Sparrow (and other stories) E-Book

Giovanni Verga

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

A young girl falls in love but is forced return to the covent and become a nun. This volume contains the long novella Sparrow, the short stories of Cavalleria Rusticana and five stories never previously translated into English: Temptation, The Schoolmaster, The Devil's Hand, The Gold Key and Comrades. A great read for anyone interested in Sicily and Southern Italy. Verga is the master of the short-story form.

Leseprobe

THE TRANSLATOR

Christine Donougher was born in England in 1954. She read English and French at Cambridge and after a career in publishing is now a freelance translator and editor.

Her translation of The Book of Nights won the 1992 Scott MoncrieffTranslation Prize. Her translations from French for Dedalus are: 7 novels by Sylvie Germain, The Book of Nights, Night of Amber, Days of Anger, The Book of Tobias, Invitation to a Journey, The Song of False Lovers and Magnus, Enigma by Rezvani, The Experience of the Night by Marcel Bealu, Le Calvaire by Octave Mirbeau, Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript by Jan Potocki, The Land of Darkness by Daniel Arsand and Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet. Her translations from Italian for Dedalus are Senso (and other stories) and Sparrow (and other stories).

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Wrote his first novel, ‘Amore e Patria’ (unpublished).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

Enrols 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. Verge 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

20 July, naval battle at Lissa. 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, ‘Primavera 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 Medan. Also goes to London. Publishes ‘Novelle Rusticane’ and the novel ‘II 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. First English translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

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.

1925/8

D. H. Lawrence translates ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’, ‘Vita dei Campi’ and ‘Novelle Rusticane’ into English.

1947

Luchino Visconti’s film of ‘I Malavoglia’ called ‘La Terra Trema’.

1950

Eric Mosbacher’s translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

1964

Raymond Rosenthal’s American translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

1984

Dedalus publishes the D. H. Lawrence translations of ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’ and ‘Novelle Rusticane’ (Short Sicilian Novels)

1985

Judith Landry’s translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

1987

Dedalus publishes the D. H. Lawrence translation of ‘Vita dei Campi’ under the title of ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’.

1991

New Dedalus edition of ‘I Malavoglia’.

1994

First English translation of ‘La Storia di una Capinera’ by Christine Donougher published as ‘Sparrow (the Story of a Songbird)’. Franco Zeffirelli’s film of ‘La Storia di una Capinera’ called ‘Sparrow’. New edition of ‘Novelle Rusticane’ (Short Sicilian Novels).

1999/2000

New editions of ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’ and ‘I Malavoglia’.

2002

Revised versions of ‘Sparrow’ and ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’ with five new stories published under the title of ‘Sparrow, Temptation and Cavalleria Rusticana’.

CONTENTS

Title

The Translator

Chronology

The Sparrow

Monte Ilice, 3 September 1854

19 September

27 September

1 October

10 October

23 October

2 November

10 November

16 November

17 November

20 November

21 November

26 November

20 December

26 December

30 December

31 December

7 January 1855

Catania, 9 January

10 January

From the Convent, 30 January

8 February 1856

27 February

28 February, Midnight

10 March

Sunday, 29 March, Midnight

Saturday, 5 April

Monday, 7 April

15 May

27 May

3 June

4 June

7 June

10 June

13 June

24 June

28 June

5 July

25 July

5 August

17 August

26 August

10 September

18 September

18 September

24 September

No Date

No Date

Temptation and Other Stories

Temptation

The Schoolmaster

The Devil’s Hand

The Gold Key

Comrades

Afterword

Copyright

THE SPARROW

translated by Christine Donougher

Epistolary preface to the first edition of Storia di una Capinera, written by Francesco Dall’Ongaro and addressed to Caterina Percoto.

My dearest friend,

A year ago, a young Sicilian, of gentle manner and demeanour, entrusted me with some pages, asking me to read through them, and to offer an opinion on the sad story they contained.

They were the letters of a young Sicilian nun, written to a friend and companion. I thought at first of sending those pages, telling of a life of sorrow and abnegation, to you with your knowledge of this subject. But then I was so moved by the letters, or rather by the facts they vividly describe, that I couldn’t put them down until I’d read them all, the last one causing even an experienced writer like me to shed genuine tears.

This was how I expressed my opinion: instead of sending you the manuscript as it was, I gave it to our friend Lampunani to print, and in order that he might give the widest circulation to the emotion that had overwhelmed my own heart at that first reading.

Now you can read the letters, published in this handsome volume that you might wish to preface with your good wishes to the author, who joins forces with us.

