I Malavoglia

by Giovanni Verga

  People laughed in zio Crocifisso’s face, when they saw him on the square, a husband, dressed in his new clothes, and yellow as a canary with the fright la Vespa had given him with that new dress which cost money. La Vespa spent money like water, and if he had let her she would have spent his entire fortune within a week; and she said that now she was in charge, so that every day there was a frightful shindy at zio Crocifisso’s. His wife sunk her nails into his face, and screamed that she wanted the keys, and didn’t want to carry on being in the position of going short of the odd piece of bread and a new handkerchief worse than before; because if she had known what that marriage would lead to, with that fine husband she had landed, she would rather have kept the smallholding and the medal of the daughter of Mary; indeed, for all the good it did her, she could have been wearing it still. And he shrieked that he was ruined; that he was no longer master in his own house, which was still cholera-ridden, and they wanted to make him die of heartbreak before his time, cheerfully to squander the possessions he had so laboured to put together! He too, if he had known all this, would have said to the devil with wife and smallholding; because he had no need of a wife, and they had got him by the scruff, making him believe that la Vespa had got her hands on Brasi Cipolla and that she was just about to slip out of his grasp together with the smallholding, that damned smallholding!

  Just as the time it became known that Brasi Cipolla had let the Mangiacarrubbe girl persuade him to elope with her, like a fool, and padron Fortunato was looking for him everywhere all over the sciara, and in the ravine, and under the bridge, foaming at the mouth, swearing and cursing that if he found them he would give them right royal kicks, and tear off his son’s ears. On hearing such talk zio Crocifisso too thrust his hands into his hair, and said that the Mangiacarrubbe girl had ruined him by not laying her hands on Brasi a week earlier.

  ‘It’s the will of God,’ he would say, beating his breast; ‘it was God’s will that I should take la Vespa as punishment for my sins!’ And his sins must have been black indeed, because la Vespa poisoned the very bread in his mouth, and made him suffer the pains of Purgatory, day and night. In addition she boasted that she was faithful to him, that she wouldn’t look another mortal in the eye, be he as young and handsome as ’Ntoni Malavoglia or Vanni Pizzuto, for all the gold in the world; while the men continued to buzz around her, proffering temptation as if she had honey in her skirts.

  ‘If it were true, I’d go and get her one myself,’ muttered zio Crocifisso, ‘on condition he got her out of my hair!’ And he also said that he would pay Vanni Pizzuto or ’Ntoni Malavoglia something for them to cuckold him, since ’Ntoni was in that business.

  ‘Then I could send her away, that witch I’ve brought into my house!’

  But ’Ntoni was into richer pickings, and ate and drank, so that he was a joy to behold. Now he held his head high and laughed if his grandfather said something to him in a low voice; now it was his grandfather who made himself small, as though the fault were his. ’Ntoni said that if they didn’t want him in the house he knew where to go to sleep, in Santuzza’s stable; and anyway they weren’t spending anything on him for food. Padron ’Ntoni and Alessi and Mena could put aside everything they earned with fishing, and weaving, and at the wash place, for that miraculous boat of St. Peter’s, with which you had the privilege of half breaking your arms every day for a few ounces of fish, or for the house by the medlar tree, which they would finally repurchase, cheerfully to die of hunger in! Anyway, he didn’t want a penny; since he was a poor devil in any case, he preferred a bit of rest, while he was young, and not yet barking at night like his grandfather. The sun was there for everyone, and the shade of the olive trees for a bit of relief, and the piazza to stroll in, and the steps of the church to chat on, and the main street to see people pass by and hear the news, and the wine shop to eat and drink with your friends. Then when you felt another jaw-breaking attack of boredom coming on you could play mora, or briscola; and at last when you were tired, there was the smallholding where compare Naso’s sheep grazed, and you could stretch out and sleep during the day, or comare suor Mariangela’s stable for the night.

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed of the life you lead?’ his grandfather asked him at last, having come to look for him specially with his head bowed and his back all bent; and he wept like a child as he said it, tugging him by the sleeve behind Santuzza’s stable, so that no one should see them.

  ‘Don’t you ever think about your house? If only your father were here, and la Longa! Oh ’Ntoni, ’Ntoni!’

