‘A handsome hostess means a big bill,’ said Pizzuto spitting.
‘They want husbands so they can be supported by them,’ added ’Ntoni. ‘They’re all the same.’ Piedipapera continued: ‘So zio Crocifisso ran panting to the lawyer, puffing like a grampus, and he’s really taking la Vespa.’
‘What a bit of luck for the Mangiacarrubbe girl,’ exclaimed ’Ntoni.
‘A few years from now, when his father dies, God forbid, Brasi Cipolla will be stinking rich,’ said Spatu.
‘Now his father is raising hell, but as time goes by he’ll resign himself. He has no other children, and all he can do is marry, if he doesn’t want the Mangiacarrubbe girl to enjoy his property against his will.’
‘I’m delighted,’ concluded ’Ntoni. ‘The Mangiacarrubbe girl has nothing. Why should padron Cipolla be the only one who’s rich?’
Here the chemist entered the discussion, having come to smoke his pipe on the shore, after lunch, and he kept harping on that the world had taken a wrong turning, and everything should be started again from scratch. But with that lot, it really was like trying to make a hole in water. The only one who had any grasp was ’Ntoni, who had seen the world, and had his eyes that bit open, like kittens; as a soldier he had been taught to read, and so he too went to the door of the chemist’s shop to listen to what the papers said, and to chat with the chemist, who was good-hearted enough with everyone, and hadn’t his wife’s fancy ideas, so that she would scold him, asking him why he got involved in matters that didn’t concern him.
‘You have to let women speak on, and just do things on the quiet,’ said don Franco as soon as the Signora had gone up into her room. He had no objection to mingling with people who went barefoot, provided they didn’t put their feet on the chair struts; and he explained to them what the papers said word by word, stabbing the newsprint with his finger and saying that the world ought to be run just as they said there.
Arriving on the shingle where his friends were having their discussions, don Franco winked at ’Ntoni Malavoglia, who was mending the nets with his legs stretched out and his back up against the stones, and nodded in his direction, shaking his big beard in the air.
‘It’s a fine just world where some have their backs against stones, while others lie with their bellies in the sun, smoking their pipes, whereas all men ought to be brothers, and Christ, the greatest revolutionary of them all, said so, and to-day his priests act the policeman and the spy.’ Didn’t they know that don Michele’s business with Santuzza had been discovered by don Giammaria, in confession?
‘Don Michele indeed! Santuzza had got massaro Filippo; and don Michele is always buzzing about the strada del Nero, without the slightest fear of comare Zuppidda and her spindle. After all, he’s got a pistol.’
‘Santuzza has both, I tell you! Those women who confess every Sunday have a big sack to put their sins in; that’s why Santuzza wears that medal on her chest, to cover all the filth beneath.’
‘Don Michele is wasting his time with Zuppidda; the town clerk has said that he’ll get her to fall for him like a ripe pear.’
‘Oh, I know! In the meantime don Michele is enjoying himself with Barbara, and the others in the street. I know,’ and he winked slyly at ’Ntoni.
‘He has nothing to do, and every day he gets his four tari wages.’
‘That’s what I always say,’ repeated the chemist tugging at his beard. ‘The whole system is rotten; idlers are paid to do nothing, and cuckold us, who pay them, that’s how it is. People get four tari a day to stroll under Zuppidda’s windows; and don Giammaria pockets a lira a day to hear Santuzza’s confession, and listen to all the filth she tells him; and don Silvestro… I know! and mastro Cirino gets paid to irritate us with his bells, but doesn’t light the lamps, and pockets the oil himself, and goodness knows what other skullduggery goes on there at the town hall. My word! And they wanted to make a clean sweep of them all, but then they all came to some kind of an understanding yet again, don Silvestro and the rest, and not another word was said about it. Just like those other thieves in Parliament, who do nothing but jabber among themselves; but do you have any idea of what they say? They froth at the mouth, and seem to grab one another by the hair from one moment to the next, but they’re laughing up their sleeves at those idiots who have any faith in them. It’s all bluster, eyewash for the people who pay the thieves and toadies, and police spies like don Michele.’
