All day long I can hear the voices of the Valentini talking with my family in another room. Two or three times I’ve heard a voice that has wrung my heart – his voice.
Him! Him! Always him! Always there’s this thorn in my heart, this temptation in my mind, this fever in my blood. Always I see him, before my eyes, there at the window, with his face in his hands. Always in my ears is the sound of his voice, and on my hands the dampness of his tears … O God, my God!
Several times I’ve heard footsteps outside my window, and my heart felt as though it would burst from my breast. I have dizzy spells, faintings fits and bouts of delirium. I can’t cry, I can’t sleep, I can’t pray any more. O Marianna!
What will he think, not seeing me again? Will he know that I’ve been forbidden to see him? Will he perhaps curse me? Will he be angry? Will he forgive me? You see how far I’ve fallen? I pray God to make me forget him, and I feel maddened by the mere thought that he might forget me. Sometimes, at dawn, when I’m quite sure that no one might catch me by surprise, I very quietly open the window to look down into the valley, at the house where he lives, where he’s probably asleep at that hour, to see his roof, his window, the pot of jasmine, the vine that casts its shade over his door … Then I try to guess the spot where he’ll rest his elbows on the sill when he opens the window, the clod of earth that he’ll first set foot on, his line of vision when he first gazes out, seeking my window … for my heart tells me that he will first gaze at my window, and he will know that I was here, watching him sleep, thinking of him, always of him – in my dreams, before I fall asleep, when I first waken, and in my prayers. O Marianna! Pray for this poor sinner who is weaker than her sin. Send me the scapular of Our Lady of Mount Carmel that was blessed in Rome, and send me your little prayer book. I want to think of God. I want to pray to the Virgin, so that she will protect me, and hide me under her mantle of mercy, from the eyes of the world, from myself, my shame and my transgression, and from God’s punishment!
20 December
I’ve been ill, my friend, very ill – that’s why I haven’t written to you. There were days when everyone was crying, and I thanked God for at least granting me the peace of exhaustion. I saw all those pale faces around my bed, all those tears dissimulated with an even more painful smile … and seeing as though in a dream, my eyes watched calmly. I saw all those dear to me, all of them … excepting only for him! They must have forbidden him to come. Yet with that exquisite sensitivity of the sick, I sensed he was there, outside the window, crying and praying … and I kept my eyes that were tired of life fixed on those panes of glasses through which came a ray of winter sunshine that settled on my bed. I couldn’t convey to you the feeling I had inside me: I felt calmer, easier, in an atmosphere of peace and serenity; I was still thinking of him, but with such quiet fondness that I felt as if I were among the angels, and one of them, called Nino, had taken me by the hand and called me by name, and as on that night, we’d both looked up at the stars.
It’s cloudy, and raining – you know how sad the sound of rain beating against the windowpanes is! Little birds come, shivering, to seek shelter under the eaves, and the wind whistles in the chestnut grove. Apart from this mournful sound, everything is silent. This morning I got out of bed for the first time, tottering and drained of strength. If you could see how I’m writing to you! Supported by a heap of pillows, pausing at every moment to regain energy, to wipe the sweat from my forehead … and yet it’s cold! My head feels heavy, my hand shakes, my thinking’s confused and uncertain. They say you came to see me … I don’t remember, Marianna! It must have been one of those days when I was unaware of what was going on around me. This tiny room where I have suffered so much, this trestle-bed, this cruficix, these pieces of furniture seem to have become part of me. I’ve spent such long hours in a convalescent’s state of melancholy inertia, daydreaming about heaven knows what, gazing at all the objects in my small room, that the shape of the furniture, and, as it were, the cast of the walls, are dear to me. The doctors say that I’m better now, praise God! For the good Lord should always be praised in what He does! My father, Giuditta, Gigi, you and Annetta will all be pleased … and he, too!
