keep guard at the street-door.’

Baron Mendola came a moment later, for the look of the thing, and Dame Sarina Cirmena poking her nose in everywhere; and the canon-priest Lupi, sent by the Baroness Rubiera. Aunt Sganci and the other relatives sent servants to inquire about their niece. Don Diego, hardly able to stand on his feet, put his head out of the door and replied to everyone:

‘She is a little better! – She is quieter! – She wants to be left alone.’

‘Eh! Eh!’ murmured the canon-priest, shaking his head and looking around the squalid walls of the drawing-room. ‘I remember how it used to be! Where are the riches of the house of Trao gone!’

The Baron also shook his head, stroking the bristles of his stiff-bearded chin with his hairy hand. Aunt Cirmena let out:

‘They are mad! Ought to be in a madhouse, the pair of them! Don Ferdinando always was wanting … and Don Diego – you remember? When Aunt Sganci had got him that job in the mills? – No-thank-you! – a Trao couldn’t take a wage! – Charity, yes, they can take that!’

‘Oh! Oh!’ interrupted the canon-priest, with the malice laughing in his little rat’s eyes, but shutting tight his flexible lips.

‘Yes indeed! What else would you call it? All the relations crying out about what they have to send at Easter and at Christmas, wine, oil, cheese – corn as well. … And the girl is absolutely dressed in what her Aunt Rubiera gives her.’

‘Eh! Eh!’ The canon-priest, with an incredulous smile, kept nudging first Dame Sarina and then the Baron, who for his part bent his head and continued to scratch his chin discreetly, pretending to look this way and that, as if to say:

‘Eh! Eh! – so it seems to me!’

At that moment appeared Doctor Tavuso, in a hurry, with his hat on his head. Saluting nobody, he went into the sick chamber.

A little while after he came out again shrugging his shoulders, swelling out his throat, accompanied by Don Ferdinando, who looked so thin he was like an old stick. Aunt Macrì and the canon-priest Lupi ran round the doctor. Aunt Cirmena wanted to know everything and fixed you in the face with her two round spectacles worse than the fiscal attorney.

‘Eh? What is it? – Do you know? They talk about nerves nowadays – fashionable to have nerves. They send for you for every trifle – as if they could afford to pay for doctor’s visits! – ’ replied Tavuso churlishly. And then, fixing Donna Sarina back again with his eyeglasses:

‘Do you want me to tell you? Girls when they get to a certain age ought to be married!’

And he turned aside hawking loudly, coughing, and spitting. The relations looked from one to the other. The canon-priest, to appear discreet, began to turn it off with Baron Mendola, giving his snuff and making chatter, and spitting all over the place, wanting to ferret out what was happening behind that closed door, compressing his parched lips as if he was swallowing every moment.

‘Yes, of course! – She was frightened! – They’d made her think there were thieves in the house! – poor Donna Bianca! – So young too! – and so delicate!’

‘Hark here, Cousin!’ said Donna Sarina, drawing Dame Macrì aside. Don Ferdinando, crazy-like, wanted to get near to hear as well.

‘Just a minute! – What manners!’ cried Aunt Cirmena to him. ‘I’ve just got a word to say to your aunt! – you go and get a glass of water for Bianca, it will do her good – ’

Santo Motta came climbing down from overhead, rubbing his hands with a smiling air.

‘The kitchen’s absolutely ruined! There isn’t place to cook an egg in! It’ll have to be built all afresh.’

As nobody took any notice, he stared first one and then the other in the face, with his foolish smile.

The canon-priest Lupi, to get rid of him, said at last:

‘All right! All right! We’ll think of that later.’

Baron Mendola, when Santo Motta had gone, burst out at last:

‘Think of that later! If there’ll be any money to think of it with! I’ve always told them – Sell half the house, cousin – even one or two rooms – something to be going on with! – But oh dear no! – Sell the house of the Traos? – They’d rather fasten up the doors of the rooms as they fall into ruin, and make shift in the ones that are left. – And that’s what they’ll do with the kitchen. – They’ll cook their eggs here in the drawing-room – when they’ve got any to cook. Sell a room or two! – Not for the world – and they couldn’t if they wanted to – ! The room of the archives? – where all the family papers are! – The room with the balcony on to the square? – and nowhere to stand and look when the Corpus Domini procession passes! – The cuckoo chamber? – For they’ve got a room for the cuckoo-clock, and all, if you please! – ’

And the baron, having let off that little tirade, departed leaving them all fit to split themselves with laughter.