‘A fine business,’ said ’Ntoni, ‘four tari a day to stroll up and down. I’d like to be a customs guard.’
‘That’s it,’ said don Franco with his eyes starting out of his head. ‘Here you see the results of the system. The result is that everyone becomes riff-raff. No offence, compare ’Ntoni. ‘The fish stinks from the head downwards.’ I’d be like you too, if I hadn’t studied, and didn’t have this trade which earns me my daily bread.’
Indeed, they said, the trade his father had taught him was a good trade, pounding away with a pesde and making money out of dirty water; while there were people who had to roast their heads in the sun, and get cramp in their legs and backs in order to earn ten sous; and so they left the meeting and the chatting, and went off to the wine shop, spitting as they went.
CHAPTER XIII
When his grandson came home drunk of an evening, padron ’Ntoni did all he could to get him to go to bed without the others noticing, because this was one thing they had never had in the Malavoglia family, and it made the tears start in his eyes. At night, when he got up and called Alessi to go down to the sea, he let the other boy sleep; he would have been good for nothing, anyway. At first ’Ntoni had been ashamed, and had gone to wait for them on the shore, as soon as they came back, with his head bent. But gradually he became hardened, and said to himself that he would have a Sunday again, to-morrow.
The poor old man looked for all the means he could to touch the boy’s heart, and even had his shirt exorcised by don Giammaria on the quiet, and spent three tari on it.
‘You see,’ he said to him, ‘we’ve never had this in the Malavoglia family! If you start taking Rocco Spatu’s path, your brother and sisters will follow. ‘One bad apple infests the barrel,’ and that money we’ve put aside with so much effort will go up in smoke. ‘For a horse’s nail the kingdom was lost,’ and then what shall we do?’
’Ntoni kept his head bowed, and muttered to himself; but the next day he was at it again, and once he said to him: ‘What do you expect? At least when I’m drunk I don’t think about my troubles.’
‘What troubles? You’re healthy, you’re young, you know your trade, what more do you ask? I am old, and your brother is still a boy, and we’ve pulled ourselves out of the ditch. Now if you were willing to help us we could get things back as they were, even if we no longer felt the old happiness, because the dead don’t come back to life, but at least we wouldn’t have other troubles; and we’d all be together, as the fingers of a hand should be, and with bread in the house. And if I die, what will become of you? Because, you see, I can’t help feeling afraid every time I leave the shore. I’m old…’
When his grandfather succeeded in touching him, ’Ntoni began to cry. His brother and sisters, who knew everything, cowered in a corner when they heard him coming, as though he were a stranger, or as though they were afraid of him, and their grandfather, with his beads in his hands, called upon the blessed soul of Bastianazzo, or of his daughter-in-law Maruzza, to work a miracle. When Mena saw him come in with a pale face and bright eyes, she would say to him: ‘Come in this way, grandfather is in there!’ And she let him in through the little door into the kitchen; then she would begin to cry quietly by the hearth; so that at last ’Ntoni said: ‘I won’t go to the wine shop again, not even if they drag me there!’ And he started to work with a will like before; indeed, he got up before the others, and went to wait for his grandfather on the shore, two hours before daybreak, when the Three Kings were still high over the village belltower, and the crickets were trilling in the small holdin
gs as though they were right nearby. His grandfather could hardly contain himself for joy, and would chatter on to show him how much he loved him, and to himself he said that this miracle was the work of those blessed souls, ’Ntoni’s parents.
The miracle lasted the whole week, and on Sunday ’Ntoni didn’t even want to go out into the square, so as not to glimpse the wine shop and his friends calling him there. But he almost broke his jaw yawning during that whole day with nothing to do, and it seemed endless. He was no longer a young boy who could pass the time going for broom on the sciara, singing like his brother Alessi and Nunziata, or sweeping the house like Mena, but nor was he an old man like his grandfather, to enjoy himself mending broken barrels and fish traps. He sat by the door on the strada del Nero, and not even a hen passed by, and he heard the voices and laughter from the wine shop. And he actually went off to bed out of sheer idleness, and on Monday he started to sulk again. His grandfather said to him: ‘For you it would be better if there were no Sundays; because the next day you’re like one possessed.’ So that was what would have been better for him, that there should never be any Sundays, and his heart sank to think that all days should be Mondays.