  ‘But are you lot any better off than me, working and slaving for nothing? We’re cut out for misery, that’s what it is! Look what it’s done to you, you’re like a violin bow and you’ve always lead the same life, right until your old age. And where has it got you? You lot don’t know the world, and you’re like kittens with your eyes still closed. Do you eat the fish you catch? Do you know who you’re working for, from Monday to Saturday, worn away to such a state that not even the hospital would want you? You’re working for people who don’t do anything, and have money by the spadeful!’

  ‘But you haven’t any money, and nor have I! We’ve never had any, and we’ve always earned our bread as God has willed it; that’s why you have to buckle to, earning it, if you don’t want to die of hunger.’

  ‘As the devil has willed it you mean! Our misfortune is all the work of the devil! Now you know what’s awaiting you, when you can no longer buckle to, because rheumatism has turned your hands into a vine root — the ditch under the bridge, that’s what’s waiting for you, to die there!’

  ‘No, no,’ exclaimed the old man suddenly joyful, and throwing his vine root arms round his grandson’s neck. ‘We’ve got the money for the house, and if you help us…’

  ‘Ah, the house by the medlar tree! Do you think it’s the finest dwelling in the world, all of you who haven’t seen anything else?’

  ‘I know it’s not the finest dwelling in the world. But you shouldn’t say that, because you were born there, and all the more so since your mother couldn’t die there.’

  ‘Nor could my father. Our trade is to leave our skins on the bottom, for the sharks. And at least, until that day comes, I want to enjoy whatever bit of good luck I can find, since it’s pointless to wear one’s fingers to the bone for nothing. Anyway, when you’ve got the house, and the boat, and Mena’s dowry, and Lia’s? Ah, by the blood of the thieving Judas, what a life!’

  The old man went off disconsolately, shaking his head, with his back bent, because his grandson’s bitter words had crushed him worse than any piece of rock. Now he lacked the courage for anything and was truly downhearted, and wanted to weep. He could think of nothing except that Bastianazzo and Luca had never been possessed by those things which possessed ’Ntoni, and they had always done what they had to do without complaining; and he even began to tell himself that it was pointless to think about Mena’s dowry, since they would never manage to get it.

  Poor Mena seemed to know this too, she was so downcast. Now the neighbourhood women went straight by the Malavoglia’s door, as though they still had cholera, and left her alone, she and her sister with her handkerchief with the roses, or with Nunziata or cousin Anna, when they were kind enough to go and chat for a bit; because cousin Anna too, poor thing, had her own drunkard of a Rocco, and by now everyone knew it; and Nunziata had been too small, when that fine father of hers had walked away to go and seek his fortune elsewhere. The poor things got on so well for that very reason, when they talked in low voices, with their heads bent, and their hands under their aprons, and even when they were silent, without looking at each other, each thinking about their own affairs.

  ‘When you’re reduced to the state we’re in,’ said Lia, who talked like a grown woman, ‘you have to fend for yourself, because that’s what everyone else does.’

  Sometimes don Michele would stop to greet them and tell the odd joke; so that the girls had become quite used to his braided cap, and weren�
�t alarmed by him any more; indeed Lia actually told some jokes herself, and laughed at them; nor did Mena dare to scold her, or go off into the kitchen and leave her alone, now that their mother was no longer there; and she too sat there huddled in on herself, looking up and down the roadway with tired eyes. Now as it became clear that the neighbours had abandoned them, her heart swelled with gratitude every time don Michele deigned to stop at their door to have a chat, with that impressive braided cap of his. And if don Michele found Lia alone, he looked her straight in the eye, pulling on his moustache, with his braided cap so boldly set, and said to her: ‘What a fine girl you are, comare Malavoglia!’

  No one had ever said that to her; so she turned as red as a tomato.

  ‘How come you’re not married yet?’ don Michele also asked.

  Lia shrugged, and said that she didn’t know.

  ‘You ought to wear a dress of silk and wool, and long ear-rings; then you’d outshine many a city lady, my word of honour.’

  ‘Dresses of silk and wool are not for me, don Michele,’ answered Lia.