Donna Sarina, before leaving, knocked once more at her niece’s door, to ask how she was. Don Diego opened slightly and put his nose through the crack, repeating from his cardboard face:

‘Better! She is quieter! She wants to be left alone.’

‘Poor Diego!’ sighed Aunt Macrì. Dame Cirmena took a few steps across the antechamber, out of hearing of Don Ferdinando, who was coming to shut the door, and added:

‘I’ve known it for quite a bit now. … You remember the evening of the Immaculate Conception, when there was such a fall of snow? I saw the young Baron Rubiera going down the alley two strides from here – muffled up like a thief – ’

The canon-priest Lupi, as he crossed the courtyard, lifting his cassock above his thick boots in all the weeds, turned round to the dilapidated house to see if they could hear him, and then, in front of the street door, looking uneasily this way and that, he concluded:

‘You heard what Doctor Tavuso said? We can speak, because we are all intimate friends and relations – Girls when they get to a certain age ought to be married!’

2

IN the square, as the folks saw Don Diego Trao going by in his greasy hat and the long coat he wore on state occasions, it was quite an event.

‘It takes a fire to bring you out of the house.’

His cousin Zacco wanted also to take him to the ‘Café of the Gentry’.

‘Tell us about it. Say how it all was – ’

The poor wretch excused himself as best he might; besides, he wasn’t a member; poor, yes, but the Traos had never taken their hats off to anybody. He went the longer way round in order to avoid Bomma’s pharmacy, where Doctor Tavuso sat installed all day long; but climbing up Conduit Street, creeping under the wall, he stumbled against that tongue-wagger Ciolla, who was always on the lookout for a scandal.

‘Nice day, nice day, Don Diego! You are going to your cousin Rubiera?’

Don Diego went red. It seemed to him that everybody read his secret in his face. He turned back, hesitating, cautious, before entering the alley, afraid that Ciolla was hovering to spy on him. By good luck the latter had stopped to talk with the canon- priest Lupi, and was giving shouts of laughter, to which the canon-priest replied by twisting his mouth also to a laugh, discreetly.

Baroness Rubiera was having the corn winnowed. Don Diego saw her passing before the door of the storage barn in a cloud of chaff, bare-armed, her cotton skirt hitched up on her hips, her hair all dusty in spite of the kerchief which she had pulled forward over her nose like a little house-roof. She was wrangling with that thief of a middleman, Pirtuso, who wanted to rob her of her corn by paying her two groats less per measure; red in the face, flourishing her hairy arms, her stomach heaving:

‘Have you no conscience, you Jew?’

Then, as she saw Don Diego, she turned, smiling:

‘How do you do, Cousin Trao? What brings you this way, then?’

‘I came specially, Cousin – ’ and Don Diego, choked with the dust, began to cough.

‘Get out of it! Get out of it! Away from here, Cousin. You’re not used to it,’ interrupted the Baroness. ‘Look at the things I have to do! Eh, but what a face you’ve got, good gracious me! The fright you had last night, eh?’

From the trapdoor, at the top of the wooden steps, appeared two clumsy shoes and coarse blue stockings, and the high voice of a girl saying:

‘My lady, here they are!’

‘The young Baron has come back?’

‘I can hear Marchese barking down below.’

‘All right, I’m coming. Well then, what about the corn, Master Lio?’

Pirtuso had remained squatted on the bushel-measure, peacefully, as if to say that the corn was no matter to him, looking indifferently here and there at the strange things in this storage barn, which itself was vast as a church. Once upon a time, in the days of the Rubieras’ splendour, it had been the theatre also. Even now you could see the vaulting painted with nude women, and with columns like a chapel; the large family box opposite, with rags of stuff dangling from the parapet; a carved, broken-down big bedstead in a corner; some leather seats stripped to make shoes; a saddle of dusty velvet astraddle on the beam of a loom; sieves of every size hung around; heaps of stakes and brooms; a sedan-chair shoved under the stairs that went up to the family box, the Rubiera coat-of-arms on its little door, and an ancient lantern standing on its little roof, like a crown. Giacalone and Vito Orlando, in the midst of heaps of wheat as high as mountains, shook themselves round about the immense sieves as if possessed, all sweaty and white with dust, singing in cadence; while Gerbino, the boy, heaped up the grain continually with the broom.

‘In my days, your ladyship, I have seen comedy played in this barn,’ replied Pirtuso, to evade the question.