How sweet it is to return to life after having been on the brink of leaving it – if only to see all these smiling faces, to receive all these signs of affection, to feel loved, to look at the sky, to hear the wind, the rain, the cheeping of the little birds suffering from the cold. Everything looks new and beautiful. It’s like the awakening of a tired mind, and its thoughts, turning to something once cherished, with grateful surprise find it even more vital than before. Everything is a source of delight, blessed be God! Everyone takes my pale, thin hand, clasps and kisses it … he alone doesn’t! he alone!
I got up, swaying and leaning on the furniture, and opened the window. My God! How enchanting is everything I see, even though it’s cold, and the ground is covered with snow, and the trees are bare, and the sky is black! I saw that house over there, after such a long time! that vine, that window-sill, that door … the jasmine’s gone, the vine has lost its leaves, the doors are closed, there’s an air of sadness about it all, and yet it seemed like paradise to me … I thought I saw the window being closed … My God! My eyesight’s so weak! I saw a figure behind the shutters … It’s him, it’s him! He saw me! He was waiting for me. O God! O God! Marianna, don’t you see? It’s him!
26 December
At last the doctor’s given me permission to step outside in the middle of the day when the weather’s fine. They say that I need lots of care because my health’s delicate. My poor mother’s health was delicate, too, and she died young. Yesterday was Christmas, that wonderful festival that at the convent meant a night of carols and joy, and the moving experience of midnight mass … do you remember? The Valentini came every night of the Novena before Christmas to play cards with my family. I heard them talking and laughing in the dining room, where a warm fire had been lit, with doors and windows tightly closed, while the wind moaned outside, and sometimes hail-stones thundered down on the roof. How they must have enjoyed being together, all warm and snug, with the cold and rain outside!
To celebrate the festival we had a special lunch, but without the Valentini … because of me, I realized, so that I wouldn’t meet him. It was a cheerless occasion compared with the meal we had on my father’s name-day, do you remember?
In the morning there was brilliant sunshine. I went and stood outside the door for a while. They wrapped me up in shawls and scarves, and papa supported me. How pleasant and agreeable everything was: a bright sky of the purest azure, the sun gilding the snows that covered Mount Etna, the deep-blue sea, the belltowers of the villages that appeared as white smudges among the trees, the fields with their green grass contrasting with the whiteness of the snow, the wood that was silent because there was no wind and it had no leaves to shed, the lawn on which we’d danced and had such fun, the chickens scratching around in the straw, the little shed that steamed as the snow melted in the sunshine, the birds twittering on the roof, Vigilante stretched out across the threshold, sunning himself, the steward’s wife who was hanging out the washing to dry on the bare branches of the chestnut tree, and singing to herself, glancing with ineffable maternal contentment at her two children playing on the doorstep.
Blessed be God! Praise be to God, for the joy and delight He grants to the bird that sings, to the burgeoning leaf, and the basking snake, and the sun that shines, to the mother who holds her baby to her breast, and to my poor soul that rejoices and gives Him thanks.
How early it gets dark in winter! I’d like to have stayed outside for a long time filling my poor tired lungs with that invigorating breeze, and, leaning on my father’s arm, to have managed somehow to reach the edge of that lovely chestnut grove where I’ve spent so many happy hours! I’d like to have sat on that little wall that’s covered with green moss. It was cold, the sun was disappearing, down in the valley a thick fog was gathering, and the birds had stopped
singing. How mournful the silence of sunset is in winter! My father wanted me to return to the house and go to bed, while the most beautiful moon in the world was glistening on the windowpanes. I wish that at least they’d left me with that lovely moonlight, but they even closed the shutters. I’m ill, you see? It’s cold … so they had to …
They were expecting the Valentini for supper. How wonderful Christmas evening is! Even here, in this solitude, everything has a festive air: the peasant who comes home from the plain, singing, to spend Christmas with his family, the fire crackling beneath a big cauldron, the village girls who dance to the sound of bagpipes. I saw the preparations going on in the kitchen for the meal, the wood in the grate, the candles and playing cards left ready on the table, and a plate of sweets and a few bottles of liqueur set out on the desk by the window – all the pleasant trappings of a homely Christmas evening. I counted the chairs placed around the table – there were eight … mine wasn’t there any more … I saw the place where I used to sit and the chair that he took beside me when he looked at my cards.