So that when he came back from the sea, of an evening, he didn’t even feel like going to sleep, and vented his feelings by roaming about with his miseries, until at last he went back to the wine shop.
At first, when he came home unsteady on his feet, he would go in shame-facedly, making himself small and muttering excuses, or at least holding his tongue. But now he would raise his voice, pick a quarrel with his sister if she was waiting for him at the door, pale-faced and swollen-eyed, and if she told him in a low voice that his grandfather was there, he would answer that he didn’t care. The next day he would get up upset and ill-tempered, and begin to shout from morning till night.
Once there was a nasty scene. No longer knowing how to appeal to him, his grandfather had pulled him into a corner of the little room, with the doors closed, so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and said to him, weeping like a child, the poor old man: ‘Oh ’Ntoni! Have you forgotten that your mother died here? why do you want to give your mother the pain of seeing you turn out like Rocco Spatu? Can’t you see how poor cousin Anna sweats and strains for that drunkard of a son of hers? And how she cries, at times, when she has no bread to give her other children, and hasn’t even the heart to laugh at anything? ‘Bad company will teach you bad ways’ and ‘who keeps company with the wolf will learn to howl.’ Don’t you remember that night when we were all here round that bed, and she put Mena and the little ones in your care, when she had the cholera?’ ’Ntoni was crying like a newly weaned calf, and said that he too wanted to die; but then gradually he went back to the wine shop, and at nights, instead of coming home, he would wander the streets, stopping in front of doorways, with his shoulders against the wall, dead tired, along with Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta, and he began to sing with them, to ward off desperation.
At last poor padron ’Ntoni no longer dared show himself in the streets for very shame. Whereas his grandson, to avoid sermonising, came home looking black; so that they no longer spoiled his fun with the usual preachings. In fact he did his own sermonising himself, under his breath, and everything was the fault of the misfortune which had caused him to be born in that lowly state.
And he went to let off steam with the chemist and those others who had a bit of time to spare, to chat about the undeniable injustice that there is in all things in this world; because if you go to Santuzza’s to forget your troubles, you are called a drunkard; while so many others who get drunk at home on good wine have no troubles at all, nor anyone to reproach them or preach at them to go to work, since they have nothing to do and are rich enough for two; and yet we are all sons of God in the same fashion, and everyone ought to have their share equally.
‘That boy has talent,’ the chemist would say to don Silvestro, and to padron Cipolla, and to anyone who would listen. ‘His views are rough and ready, but he gets the point; it’s not his fault if he can’t express himself better; it’s the government’s fault, because it allows him to remain in ignorance.’
To educate him, he would bring him the Secolo and the Gazzetta di Catania. But ’Ntoni found reading boring; firstly because it was an effort, and when he was in the navy they had taught him to read whether he wanted to or not; but now he was free to do whatever took his fancy, and he had somewhat forgotten how the words ended up as the writing. And then all that printed chatter didn’t earn him a penny. What did it all matter to him? Don Franco explained to him why it should matter to him; and when don Michele walked through the square, he pointed to him with his beard, winking, and he blurted out in a low voice that he too was passing by on account of donna Rosolina, now that he had heard that donna Rosolina had money, and gave it to people so that they would marry her.
‘To begin with, you’d have to get rid of all those braided caps. What we need is revolution. Revolution is what we must have!’
‘And what will you give me to revolt?’
Then don Franco would shrug, and go off in irritation to pound his dirty water in his mortar. Because that was what it amounted to, he said, with people like that — making a hole in water. And as soon as ’Ntoni had turned his back, Piedipapera added in a low voice:
‘If he wanted to kill don Michele, he ought to kill him for something else; because don Michele wants to steal ’Ntoni’s sister; but ’Ntoni is worse than a pig, and is getting himself kept by Santuzza.’ Piedipapera felt don Michele weighing heavy on his stomach, since don Michele looked at him and Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta grimly when he met them; that was why he wanted him out of the way.
