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 tree
s, 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!’
Tears come to my eyes whenever I think of my poor mama resting in the churchyard in Catania. But I think of her more often here, because I feel a stranger in my father’s house. It’s nobody’s fault. They’re not used to seeing me and having me under their feet – that’s all. Anyway, if my stepmother tells me off for being useless, she has her reasons; it’s for my own good, and after all I am at fault.
Not being a madcap like me, my sister’s not very effusive, but she loves me and doesn’t complain about the inconvenience I cause her by occupying this small room where my trestle-bed has been squeezed in – before, she used it as a dressing-room, and now all her boxes and clothing are cluttering up her bedroom.
Gigi is still the sweet little boy that you knew, as happy and boisterous as ever. He flings his arms round my neck twenty times a day, and consoles me with a kiss when his mother shouts at me on account of his torn clothes. But is it my fault I wasn’t taught at the convent how to mend things? It really should be my job. Giuditta’s a young lady, and anyway she’s far too busy all day long with her wardrobe and arranging her hair, and she’s right to spend so much time on them because pretty dresses and ribbons suit her so well, you’d think they were meant for her … And besides, she has a rich dowry from her mother – as you know, my papa is only a very humble clerk. So what else should she be thinking of at her age? While she was trying on a new dress, the day before yesterday, she looked so beautiful that I asked if I could kiss her! She quite rightly said no, so as not to get the material creased. What a silly goose I am, Marianna! As though her dress were like my dowdy twill tunic that’s never in any danger of creasing!
Oh, what a blessing it is to have a family! In the evening, when papa locks the door, I feel an indescribable contentment, as though the ties binding me to my loved ones in the intimacy of home life were drawn tighter. Yet what a gloomy sense of sadness all we poor recluses used to feel – do you remember? – at the rattling of the porter’s bunch of keys and the grating of the locks! Then with a wringing of my heart, my thoughts would fly to the poor wretches in prison. I’ve confessed to this a hundred times, and done a hundred penances for it, but I just can’t help it. Here, in the morning, when I’m wakened by the twittering of the little birds fighting over the breadcrumbs I leave out for them on the windowsill, before I open my eyes my very first thought is of the happiness of being with my family, close to my father, my little brother, and Giuditta, who will kiss me and wish me good morning; knowing that I shan’t have any offices to recite, or contemplation to do, or silences to observe, and that as soon as I’ve jumped out of bed, I’ll open my window to let in that balmy air, that ray of sunshine, that rustling of leaves, and that bird-song; that I’ll be able to go out alone, whenever I want, to run and skip wherever I please, and that I won’t encounter any austere faces, or black robes, or dark corridors … Marianna, I’ve a terrible sin to confess to you! If only I could have a lovely coffee-coloured petticoat – not with a hoop, I don’t mean that! – but a petticoat that wasn’t black, in which I could run about and climb over walls, that didn’t keep reminding me, as this ugly tunic does, that, once the cholera has passed, the convent awaits me back in Catania …
Let’s not think about that! I’m a reckless madcap! Forgive me, my dear Marianna, I was only joking. But I haven’t yet told you that I have a sweet little bird, a bright and lively pet sparrow that’s very fond of me and answers to my call. He comes flying to take titbits from my hands, nibbles my fingers and playfully ruffles my hair. Actually, he has a rather sad story, to begin with: papa brought him to me wrapped in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief was stained with blood. It was probably the first time that the poor little thing had tried to fly, and a gun-shot had injured his wing. Fortunately, it wasn’t a serious injury. What nasty, barbaric pastimes men have! At the sight of that blood, and the sound of that cheeping – the poor little thing must have been in great pain – I wept in sympathy, and I even began to blame my dear papa. Everyone was laughing at me, even Gigi. I bathed the wing, but I wasn’t hopeful that the poor little thing would survive. Yet here he is, hopping about now, making a great racket! Sometimes he’s still troubled by his injury, and comes and nestles in my lap, cheeping and dragging his wing, as though trying to share his pain with me. I comfort him with kisses, stroke him, and feed him breadcrumbs and grain, then he spryly goes off and settles on my windowsill, and turns to me, chirping, flapping his wings and stretching out his neck, with his mouth wide open.