I thought about all these things as I lay in bed, all alone, in that tiny little room which is dark, silent and gloomy-looking. I would like to have fallen asleep, and not to have heard the talking, those voices, that festiveness close by … I spent an extremely restless night, without a wink of sleep. I think I’ve still got a fever. I feel so weak! I held my breath all evening trying to hear what he said and to tell from the sound of his voice whether he was sad or happy. I heard him three times: once he said, ‘thank you’, then ‘it’s my turn’, and the last time, ‘signorina’. If you could only imagine all that these words convey! If I could only express it!
They played until midnight. I could hear them from here. Then they sat down to eat … Now I’m tired, my head is swimming … I wrote to you to keep myself awake … to give myself something to do …
Let’s talk about you instead … Did you have a good Christmas? Are you happy and cheerful?
I want to amaze myself; I want to regain my strength in the next few days; I want to overcome this terrible affliction. God who is merciful will help me! Write to me, write to me! Perhaps we’ll see each other soon, and we’ll have so much to tell each other!
30 December
Oh, Marianna! My dear Marianna! How I’ve cried! How I’ve suffered! The Valentini are leaving tomorrow, do you realize? There’s no cholera any more, there’s nothing! They’re leaving …
I shan’t see him again. I found out by accident, a few moments ago. They didn’t even have the grace to tell me …
I thought I’d die. I regretted that God had ever made me get better. I cried the whole night. My chest hurts a lot. I sometimes sobbed so loudly that Giuditta must have heard.
I’m completely shameless! I’ve no restraint any more. I’ve only one thought. I went out like a madwoman to ask the steward’s wife for information. It’s tomorrow! He came to say goodbye to my family, and they didn’t even let me see him for the last time! And I shan’t ever see him again … and it was after nightfall when I found out, when it was already dark … when I couldn’t see any more to look at the little house where he’ll be spending his last night!
My God! what kind of people are these … that are so heartless, without pity or tears?
What a night, what a horrible night! How cramped this little room is, and how miserable it is here! All night long the rain beat against the window-panes, the wind rattled the shutters, the thunder sounded as if it would bring the roof of the house down on us, and the sinister flashes of lightning were discernible even from inside … I was afraid and dared not cross myself … I’m damned, excommunicated, for even at that moment I thought only of him … more than once I prayed to God, hoping that this storm would last, I don’t know how long, provided he didn’t leave, that he remained always near by me … That’s all – not to see him, not to speak to him, but to know that he was there, down in the valley, beneath that roof, behind that window, so that I could send him my greetings in the morning, and with my eyes embrace that threshold, that earth, that air … Is that too much to ask? My God! If I can be content with that …
But hasn’t he realized that I’m pining away for him? That I’m weak and ill? Hasn’t he cried? Hasn’t he suffered as well? Why hasn’t he come, for a moment, one single moment, just for one last sight of him, to say goodbye to me from afar?
Why hasn’t he let me hear the sound of his voice? Why hasn’t he been through the wood? Why hasn’t he fired his gun into the air? Why hasn’t he got his dog to bark – the dog that he asked me if I loved, on whose head he placed his hand next to mine …
O God! O God!
I’m writing to you in bed, with a big book resting on my knees. Sometimes I shiver with cold, and I’m overcome with dizziness, but if I didn’t write to you I couldn’t stand being shut up in here – I think I’d go mad. I’ve no tears left, and anguish devours me like a rabid dog. I feel frenzied, feverish, and delirious. This falling rain and whistling wind, these claps of thunder and flashes of lightning are unbearable. This roof presses down on me, these walls suffocate me. I wish I could open the window, and feel that icy rain beating on my forehead, and drink in that cold wind. I wish I could enjoy the lightning, the storm that howls and writhes and moans like me. If I’d only known that I’d have to suffer so much … Why did these merciless people take me away from the convent? Why didn’t they leave me there to die, alone, and helpless, of cholera and neglect?