  ‘Why not? Hasn’t Zuppidda got one, and won’t the Mangiacarrubbe girl be getting one, now that she has landed Brasi Cipolla? and if she wants, won’t la Vespa be able to have one like the rest?’

  ‘They’re rich!’

  ‘What a wretched life,’ exclaimed don Michele bringing his fist down on his sabre. ‘I’d like to get a winning ticket in the state lottery, indeed I would, and show you what I’m capable of!’

  Sometimes don Michele added: ‘May I?’ with his hand on his cap, and came and sat right there on the stones, when he had nothing to do. Mena thought he was there because of comare Barbara, and didn’t say anything. But don Michele swore to Lia that it wasn’t for Barbara, and he had never even thought of her, on his holy sword of honour. He was thinking of something quite different, if comare Lia didn’t know…

  And he rubbed his chin, or pulled at his moustache, staring at her like the basilisk. The girl turned all the colours of the rainbow and stood up to go. But don Michele took her by the hand, and said to her: ‘Why do you do me this wrong, comare Malavoglia? Stay there, no one is eating you.’

  And this was how they passed the time, while they were waiting for the men to come home from the sea; she on the doorstep, and don Michele on the stones, whittling away at some twig out of sheer awkwardness, and asking her whether she would like to live in the city.

  ‘What would I do in the city?’

  ‘That’s the place for you! You’re not made to live here, among these yokels, my word of honour! You’re made of finer clay, top quality goods, and you should be living in a pretty little house, and go walking along the Marina and in the Villa gardens, where there’s music, and you all dressed up — I know all about it. With a fine silk handkerchief on your head, and an amber necklace. Here it’s like being among swine, word of honour, and I can’t wait to be transferred, because they promised me they’d have me back in the city in the new year.’ Lia began to laugh at the jest, and shrugged her shoulders, because she scarcely knew what amber necklaces and silk handkerchieves were. Then once with a mysterious flourish don Michele pulled out a lovely red and yellow handkerchief, in all its special paper, which he had got from a smuggler, and he wanted to give it to comare Lia.

  ‘No, no,’ she said, all flushed. ‘I wouldn’t take it if you killed me.’

  And don Michele insisted: ‘I didn’t expect that of you, comare Lia. I don’t deserve it, really I don’t.’ And he had to roll the handkerchief up again in its paper and put it away in his pocket.

  From then onwards, when she saw don Michele’s nose rounding the corner, Lia ran to shut herself indoors for fear he wanted to give her the handkerchief.

  Don Michele walked up and down in front of the house in vain, making Zuppidda foam at the mouth, and crane his neck towards the Malavoglia’s front door though he might, there was no longer anyone to be seen so that finally he decided to go in. When they saw him before them, the girls were open-mouthed and trembling as though they had the tertian fever, and didn’t know what to do.

  ‘You wouldn’t accept the silk handkerchief, comare Lia,’ he said to the girl, who had turned red as a poppy, ‘but I’ve come back because of the affection I feel for you and your family. What’s your brother ’Ntoni doing?’

  Then Mena turned red, too, when they asked what her brother ’Ntoni was doing, because he wasn’t doing anything. And don Michele went on: ‘I’m afraid he may cause you all some trouble, your brother ’Ntoni. I’m a friend, and I shut my eyes; but when another sergeant comes in my place, he’ll want to know what your brother does with Cinghialenta, of an evening, towards the Rotolo, and that other down and out Rocco Spatu, when they walk over the sciara, as if they had shoe leather to waste. You would do well to open your eyes to what I’m saying to you now, comare Mena; and also tell him that he shouldn’t hang around with that troublemaker Piedipapera, in Pizzuto’s shop, because everyone knows everything that goes on, and it’ll be him who lands up in trouble. The others are crafty old foxes, and your grandfather would be well advised not to let him go walking over the sciara, because the sciara is no place for walking, and the rocks of the Rotolo can hear things just as though they had ears, tell him, and they don’t need a telescope to see the boats which go creeping quietly round the coast towards dusk, as if they were going to catch bats. Tell him this, comare Mena, and also tell him that the person giving him this warning is a friend who wishes him well. As for Cinghialenta and Rocca Spatu, and Vanni Pizzuto too, they’re being watched. Your brother trusts Piedipapera, and what he doesn’t understand is that the customs guard gets a percentage on contraband, and that to catch them you give a share to one of the gang, and make him squeal. And only tell him this about Piedipapera: Christ said to St. John, ‘Take heed of a person marked.’ The proverb says so too.’