Francesco Dall’Ongaro

Rome, 25 November, 1871

Caterina Percoto’s response and verdict, expressed in a letter to Verga dated 2 March 1872:

Dear Sir,

Your lovely Sparrow owes her success to the skill of your pen, which makes me feel I’m in Sicily, and deals so compassionately with one of the worst afflictions suffered by those of my sex in our society. Here, in the Veneto, thanks to the Code Napoleon, the dismal practice of sacrificing our poor young girls to monastic life has ceased for some time now, but the barbaric custom of raising women for enclosed orders still continues.

You, who are young and blessed with a gift for words so engaging, so true, so effective, will be our champion. Italy will be grateful to you, and Dall’Ongaro and I will be very happy to have been among the first to recognize you as one of our most talented writers.

Caterina Percoto

I had seen a poor songbird locked in a cage: it was fearful, sad, ailing, with a look of terror in its eye. It cowered in a corner of its cage, and when it heard the cheerful song of the other little birds twittering in the green meadow or the azure sky, it watched them with what seemed a tearful gaze. But it dared not rebel, it dared not break the wire that held it captive, poor creature. Yet its captors loved it – they were sweet children, who toyed with its sorrow, and recompensed it for its melancholy with breadcrumbs and kind words. The poor songbird tried to resign itself. It was not ill-natured, it did not even mean to reproach them with its sorrow, for it tried to peck sadly at the odd seed or breadcrumb; it could not swallow them. After two days it tucked its head under its wing and the next day it was found stone-dead in its prison.

The poor songbird had died! Yet its bowl was full. It had died because within that tiny body was something that needed not only grain to live on, and that suffered from something other than hunger and thirst.

The mother of those two children that had been the poor little bird’s innocent but merciless executioners told me the story of an unhappy girl whose body had been imprisoned within the walls of a convent, and whose spirit had been tortured by superstition and love – one of those intimate stories that pass unnoticed every day – the story of a shy and tender heart, of one who had loved and wept and prayed, without daring to let her tears be seen or her prayers heard, who had eventually withdrawn into her sorrow and died. And I thought then of the poor songbird that would gaze at the sky through the bars of its prison, that would not sing, that would peck sadly at its grain, that had tucked its head under its wing and died.

That is why I have called it Storia di una Capinera – The Story of a Songbird.

Monte Ilice, 3 September 1854

My dear Marianna,

I promised to write to you, and, you see, I’m keeping my promise! In the three weeks I’ve spent here, running about the countryside – alone! all alone, mind you! – from dawn till dusk, sitting on the grass beneath these huge chestnut trees, listening to the birds singing with happiness, as they hop about, like me, giving thanks to the good Lord, I haven’t found a moment, not a single moment, to tell you that I love you a hundred times more, now that I’m far away from you, and don’t have you beside me every hour of the day, as I used to, there, in the convent. How happy I should be if you were here with me, gathering wild flowers, chasing butterflies, daydreaming in the shade of these trees when the sun beats down, and strolling arm in arm on these lovely evenings, by moonlight, with no other sound but the droning of insects – a melodious sound to me, because it means that I’m in the countryside, out in the open air – and the song of that melancholy bird I don’t know the name of, but which brings the sweetest tears to my eyes when I stand at my window at night, listening to it. How beautiful the countryside is, Marianna! If only you were here with me! If only you could see these mountains, in the moonshine or at sunrise, and the ample shade of the woods, and the azure-blue of the sky, and the green of the vines hidden in the valleys, all around the little houses, and the deep-blue of the sea glistening far away in the distance, and all these villages climbing up the sides of the mountains – big mountains that seem tiny beside our majestic old Etna! If only you could see how beautiful our Mount Etna is at close quarters! From the belvedere at the convent, it appeared to be a huge, isolated peak, always snowcapped. Now I can count the tops of all the little mountains around it. I can see its deep valleys and wooded slopes, its proud summit on which the snow, reaching down into the gullies, marks out great brown patches.

Everything here is beautiful – the air, the light, the sky, the trees, mountains and valleys, and the sea! When I thank the Lord for all these beautiful things, I do so with a word, a tear, a look, alone in the middle of the countryside, kneeling on the moss in the woods, or sitting on the grass. I think that the good Lord must be more pleased, because I thank him with my whole heart, and my thoughts are not imprisoned beneath the dark vault of the chancel, but reach up into the lofty shade of these trees, and out into all the vastness of this sky and these horizons. They call us God’s chosen, because we’re destined to be wedded to the Lord, but did not the good Lord create all these beautiful things for everybody? And why should his brides be deprived of them?