‘I know! I know! That’s how the Rubieras wasted what they’d got. – And now do you want to go on with business? – Are you taking the corn, or aren’t you?’

‘I’ve told you: at three guineas and a quarter.’

‘No, upon my conscience, I can’t do it. Already I lose four-pence a measure.’

‘Good-day to your ladyship.’

‘Come now, Master Lio, since that her ladyship has spoken,’ added Giacalone, making the sieve dance all the time. The middleman took up his bushel-measure and went his way without replying.

‘At three and three shillings. Do you take it?’

‘Good-day to you! Good-day to you!’

But she, out of the tail of her eye, perceived that the middle-man had stopped to talk with the canon-priest, who, rid at last of Ciolla, was coming up the narrow street. Reassured therefore, she turned to her cousin Trao to speak of something else.

‘I was just thinking about you, cousin. I want to send a bit of this corn across to your house. – No, no, don’t mention it. – We are relations. A good harvest should bless everybody. Then the Lord helps us! – You’ve had your house on fire, what? God save us! They tell me Bianca is still half dead with fright. I couldn’t leave things, here – you must excuse me.’

‘Yes – I came on purpose – I want to speak to you.’

‘Speak up, then – But wait a minute; – while you’re out there, just look if Pirtuso is coming back – So, without letting him see you – ’

‘He’s a jackass!’ put in Vito Orlando, wagging himself all the time about the sieve. ‘I know Master Lio. He’s a jackass! He won’t come back.’

But at that moment entered the canon-priest Lupi, smiling with that nice amiable face which put everybody into harmony, and behind him the middleman with the bushel in his hand.

‘Deo gratias! Deo gratias! Shall we bring it off, this marriage, my lady?’

As he perceived Don Diego Trao, who was holding himself humbly aside, the canon-priest suddenly changed tone and manner, with his lips narrowed, pretending to hold himself aside also, out of discretion, all intent on settling the negotiations about the wheat.

But they had to harangue a little longer. Master Lio now raved and carried on as if they wanted to rob the money out of his pocket. The Baroness, however, with an indifferent air, turning her back on him and calling towards the trapdoor:

‘Rosaria! Rosaria!’

‘Now drop it!’ exclaimed the canon-priest at last, clapping Master Lio on the shoulder with his big hand. ‘I know whom you are buying for. It’s for Mastro-don Gesualdo.’

‘No, it isn’t. Mastro-don Gesualdo has got nothing to do with it!’ the agent began to shout. ‘This isn’t in Mastro-don Gesualdo’s line.’

But finally, as they agreed about the price, Pirtuso grew calm. The canon-priest added:

‘You be quiet, everything is in Mastro-don Gesualdo’s line, if there’s anything to be made by it.’

Pirtuso, who had seen Giacalone’s side-wink, went up to him to tell him to his nose what he thought of him.

‘Don’t you eat bread yourself? Can’t you keep quiet in other people’s business, can’t you? – ’

The Baroness, from her corner, while the middleman had his back turned, winked also at the canon-priest Lupi, as if to say, as for the price, it wasn’t bad.

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the priest, sotto voce. ‘Baron Zacco is going to sell for less. However, Mastro-don Gesualdo knows nothing of it so far.’

‘Ah, so he’s taking up corn-dealing, Mastro-don Gesualdo! Isn’t he a builder any longer, then?’

‘He does a bit of everything, that demon. They even say he wants to come in at the auction of the taxes on the lands.’

Then the Baroness opened her eyes.

‘Cousin Zacco’s lands? The communal taxes which have descended for fifty years from father to son! – Why, it’s real roguery!’

‘I won’t say it isn’t! I won’t say it isn’t! Nowadays there’s no respect for anybody. Nowadays it’s whoever has got the money is in the right.’

Then they turned to Don Diego with great emphasis, abusing the new times:

‘Today there’s no other God! You can be a gentleman – or a girl born of a good family! But if you’ve got no fortune! – Whereas one who has sprung from nothing – like Mastro-don Gesualdo, for example – !’

The canon-priest took up the conversation, pretending to be mysterious, talking in a low tone with the Baroness and Don Diego Trao, spitting first to one side then to the other:

‘Ah, but he’s got his head screwed on the right way, has Mastro-don Gesualdo! He’ll get rich, I tell you. He’d be an excellent husband for a respectable girl – and there are plenty such, with not much dowry to them.’

This time Master Lio was really going:

‘Well then, your ladyship, I can come and load the corn?’