Those poor Malavoglia were now at the point where they were the talk of the village, on account of the brother, so low had the family fallen. Now the whole world knew that don Michele was walking up and down the strada del Nero, to irritate Zuppidda, who was mounting guard over her daughter with her spindle in her hand. Meanwhile, in order not to waste his walking time, don Michele had cast his eyes on Lia, who had grown up a fine young girl too, and there was no one to mount guard over her, except her sister who blushed for her, and said: ‘Let’s go back inside, Lia. It’s not right for orphans like us to sit at the door.’
But Lia was vainer than her brother ’Ntoni, and she liked sitting at the door and showing off her handkerchief with the roses, so that everyone told her how fine she looked with that handkerchief, and don Michele devoured her with his gaze.
Poor Mena, while she was there in the doorway waiting for her brother to come home drunk, felt utterly tired and disheartened, when she tried to drag her sister indoors because don Michele was passing by, and Lia would say:
‘Are you afraid he’ll eat me? Anyway, no one wants anything to do with us, now that we have nothing. You see how my brother has ended up, not even the dogs want him!’
‘If ’Ntoni had any guts,’ Piedipapera would say, ‘he’d get rid of that don Michele.’
But ’Ntoni had another reason for wanting to get rid of don Michele. After she had broken with don Michele, Santuzza had begun to be sweet on ’Ntoni, because of that way he had of wearing his cap pulled down over his ear, and of rolling his shoulders, which he had picked up as a sailor; and she put aside all the plates with the remains which the customers left for him under the counter; and she also filled up his glass for him now and again. In this way she kept him around the wine shop fat and satisfied as the butcher’s dog. And then ’Ntoni did his bit, fighting with those customers obliged by misfortune to quibble over details and who shouted and swore before paying. But with his tavern friends he was cheerful and talkative, and he also kept an eye on the counter, when Santuzza went to confession. So that everyone there was as fond of him as if he were in his own house; except for zio Santoro who looked at him with dislike and grumbled, between one Hail Mary and the next, that he was living off his daughter, like a cleric; Santuzza replied that she was the boss, if she wanted ’Ntoni to live of
f her, fat as a cleric; a sign that he served her purpose, and she had no need of anyone.
‘Oh yes you do,’ muttered zio Santoro when he could get her for a moment on his own. ‘You still need don Michele. Massaro Filippo has told me ten times that it’s time to stop this nonsense, that he can’t keep the new wine in the cellar any longer and it will have to be smuggled into the village.’
‘Massaro Filippo is thinking of his own interests. But even if I had to pay the tax twice over, and the fine for smuggling, I still wouldn’t want anything more to do with don Michele, and that’s final.’
She refused to forgive don Michele for that dirty trick he had played her with Zuppidda, after she had treated him like a cleric so long in the wine shop, for love of his braided cap; and ’Ntoni Malavoglia, all non-uniformed as he was, was worth ten don Micheles; and what she gave him, she gave him with all her heart. That was how ’Ntoni earned his bread, and when his grandfather reproached him for doing nothing, he would say: ‘Do I cost you anything? I don’t spend any of the money for the house, and I earn my daily bread.’ ‘It would be better that you should die of hunger,’ his grandfather told him, ‘and that we should all die this very day!’ Finally everyone fell silent where they were sitting, turning their backs on each other. Padron ’Ntoni’s only resort was not to open his mouth, so as not to quarrel with his grandson; and when he was tired of the preaching, ’Ntoni left the whole crew sitting there, whimpering, and went off to find Rocco and compare Vanni, with whom you could have a good time and always find some new lark to get up to.
Once they had the bright idea of serenading zio Crocifisso, on the night of his wedding with la Vespa, and they took everyone to whom zio Crocifisso would no longer lend money, to gather under his window, with bits of broken pots and pans, and the butcher’s cowbells, and reed pipes, making a din and a racket until midnight, so that la Vespa got up the next day greener than ever, and lost her temper with the odious Santuzza, in whose tavern they had cooked up the dirty deed, out of jealousy because she had found herself a husband, so as to be in God’s grace, while the others were always in mortal sin, and got up to all kinds of tricks, under the Virgin’s scapular.
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