  Mena opened her eyes wide, and paled, without really understanding what she was hearing; but she already felt alarm that her brother should have dealings with people in uniform. Then don Michele took her by the hand, to give her courage, and continued:

  ‘If anyone knew that I had come to tell you this, I’d be done for. I’m risking my braided cap, for the good will I feel for you and the other Malavoglia. But I don’t want your brother to get into any trouble. And I don’t want to come upon him at night somewhere he shouldn’t be, not even if it means getting a smuggling fine of a thousand lire, my word of honour!’

  The poor girls were worried silly, since don Michele had started them thinking along these lines. They couldn’t sleep at night, and waited up for their brother behind the door until late, trembling with cold and fear, while he went singing through the streets with Rocco Spatu and other members of the gang, and the poor girls thought they heard shots and shouts, as there had been on the night of the hunt for the two-legged quails.

  ‘You go to bed,’ Mena kept saying to her sister. ‘You’re too young, there are some things you shouldn’t know.’

  They said nothing to their grandfather, not wanting to give him this last heartbreak; but when they saw ’Ntoni in a somewhat calmer mood, sitting glumly at the doorway, with his chin in his hand, they plucked up courage and asked him: ‘What are you doing all the time with Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta? watch out, because you’ve been seen on the sciara and towards the Rotolo. You know the old saying which Christ said to St. John: ‘Take heed of a person marked.’ ’

  ‘Who told you?’ asked ’Ntoni, leaping up like a fiend. ‘Tell me who told you.’

  ‘Don Michele told me,’ she answered with tears in her eyes. ‘He told me that you should beware of Piedipapera, because to catch a smuggler you have to give a share to one of the gang.’

  ‘Is that all he said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’

  Then ’Ntoni swore it wasn’t true, and she shouldn’t tell their grandfather. And he got up hurriedly, and went off to the wine shop to cool off, and if he met anyone in uniform he went the long way round, so a
s not to catch even a glimpse of them.

  Actually don Michele knew nothing, and was talking at random, to frighten him, because of the tantrum he’d had after the business with Santuzza, who had thrown him out like a mangy dog. When all was said and done he wasn’t afraid of don Michele and his braid, well-paid as he was to suck the blood of the poor. A fine business! Don Michele had no need to put himself out in any way at all, so fat and well-fed was he! and all he had to do was to get his hands on some poor devil, if someone made an effort to earn a twelve tari piece as best they could. And then there was that other outrage, which meant that to land foreign goods you had to pay a tax, and don Michele and his policemen had to stick their noses in! They could lay their hands on everything, and take what they wanted; but the others, if they risked their lives trying to land their goods, were regarded as thieves, and were hunted down worse than wolves with pistols and rifles. But robbing thieves has never been a crime. Even don Giammaria said so in the chemist’s shop. And don Franco approved with his head and his whole beard, smirking, because when they brought in the republic you wouldn’t be seeing any more of these dirty dealings.

  ‘Or those devil’s employees,’ added the priest. Don Giammaria was still smarting from the twenty five onze which had disappeared from his house.

  Now donna Rosolina had lost her head along with the twenty five onze, and was running after don Michele, to make sure of losing the remainder. When she saw him going down the strada del Nero, she thought he was coming to see her on the little terrace, and she would stand at the parapet with her tomato preserve, and jars of peppers, to demonstrate her capabilities; since it was now quite impossible to drum it into her head that don Michele, with his stomach, now that he had emerged from a period of mortal sin with Santuzza, was not looking for a judicious housekeeper with good sense, and she knew what that meant; so she defended him, if her brother said a word against the Government and its paid shirkers, and would reply: ‘Shirkers like don Silvestro do indeed suck a place dry without doing anything; but you need the taxes to pay the soldiers, who cut such a dash with their uniforms, and we’d devour each other like wolves if we didn’t have soldiers.’