The Baroness, again in a good humour, replied:

‘Yes. But you know what it says in the taverns – “Here you eat and here you drink; but bring the money with you.” ’

‘On the spot and cash down, your ladyship. Thank the Lord, you will see we are punctual.’

‘I told you so!’ exclaimed Giacalone, gasping over his sieve. ‘It’s Mastro-don Gesualdo.’

The canon-priest exchanged another look with the Baroness, and after Pirtuso had gone, he said to her:

‘Do you know what I was thinking? Your ladyship might come in at the auction, along with some other party. I would stand by you.’

‘No, no; I’ve got too many irons in the fire! Besides, I shouldn’t like to do anything against Cousin Zacco. Because you know – we’re all in the same world – we have to look to one another sometimes, for a hand’s turn.’

‘Yes, I know – but let somebody else take the lead: Mastro-don Gesualdo Motta for example. He’s got a nice bit of capital, that I know for certain. – Your ladyship would give the credit of your name. We might make a company of it, between the three of us – ’

Then, thinking that Don Diego Trao was listening to their plans, as he stood waiting there for the moment when he could speak with his cousin Rubiera, folded round in his great-coat, and having quite other matters on his mind, poor creature, the canon-priest suddenly changed the thread of the discourse:

‘Eh, eh, the things that this barn has seen! I remember when I was little hearing Marchese Limòli recite Adelaïde and Comingio with Madame Margarone, good soul, the mother of Don Filippo, she who went to spend her last days on the Salonia property: Adelaïde! where art thou? – The scene in the Carthusian monastery. – You should have seen it! – everybody wiping their eyes! Till Don Alessandro Spina could bear it no longer, and began shouting: Tell him it’s you, then! and something else a bit stronger than that he said to her, as well. After-wards there was all that about the shot that was fired at the Marchese Limòli as he was taking a stroll, after supper; and Don Nicola Margarone carrying his wife away into the country and not letting her see another soul while she lived. Now they are both resting together, husband and wife, in the Church of the Rosary, peace be to their souls.’

The Baroness kept nodding acquiescence, giving a sweep with the broom from time to time, to separate the corn from the husks.

‘And that’s how families went to ruin. If I hadn’t been here, in the house of the Rubieras – ! You see what would have been left of all their grandeurs! Well, I’ve got no pride and conceit, thank Goodness! I’ve kept as my father and mother made me – country folks, folks who built up their house with their own hands, instead of ruining it! – and it’s because of them that there’s still substance in the Rubiera storebarn, instead of feasts and theatre-shows – ’

At that moment arrived the driver with the loaded mules.

‘Rosaria! Rosaria!’ the Baroness began to shout again towards the wooden steps.

At last from the trapdoor appeared the clumsy shoes and blue stockings, then the monkey face of the servant, dirty, unkempt, with her fingers always in her hair.

‘Don Ninì was not at the Vignazza,’ she said calmly. ‘Alessi has come back with the dog, but the young master wasn’t there.’

‘Oh, Holy Virgin!’ the mistress began to scream, losing a bit of her flaming colour. ‘Oh, Holiest Mary! Wherever can he be? What has happened to my boy?’

Hearing this Don Diego went red and white in turns. His face looked as if he would say: ‘Open, earth, and swallow me!’ He coughed, looked for his handkerchief in his hat, opened his mouth to speak; then turned away again, wiping the sweat from his brow. The canon-priest hastened to reply, looking stealthily at Don Diego.

‘He must have gone somewhere else. … When you go out shooting there’s no telling where you get to.’

‘All the vices of his father, rest his soul. Shooting, gaming, pastimes, that’s all he thinks of – and never telling me, either. Just you think of it, tonight, when the bells rang for the fire, I went to look for him in his room, and he isn’t to be found! But he shall hear about it – ! Yes, he shall hear about it!’

The canon-priest tried to cut her short, uneasy, a silly smile on his face, as if he wasn’t going to say anything.

‘Eh, eh, Baroness! – your son isn’t a boy any longer. He’s twenty-six years old.’

‘He can be a hundred if he likes! – But until he marries, you understand! – and even after!’

‘Your ladyship, where have we to unload the mules?’ said Rosaria, scratching her head.

‘I’m coming. I’m coming. We’ll go this way. You two can go out through the courtyard, when we’ve finished.’

She bolted Giacalone and Vito Orlando in the barn, and went towards the big door.