Oh goodness! How happy I am! Do you remember Rosalia, who tried to convince us that the world outside the convent had greater charms? We couldn’t imagine it, do you recall? And we laughed at her! If I hadn’t been out of the convent, I’d never have believed it possible that Rosalia was right. Our world was so restricted: the little altar, those poor flowers, deprived of fresh air, languishing in their vases, the belvedere from which we could see a mass of rooftops, and then away in the distance, as though in a magic lantern, the countryside, the sea, and all the beautiful things that God created. And there was our little garden, a hundred paces from end to end, and purposely arranged, it seemed, so that the walls of the convent could be seen above the trees, where we were allowed to stroll for an hour under the supervision of the novice mistress, but without being able to run about and enjoy ourselves. And that was all!

And, you know … I’m not sure that we were right not to give a little more thought to our families. It’s true, I’ve had the greatest misfortune of all the postulants, because I lost my mother. But I feel now that I love my papa much more than I love Mother Superior, my sisters and my confessor. I feel that I love my dear papa with more trust and greater fondness, even though I can’t claim to have had close contact with him for more than three weeks. You know that I was put inside the convent before I had even turned seven, when I was left on my own by my poor mama. They said they were giving me another family, and other mamas who would love me … Yes, that’s true … But the love I feel for my father makes me realize how very different my poor mother’s affection would have been.

You can’t imagine the feeling inside me when my dear papa wishes me good morning and gives me a hug. As you know, Marianna, no one there ever used to hug us. It’s against the rule … Yet I can’t see what’s wrong with feeling so loved.

My stepmother is an excellent woman, because she’s only concerned about Giuditta and Gigi, and lets me run about the vineyards as I please. My God! If she forbade me, as she forbids her children, to go skipping across the fields, in case they should fall, or catch sunstroke – I’d be very unhappy, wouldn’t I? But she’s probably kinder and more lenient with me because she knows that I won’t be able to enjoy these pleasures for long, and that I’ll be going back to being shut up inside again …

But don’t let’s think of such horrible things. Now I’m cheerful and happy, and I’m amazed at how everyone’s afraid of the cholera and curses it … Thank goodness for the cholera that brought me here, into the countryside! If only it would go on all year!

No, that’s wrong! Forgive me, Marianna. Who knows how many poor people are in tears while I laugh and have fun? My God! I must be really perverse if I can’t be happy except when everyone else is suffering. Don’t tell me that I’m wicked. I only want to be like everyone else, nothing more, and to enjoy these blessings that the Lord has given to us all – fresh air, light, freedom!

See how sad my letter’s become, without my noticing. Don’t pay any attention, Marianna. Skip right over that bit, which I shall put a big cross through, like so … Now, to make up for that, I’ll show you round our lovely little house.

You’ve never been to Monte Ilice, poor thing! What ever were your parents thinking of, taking you off to Mascalucia? A village, with houses backing on to other houses, streets, and churches – we’ve seen far too much of that! You should have come here, to the country, in the mountains, where to get to the nearest house you have to run through vineyards, jump across ditches, climb over walls, where there’s no sound of carriages, or of bells ringing, nor voices of strangers, of any outsiders. Such is the countryside! We live in a pretty little house on the hillside, among vineyards, on the edge of the chestnut grove. It’s a tiny little house, but so airy, and bright, and gay. From every door and window you can see the countryside, mountains, trees, and sky, and not just walls, those grim, blackened walls! In front there’s a little lawn and a group of chestnut trees that cover the roof with an umbrella of branches and leaves, in which little birds twitter all the blessed day, without ever tiring. I have a sweet little room, that my bed only just fits into, with a wonderful window looking out over the chestnut grove. My sister Giuditta sleeps in a lovely big room next to mine, but I wouldn’t swop my little box, as papa jokingly calls it, for that lovely room of hers. Anyway, she needs plenty of space for all her dresses and hats, while I have only to fold my tunic on a stool at the foot of my bed, and I’m done. But at night, when I listen at the window to all those leaves rustling, and amid the shadows that take on fantastic shapes I glimpse a moonbeam slipping through the branches like a white ghost, and when I listen to that nightingale trilling away in the distance, my head is filled with such imaginings, with such dreams and enchantments, that if I weren’t afraid, I’d gladly stay at the window until daybreak.

On the far side of the lawn there’s a pretty cottage with a roof of straw and rushes, where the steward’s little family lives. If only you could see it – you’d see how tiny it is, and yet so clean, and how neat and tidy everything is there! The baby’s cradle, the straw mattress, the work-table! I’d swop my little room for that cottage. I think that family, living together on those few square feet of land, must love each other all the more and be much happier; that in that limited space all their feelings must be deeper, and more absolute; that to a heart overwhelmed and almost bewildered by the daily spectacle of that vast horizon, it must be a joy and a comfort to withdraw into itself, to take refuge in its affections, within the confines of a small space, among the few objects that form the most intimate part of its identity, and that it must feel more complete in being near to them.