Hush! Listen, Marianna! Didn’t you hear? I thought … there, at the window, amid the tumult of wind and rain … a footstep … Yes, yes, it’s him … it’s him!
My heart’s bursting, and I’m clutching my head with both hands, because it feels as though I’m also losing my mind … It’s him! What’s he doing? What does he want? He’s knocking at the window! O God! Let me die, let me die! He’s saying goodbye … and I… my God, what’s happening inside me …
I’ve had a coughing fit … that’s my farewell … He must have heard. I can’t see any more … I feel terrible … My God! What if they were to find me with this shameful letter?
31 December
God had mercy on me: I opened my eyes and found this letter still in my hands. No one saw it. The door’s still closed. The sunlight’s already entering my room through all the vents in the shutters. The birds are twittering on the sill. The sun! How horrible it is! But what about the storm? And what about …
I leap out of bed … I haven’t the strength to stand upright … I haven’t the courage to open the window … And yet …
My God, thy will be done!
It’s all over! I saw that silent house, the shutters closed, and over the entire surroundings an air of heart-breaking quietness, desolation and abandonment.
I consulted the sky that saw us as neighbours, the trees that rustled over his head, the mountains we still shared a few hours ago, that are now lonely, sad, and forsaken …
He’s gone, he’s gone!
Under my window, in ground made soft by the rain and white with snow, I saw his footprints … his last footprints! He stood there, and his hand touched the sill … he was here! Here! This air surrounded him, and everything that I see, he saw … And now he’s gone and there’s nothing left! Nothing!
I found a withered rose lying on the window-sill, a poor rose that he’d more or less stolen from me, and that I had let him steal. The rain has ruined it. It’s a memento. I have it here on my breast … and when I’m shorn, I’ll lay this poor dead flower on my hair and send it to my sister …
7 January 1855
Today is our last day at Monte Ilice. Tomorrow morning we leave for Catania. If we pass through Mascalucia, I shall see you.
If you could only see how miserable everything is here! The cloudy sky, the chilly atmosphere, the valleys shrouded in mist and the mountains covered with snow, the trees that have lost their leaves and the birds that have lost their cheerfulness, the pallid sun, the long black lines of crows wheeling thr
ough the air, cawing, and the country folk huddled round their fires.
My family can’t stay on here any longer, by themselves, in the cold weather, and now that the fear of cholera’s past, papa can’t wait to leave. I spend hours thinking, of heaven knows what, leaning on my sill when it’s sunny, or gazing sorrowfully at the sky through the window-panes.
My God! This is death … the death of nature, and of the heart … and of that poor rose …
And to think how beautiful this place was! And how happy I was here!
I’m reconciled with God and with my vocation. I’ve realized that peace, calm and tranquillity are only to be found there, in that cell, at the foot of that Cross. And that all worldly pleasures – every single one of them! – leave you with a sense of bitterness in the end.
Yet I feel that I’m leaving a bit of my heart in this place where I’ve spent so many hours of sadness and so many days of joy. At the sight of every object, I thought, ‘After tomorrow, I shan’t ever see that again!’ This evening I went for a last walk in the woods. I sat for the last time on the wall. I gazed at the little cottage opposite our front door, and standing at the window I contemplated with an inexplicable sense of sorrow the trees, the mountains with their ravines, and the sky from which daylight was fading … and I took final leave of them, and even of the moss-covered stone and of the eaves over my head. All these things have a special look, the melancholy look of things that seem to say farewell … And mine is an eternal farewell. In the coming year, when these mountains that now stand silent and dreary are alive with sounds and smells and brightness, when the village girls sing in the vineyards and the lark up in the skies, my family will return … They’ll see these lovely places again … but not I! I’ll be far away, enclosed in the convent … for ever.
Sparrow (and other stories) Page 6