The house of the Baroness was vast, added together by bits and pieces, according as her parents had ousted one by one the various proprietors, until they had installed themselves at last with their daughter in the mansion of the Rubieras, and joined in everything common: roofs high and low, windows of every size, here and there, as it happened; the great door of the nobles set in the middle of a lot of hovel-fronts. The building occupied almost the whole length of the street. The Baroness, talking in a low voice with the canon-priest Lupi, had almost forgotten her cousin, who came after step by step. But when they came to the great door, the canon-priest drew prudently back.

‘Another time. I’ll come again. Now your cousin wants to speak with you. You go through with your own business, Don Diego.’

‘Ah, excuse me, Cousin. Come in. Do come in.’

Immediately inside the immense dark entrance, that was flanked with little low doors iron-studded like those of a prison, you felt yourself in a rich house; a mouldy smell of oil and cheese catching you in the throat; then a smell of mustiness and of wine-cellar. From beyond the wide-open rail-gates of this cellar, as if from the depths of a cavern, came the laughter of Alessi and the servant girl who were filling little barrels, and the feeble glimmer of a light that stood on the great cask.

‘Rosaria! Rosaria!’ the Baroness began shouting once more. Then she turned to her cousin. ‘You’ve always got to be lifting your voice to that blessed girl; because when you’ve got men to look after it’s a serious matter! However, she is faithful, and one must have patience. What am I to do? – A house full of stuff as mine is!’

Further on, in the court that was like a farmyard, peopled with hens and ducks and turkeys which crowded clucking round the mistress, the mustiness changed into a smell of manure and abundant litter. Two or three mules, from the long row under the shed, stretched their necks braying; pigeons swept in clouds from the roofs; a sheep-dog, fierce, began to bark, rattling his chain; even some rabbits pricked their uneasy ears, from the mysterious shadow of the woodshed. And the Baroness, in the midst of all these blessings, said to her cousin:

‘I want to send a pair of pigeons, for Bianca – ’

The poor wretch coughed, and blew his nose, but couldn’t find a word of answer. At last, after a labyrinth of passages and stairways, after going through dark chambers full of all sorts of stuff, heaps of beans and of barley in various divisions, farming implements, linen-chests, they arrived in the Baroness’s bed-room, which was whitewashed, with the big marriage-bed remaining just the same, after twenty years of widowhood, from the sprig of consecrated olive at the foot of the crucifix, to the husband’s gun by the bed-head.

Cousin Rubiera had begun complaining about her son again: ‘His father all over again, rest his soul! Never giving a thought in the world to his mother’s concerns, or to his own interests – ’

Seeing her cousin Trao nailed in the doorway, shrunken inside his greatcoat, she put him a chair:

‘Come in! Come in, Cousin Trao.’

The poor thing let himself sink on to the chair, as if his legs were broken, sweating like Jesus in the Garden; then he took off his greasy old hat, wiping his forehead with his kerchief.

‘You’ve got something to say to me, Cousin? What is it then, tell me.’

He clasped his hands tightly, inside his hat, and stammered hoarsely, his lips livid and trembling, his moist, miserable eyes avoiding the eyes of his cousin:

‘Yes, ma’am. … I want to speak to you …’

She, from the start, seeing him with such a face, thought he had come to ask for a loan of money. It would have been the first time, that is true: they were too proud, the Trao cousins; a bit of a present now and then, to help them to struggle along – wine, oil, cheese – yes, that they would accept from their rich relatives; from her, from Cousin Sganci, from Baron Mendola; but they’d never held their hand out. Nevertheless, necessity makes you bend your head at last even to something else. The instinct of caution which was in her blood froze for a moment her benevolent smile. And then she thought of the fire they’d had, and of Bianca’s illness – and she was a kind woman at the bottom – Don Diego had really a pitiable face. She moved her chair nearer to his, to give him courage, and added:

‘Say what it is then, say what it is, Cousin. – Whatever we can do – you know – since we’re relations. The times aren’t very promising – but what little we can do. – It’s not a great deal – but the bit I can do – between cousins. – Tell me then.’

But he couldn’t, no! his throat was so tight, his mouth bitter, as he lifted his eyes to her time after time, opening his lips without uttering a sound. At last he got out his handkerchief again to wipe his forehead, and passed it over his parched lips, stammering:

‘A misfortune has happened! A great misfortune!’

The Baroness was afraid she’d let herself go too far. In her eyes, which quickly avoided the tearful looks of her cousin, began to flash the lightnings of a peasant’s uneasiness when he fears for his property.