What is all this? What ever am I writing, Marianna? You’ll be laughing at me and calling me a female Saint Augustine. My dear friend, forgive me. My heart’s so full that I succumb, without realizing it, to the need to impart to you all the new emotions that I’m experiencing. During the first few days after I left the convent and came here, I was overawed, dazed, in a dream, as though transplanted to another world. I was disturbed and confused by everything. Imagine someone born blind, and who by a miracle starts to see! Now I’ve grown familiar with all these new impressions. Now my heart feels lighter, and my soul purer. I talk to myself, and I examine my conscience – not the timid, fearful way we used to in the convent, full of repentance and remorse; I examine it with contentment and happiness, praising the Lord for these blessings, and with the sense of being raised up to Him by the shedding of a tear, or by simply gazing at the moon and the starry firmament.

My God! Could this joyfulness be a sin? Could the Lord possibly be offended to see that rather than the convent, rather than silence, solitude and contemplation, I prefer the countryside, fresh air, and my family! If our kind-hearted old confessor were here, perhaps he could resolve my perplexity and dispel my confusion, perhaps he could advise and comfort me … Whenever these doubts assail me, whenever I’m tormented by these uncertainties, I pray to the Lord for His enlightenment, help and guidance. Will you also pray for me, Marianna?

Meanwhile, I give Him praise and thanks and glory, I entreat Him to let me die here, or, if I must take my solemn vows and renounce these blessings for ever, to give me the strength and willingness and resignation to shut myself away in the convent and dedicate myself utterly to Him alone. I’ll not be worthy of such grace; I’ll be a sinner … but when, at nightfall, I see the steward’s wife reciting the rosary, seated by the hearth on which her husband’s soup is cooking, with her eldest boy on her lap and her baby asleep in the cradle that she rocks with her foot, I think the prayers of that woman – calm, serene and full of gratitude for the good Lord’s bounty – must rise up to Him much purer than mine, which are full of misgivings, anxieties and yearnings that ill become me as a postulant, and that I can’t completely defend myself against.

Look what a long letter I’ve written to you! Now, don’t be cross with me any more, and send me back an even longer letter than mine. Tell me about yourself and your parents, your pleasures and your little troubles, as we used to every day in the convent, in recreation time, with our arms around each other. You see, I feel as though I’ve had a long chat with you, holding hands, just as before, and that you’ve been listening with that cheerful and mischievous little smile on your lips, as usual. So chat to me, send a good four pages (I shan’t settle for any less, mind!) telling me everything you would have said to me. Give me all your news. Tell me what you see, what you think, how you spend the time, whether you’re bored, or enjoying yourself, whether you’re contented, and as happy as I am – whether you ever think of your friend Maria. Tell me the colour of your dress, because I know that you have one, now that you’re a real young lady! Tell me whether you have lovely flowers in your garden, whether Mascalucia has chestnut trees, as we do here, and whether you took part in the grape harvest. You talk, and I’ll listen. Don’t keep me waiting on tenterhooks for too long.

Farewell, farewell, my dear Marianna, my beloved sister. I send you a hundred kisses, on condition that you return them.

Yours,

Maria

19 September

Dear Marianna,

The only news we’re getting here is bad news, and all we see are frightened faces. The cholera is rampant in Catania. There’s general terror and desolation.

Otherwise, were it not for these faces, and these fears, what more blessed life could there be than the one we live here? Papa goes hunting, or accompanies me on long walks when I might be afraid of getting lost in the woods. My little brother Gigi runs about, yelling and shouting, and climbs trees, and is always tearing his clothes, and mama … (Marianna, if you only knew how difficult it is for me to call my stepmother by this sweet name! It’s as though I’m wronging the memory of my poor mother … And yet this is what I must call her!) … mama scolds him, and gives him sweets and kisses and smacks, and mends his clothes and cleans them, umpteen times a day. She does nothing but sew and cosset her children – lucky things! And often while she’s keeping an eye on the cooking, or on the maid who prepares the meal, she reproaches me for being useless, and not even able to cook … Unfortunately, it’s true. She’s right. I do nothing but go running through the fields, picking wild flowers, and listening to the birds singing … at my age! Do you know, I’m nearly twenty? It makes me feel ashamed of myself. But my dear papa doesn’t have the heart to get cross with me – he can only kiss me and say, ‘Poor child! Let her enjoy these few days of freedom!’