The day before yesterday, a big ugly cat gave me a great scare. Carino (that’s what I call my sparrow) was on the table, playfully mixing up all the cards – he’s a great prankster! – getting them into a muddle, and twittering constantly. Then the little rascal would turn to look at me with his small, bright eyes, as though he enjoyed teasing me. All of a sudden, with a single bound, that big black cat was on the table, reaching out its paw to seize him. I screamed, and poor Carino screeched as well, and was very quick to take refuge with me. I don’t know how I managed to hide him in my hands, under my apron, but we were both trembling. The whole household came running at my cry. My stepmother scolded me for having needlessly frightened her, and told me that I was too old for such childishness, and that if the cat had caught Carino, it would only have been doing as it ought to. Giuditta was laughing, and that naughty little boy, Gigi, kept urging the cat to snatch the little bird out of my lap. I could feel him in my hands quivering from the great fright he’d been given, and his heart was beating furiously. I’d sooner have died than surrender him! Ever since that day, I never forget to lock the door of my room, where I leave Carino. I hate that cat!
On the other hand, I really love the steward’s dog, which is a great big farm-dog that’s completely black, and stands so high. At first he really terrified me with his snarling, but now he’s very affectionate towards me: he wags his tail and licks my hand, and rubs his sides against my tunic, telling me with those intelligent eyes of his that he loves me. In fact, he’s my guardian. He accompanies me on my walks, and always stays close to me. He runs on ahead to explore the ground, then comes bounding back, wagging his tail and barking happily. When I call him, he knows that it’s time for our walk (this happens twenty times a day), and you should see how he barks and jumps up and fawns on me!
I’ve told you all about my dog and my sparrow, about that horrible cat, and I still haven’t mentioned that we have country neighbours who often come to visit, and that we spend almost every evening playing games together, and that we go for lovely walks at sunset. They live in a house not far from us, at the bottom of the valley – you can see it from my window. Their name is Valentini – do you know them? Papa and mama say they’re very nice people. They have a daughter, Annetta, who’s almost my age, and she and I are good friends. Not like you and me, though! You needn’t be jealous, because I love you much more, and I want you to love me much more than all your other friends. When will you write back? Last time, you kept me waiting two whole weeks. See how quickly I reply, and what a long letter I’ve written. If you keep me waiting another fortnight to tell me that you return my love an
d the hundreds of kisses I send you, then I’ll love my new friend more than you. So, be warned!
P.S. I forgot to tell you that, apart from Annetta, the Valentini also have a son, a young man who has often come with his sister, and whose name is Antonio, but they call him Nino.
27 September
Marianna, why aren’t you here to come for walks, and have fun, and enjoy yourself with us? Why can’t I hug you and say to you at every moment: Isn’t this beautiful? Isn’t that fun?… and let you see how happy I am – my goodness, as happy as anyone could ever wish to be. So imagine if you were here!
Yesterday as the sun was going down, we went for a lovely walk in the chestnut grove with the Valentini. How beautiful the grove is! If only you could have seen it, Marianna: a delicious shade, a few dying rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves, a perpetual, low-pitched sighing of the topmost branches, birds singing, and now and again a deep and solemn silence. You might almost feel afraid, beneath that huge vault of branches, among those endlessly crisscrossing paths, if even your fear weren’t so pleasant. The dry leaves scrunched under our footsteps. Occasionally, some startled bird would take flight, shaking the few leaves that were hiding it and causing a sudden rustle. Our fine dog, Vigilante, ran blithely on ahead, barking after frightened blackbirds. Annetta, Gigi and Giuditta walked arm in arm, singing to themselves. Signor Nino followed them, with his rifle slung across his shoulder. The rest of the group were left far behind, and they kept shouting to us not to go so fast, because it was a tiring climb. Signor Nino also has a fine dog, a splendid gun-dog, with long ears and black spots all over. It’s called Ali, and has already struck up a close friendship with Vigilante. At every step, Giuditta and Annetta in their long dresses would get caught in the undergrowth. Not me, though, I assure you! I run and skip, and never falter, and nor do the hedgerows leave any mark on my tunic. Signor Nino came up to me and told me to take care not to fall, he was afraid for me, poor fellow! If I hadn’t been so embarrassed, I’d almost have challenged that young man to a race! Giuditta continually complained of feeling tired. What’s wrong with these women, Marianna? They can’t walk ten paces without the need of a man’s arm, and without catching their clothes on every bramble! Thank goodness for my tunic! Signor Nino repeatedly offered me his arm – as if I had any need of it, indeed! I’m sure he was just trying to annoy me, otherwise why didn’t he offer his arm to my sister, who was complaining about the climb – she was the one that needed it.
Sparrow (and other stories) Page 2