‘What is it? What is it?’

‘Your son is so rich! – And my sister, no, she isn’t – ’

At these words Cousin Rubiera opened her eyes, her face all at once set in the mask of her parents, lined with that churlish mistrust of the peasants who had given her the blood in her veins and their house which they had put together bit by bit with their own hands.

‘But explain yourself, cousin. You know I’ve got a lot to do – ’

But instead of explaining himself Don Diego burst into tears like a boy, hiding his parchment face in his cotton handker-chief, his back bent and shaken with sobs, repeating:

‘Bianca, my sister! – A great disaster has happened to my poor sister! – oh, Cousin Rubiera – you are a mother yourself – !’

And now his cousin had also quite another face on her; her lips tight so as not to let her patience escape, and a deep fold in the middle of her forehead; the fold of people who have stood in sun and wet to get what they have got – and who have to defend it now they’ve got it. In a flash came back to her all the things she had taken no notice of in the great rush of her affairs; a hint that Cousin Macrì had dropped; the gossip which Don Luca, the sexton, went scattering around, certain of her son’s subterfuges. All at once she felt her mouth also as bitter as gall.

‘I don’t know, Cousin – ’ she answered him, short and dry. ‘I don’t know what this has got to do with me – ’

Don Diego remained for a time hunting for his words, looking fixedly into her eyes that expressed so many things, looking through his tears of shame and grief, and then hid his face again between his hands, accompanying with his head his voice which could hardly come out of his throat.

‘Yes! Yes! Your son Ninì!’

This time the Baroness couldn’t find her words, her eyes, bolting out of her big apoplectic face, fixed on her cousin Trao as if she wanted to devour him; then she sprang to her feet like a young thing of twenty, and threw open the window, screaming in fury:

‘Rosaria! Alessi! Come here!’

‘For pity’s sake! For pity’s sake!’ pleaded Don Diego with clasped hands, running after her. ‘Don’t make a scandal, for pity’s sake!’ And he could say no more, suffocated with coughing, pressing his chest.

But his cousin, beside herself, took no more notice of him. It was like an earthquake in the house; the cackling of the fowls, the loud barking of the dog, the clattering shoes of Alessi and Rosaria who came running to break their necks, dishevelled, spent, their eyes lowered.

‘Where is my son, I ask you? What did they say to you at the Vignazza? Speak, you clown!’

Alessi, balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other, stammering, looking uneasily here and there, repeated continually the same thing:

‘The young Baron wasn’t at the Vignassa. He had left the dog there, Marchese, the evening before, and had gone away. – On foot, yes, my lady. That’s what the farm-bailiff told me.’

The servant girl, tidying herself on the sly, her head ducked, said that when the young baron was going out shooting early in the morning, he generally went out by the little door of the stable, so as not to wake anybody:

‘The key? I don’t know. He threatened to break my bones – It’s not my fault, my lady.’

Her ladyship seemed as if she was having a fit. Then they took themselves off, the pair of them, quiet as mice. On the stairs you heard their thick boots again clattering down at full speed, one after the other.

Don Diego, a corpse by now, his handkerchief over his mouth to stifle his coughing, kept on stammering suffocated and meaningless words.

‘He was there – behind that door! He’d better have killed me right out – when he pointed his pistol at my breast – at me! – his pistol at my breast, Cousin Rubiera!’

The baroness wiped her lips, bitter as gall, with her cotton handkerchief.

‘No! – That I never expected! – Tell the truth, cousin Don Diego, that I haven’t deserved it! – I have always treated you as blood relations. – And that creeping cat of a Bianca whom I’ve had here for whole days at a time – like a daughter – ’

‘Leave her alone, Cousin Rubiera,’ broke in Don Diego, with a flicker of the old blood of the Traos in his cheek.

‘Yes, yes, my word, leave her alone! As for my own son, I’ll look after him, don’t you make any mistake. He’s going to do what I bid him, is my young lord. – Villain! Murderer! He’ll be the death of me – ’

And her tears rose. Don Diego, abashed, didn’t dare to raise his eyes. He was seeing, implacably, Ciolla, Bomma’s pharmacy, the ironic grins of the neighbours, the gossip of village wives, and also, insistent and painful, the sharp vision of his own house, where a man had been let in at night: the old house which he seemed to feel shuddering still in every stone at the echo of those thievish steps; and Bianca, his sister, his own child, his own blood, had lied to him, had absolutely refused to say a word, in the shadow of that man who had come to commit such a mortal outrage against the house of Trao; her poor, delicate, fragile body in the arms of a stranger! The tears came bitter and hot down his own wasted cheeks, as he hid them between his hands.

The Baroness, at last, dried her eyes and sighed, turning to the crucifix.

‘God’s will be done! You as well, Cousin Trao, must be feeling bitter. But what then! It’s our lookout, who have the weight of the house already on our shoulders! – God knows I’ve laboured my skin into leather, from morning till night! I’ve taken the bread from between my teeth for the sake of the property! – And now all at once an affair like this comes down on you! – But this is the last that my young lord is going to do to me! – I will set it right, don’t you fret. When all’s said and done he’s not a child! – I’ll marry him according to my own liking! – The chain round his neck, that’s what he wants! But you, if I may tell you, you ought to have kept your eyes open, Cousin Trao! – I’m not talking about Don Ferdinando, who is dull-witted, poor thing, even if he is the first-born; – but you who have more sense – and aren’t a child either! You ought to have taken care – ! When you’ve got a girl in the house! – Man is a hunter, and you know it. – You ought to have taken care of your sister, you ought – or she should have taken care of herself. – You could almost say, really, it’s her own fault! – Who knows what she had in mind? to become Baroness Rubiera, as leave as not – ’

Cousin Trao went red and white in the same moment.

‘My lady, – we are poor – it’s true. – But as far as birth goes – ’

‘Eh, my dear fellow, birth! – ancestors – all very fine – I don’t say it isn’t. – But the ancestors who made my son a baron – do you want to know who they were? Those who hoed the ground! – In the sweat of their brow, do you realize? – They didn’t slave themselves to death so that their possessions should fall into the hands of just anybody – do you understand? – ’

Just then somebody knocked at the street-door with the heavy iron knocker, so that it resounded through the house, and the cackling of the poultry and the barking of the dog started once more. While the Baroness went to the window to see who it was, Rosaria shouted from the courtyard:

‘It’s the agent – about the corn – ’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming – ’ the Baroness went on grumbling, turning to take the key of the granary from its nail. – ‘See what it means to make fourpence a measure with Pirtuso and all the rest. If I’ve worked all my life, and taken the very bread out of my mouth for love of the house, I intend my daughter-in-law to have a dowry to bring along with her, I do – ’

Don Diego, scrambling as fast as he could after his Cousin Rubiera, through the passages and chambers full of stuff, replied:

‘My sister isn’t rich – Cousin Rubiera. She hasn’t got the dowry she should have – We’ll give her the house and everything – We’ll strip ourselves for her – Ferdinando and I – ’

‘You heard what I told you! – Mind, there’s a broken step – I want my son to marry a good dowry. I’m the mistress, I made him a baron. He hasn’t got the property together! Come in, come in, Master Lio. There, through the wooden wicket. It is open.’

‘But your son knew that my sister isn’t rich – ’ argued poor Don Diego, who could not find in his heart to go, though Cousin Rubiera had so much to do. Then at last she turned like a fighting-cock, with her fists on her hips, at the top of the stairs:

‘I’ll look after my son myself, I tell you again. You look after your sister! – Man is a hunter! – I shall send him away from this! I’ll lock him up! I’ll sink him! He shan’t come back to this village till he’s married! – with the chain round his neck! – I tell you! My cross that he is! – my ruin!’

Then, moved to compassion by the mute despair of the poor wretch, who could hardly stand, she added, coming downstairs a step at a time:

‘And for all that, mind you, Don Diego, I’ll do what I can for Bianca, I will – I’m a mother myself! – and a Christian! – But just think what a thorn I must have here inside me – !’

‘Your ladyship, he says that the grain isn’t full weight,’ shouted Alessi from the door of the store-barn.

‘What! what does he say? – The weight now, is it? – Drawing back as usual! – to beat me down again!’

And the Baroness set off like a fury. For a while a great shouting was heard from the depths of the store-house: they sounded as if they were tearing one another by the hair. Pirtuso screamed worse than a lamb in the hands of the butcher; Giacalone and Vito Orlando yelled as well, to bring them to an agreement, and the Baroness, beside herself, said her say in very highly-coloured language. Then seeing her Cousin Trao going by with his tail between his legs, his head sunk in his shoulders, staggering, she stopped him in the doorway, changing in a breath her face and her manner:

‘Listen, listen – we’ll settle this business between us. – When all’s said and done, what does it amount to? – Nothing that’s any harm, I’ll be bound. A God-fearing girl! – The thing will rest between you and me – we’ll settle it between us. – I’ll help you all I can, Don Diego – I am a mother – and a Christian. – We’ll marry her to a gentleman.’

Don Diego shook his head bitterly, overcome, staggering like a drunken man in his walk.

‘Yes – yes! We’ll find her a gentleman. – I’ll help you all I can. Patience! – I will make a sacrifice – ’

At these words he stopped, his eyes dilated, all trembling.

‘You! – Cousin Rubiera! No! No! – That can’t be!’

At that moment the corn-dealer came out of the barn, white with wheat-dust, hard, right to his beard which blackened his face even when he was newly shaved; his eyes as grey as two silver coins, under his brows that were knitted with continual standing in the sun and the wind of the open country.

‘Kiss your hand, your ladyship.’

‘What! You’re going and leaving it? What now? Don’t you like the corn?’

The other shook his head in negation, in the same way as Don Diego Trao, who was going off hugging the wall and continuing to shake his head as if he had had a stroke, stumbling in the stones at every stride.

‘What do you mean?’ the Baroness went on bawling. ‘It’s a finished bargain – ’

‘What about the earnest-money, your ladyship?’

‘No, there’s no earnest-money; but there’s your given word – ’

‘In that case, kiss your ladyship’s hand.’

And he went off, obstinate as a mule. The Baroness, enraged, screamed after him:

‘It’s a dirty, mean trick, and just like you! – A pretence for breaking off the bargain – worthy of that Mastro-don Gesualdo who sends you – now that he’s repented – ’

Giacalone and Vito Orlando also ran after him, in a frenzy to make him hear reason. But Pirtuso continued his way, without replying at all, saying to Don Diego, who took no heed:

‘The Baroness may well talk – as if she wouldn’t have done the same herself! Now that Baron Zacco has begun to sell at a lower figure! Labourer or Baroness, it’s the earnest-money that counts. Aren’t I right, your honour?’

3

MADAME SGANCI had her house full of people, come to see the procession of the patron saint: there were lights even on the staircase; and the five balconies sent fire and flame down on to the square that was black with onlookers; Don Giuseppe Barabba in full livery and cotton gloves, announcing the visitors.

‘Mastro-don Gesualdo,’ he bawled suddenly, poking his towsled head through the gilded folding doors. ‘Must I let him in, ma’am?’

There was the fine flower of the nobility present, the archpriest Bugno, glossy in black satin; Madame Giuseppina Alòsi, loaded with jewels; the Marchese Limòli, with face and periwig of the last century.

Madame Sganci, caught like that in front of all the company, couldn’t contain herself.

‘What a fool! A fool you are! You say Don Gesualdo Motta, you fool!’ Thus Mastro-don Gesualdo made his entry into the society of the big-wigs of the village, newly-shaven, dressed in fine cloth, his new hat gleaming between his hands that were burnt with lime.

‘Come forward, come forward, Don Gesualdo,’ shrilled the Marchese Limòli in his sharp, piercing voice. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

Mastro-don Gesualdo, however, still hesitated a little, intimidated, in the middle of that big salon hung with yellow damask, under the eyes of all those Sganci forefathers who looked at him askance from the portraits around the walls.

The mistress of the house encouraged him.

‘Here! Here! Here’s a place for you too, Don Gesualdo.’

It was precisely the balcony on the alley, looking squinting on to the square, for the second-grade guests and the poor relations: Dame Clara Macrì, so humble and so shabby that she seemed like a servant; her daughter, Mistress Agrippina, a house-nun, a girl with such a moustache, a pimpled brown face like a begging friar, and two eyes black as sin which roved round among the men. In the first row Cousin Don Ferdinando, more inquisitive than a child, who had pushed himself forward with elbow-thrusts, and was stretching his neck out of his black cravat to look towards the Great Square, like a tortoise, with his grey, rolling eyes, his sooty, pointed chin, his long, quivering Trao nose, his queue curving in like the tail of a dog on his greasy collar that came up to his hairy ears; and his sister, Donna Bianca, poked away behind him, her shoulders rather bent, her breast thin and flat, her hair smooth, her face meagre and washed-out, dressed in flannelette in the midst of all her fine relatives.

Her Aunt Sganci continued:

‘Come here, Don Gesualdo. I’ve kept a place for you. Here, with my nephew and niece.’