Sparrow (and other stories)

by Giovanni Verga

  No date

  Help, Marianna, help! My father, help! Nino! Nino! Kill them! Kill them! Gigi! Giuditta! Help! They’re laying hands on me, they’re dragging me by the hair! Help! They’re hitting me! Ouch, ouch, my hair … my arms … they’re all bruised! There’s blood! They say I’m mad! Mad! Ah, Sister Agata! Sister Agata!

  What do they want? What do these people want? Why are they laying hands on me? I’m innocent … I haven’t done anything wrong … I want to get away from here, I want to escape … there are corpses … and demons … I’m scared! God has abandoned me! Don’t abandon me as well! Nino! Nino! You’re brave – help me!

  I’ve no strength left in me … they’re dragging me off … they’re dragging me off … Where to? Where to? My God!

  Ah! The lunatics’ cell! Sister Agata’s cell! No! No! For pity’s sake, I’m not mad! I’m scared! I shan’t do it again … Here I am … I’ll stay here, I’ll be good, I’ll pray … What do you want? What do you want? Send for my father, send for Marianna … they’ll tell you I’m not mad! Ah, Nino! Nino! Why can’t you hear me? Nino? Such yells and screams and tears! Such foaming at the mouth and bleeding! Nino! Help! Here! Help! I’ll bite, I’m a wild animal! No! Please! No! Not in there! Nino!

  Dear Signora Marianna,

  I was asked by poor Sister Maria – God rest her soul! – to see that you received the little silver crucifix and handwritten pages that I’m sending you via our gate-keeper.

  I hesitated for a long time before reaching a decision in such a delicate matter of conscience. The deceased’s last wishes were certainly sacred to me, but our rule forbids us from disposing of anything whatsoever, even in the case of death, without the permission of Mother Superior. I hope that I’ve been enlightened by the grace of the Holy Spirit, for this is what seemed to me the best solution, to the greater benefit of God and a fellow-human being.

  I resorted to an equivocation to obtain this permission, which might have been difficult to obtain otherwise. I told Mother Superior of Sister Maria’s last wish, and I showed her the crucifix that the poor young girl had bequeathed on her death-bed, together with the handwritten pages, as if these were of no significance and served only as a wrapping for the small gift.

  I don’t know what these pages contain. However, had they been read, I doubt that permission would ever have been granted to send them to any outsider. On the other hand, if they’d ever been found inside the convent, I fear they might have given rise to scandal, very detrimental to the memory of the departed and of great harm to her soul.

  Under the impression that it was a matter of little significance, Mother Superior readily granted permission, without feeling obliged to seek the chaplain’s advice, and I have the satisfaction today of fulfilling my duty without incurring any blame. You, my dear lady, will receive the small package in the same state it was left in by the dear departed. There are nine pages in all, four of blue paper, two sheets of writing paper, and the last three written on the envelopes of other letters, all carefully numbered. The package is tied with a black ribbon and contains:

  1. A small silver crucifix

  2. A lock of hair.

  3. Some rose petals.

  If my poor friend had not in her dying moments shown such attachment to these two or three dried petals, I would not have taken the liberty of sending them as well, in the fear it might have seemed to you an unseemly jest on my part. But the dying girl tried to kiss them when the pains that consumed her became more agonizing, and she expired with these dead petals on her lips.

  May God ease her suffering in purgatory for what the poor martyr has suffered here on earth! She died like a saint, God bless her!

  On that fateful day when she was mistakenly thought to be mad, her ruined health was dealt a final blow. Jesus and Mary! What a day that was! How the poor girl suffered! She was so frail, so weak, she could hardly stand, and yet it took more than four lay sisters to drag her to the lunatics’ cell! I think I can still hear those desperate, totally inhuman screams ringing in my ears, and still see her face, crazed with terror, and bathed in tears that would break your heart … She was unconscious when they opened the cell. They left her there, on the bare floor …God forgive me! I think that poor mad Sister Agata was the only one to show the poor girl any pity, because she did not venture to do her any harm. She gazed at her with those dull eyes, and lay on the floor beside her, touching and shaking her as though trying to revive her. When the doctor came, he found her still in that state. He then gave orders for her to be taken to the sick-room. When Mother Superior, in the interests of the community, expressed fears that Sister Maria might have another fit, the doctor reassured her, saying that it would only be for a little while … And indeed she did not long survive …

  The poor sick girl regained consciousness in the infirmary. You can’t imagine how heart-breaking it was just to see the terrified look that she gave us … for she couldn’t move, poor soul! She had no strength left in her. She lingered on like this for three days – three days of agony. She couldn’t move or speak any more. She lay there, just as they’d placed her, with her eyes wide open, trembling the whole time, with a breathless wheeze in her throat. Not until dawn of the third day did she manage to convey to me with her eyes that she wanted her head turned towards the window, and when she saw the sky her eyes filled with tears.

  Poor Sister Maria! She was no more than a skeleton. Only her eyes – those beautiful eyes! – were still alive. She told me so many things with her eyes, and the last dregs of her wretched life were fraught with pain. When I raised her head, she looked at me in such a way that I could not hold back the tears. She tried to lift her arm to throw it round my neck, but she hadn’t the strength, and sighed. So I took her hand and she squeezed it – she squeezed it as though she were speaking to me.

  At about ten o’clock they administered the last rites to her. She took communion with such serenity and faith that it seemed that all the saints and angels in heaven were gathered round her bed. God bless her! She remained like that all day, while litanies were recited round her. When the sun went down she seemed distressed again. She wept so freely that one of the lay sisters was moved to pity and wiped the poor girl’s face – it was bathed with tears, and she couldn’t see us any more. Then she moved her lips as though to call. I bent down over her. She strained to put her face close to mine, and whispered in my ear this last wish, breathing with such difficulty it was heart-breaking … Her wheeze was suffocating her. I guessed rather than heard what she said. I ran to fetch the package that she wanted, and seeing it in my hands, she gave an angelic smile … When her wheeze wasn’t suffocating her, she kept saying, ‘For him! For him!’ She must have been delirious. She wanted me to show her everything: the pages, the hair, the crucifix, the dry petals. She kissed them, she kissed them so much that I removed one of those petals from her lips after she had died.

  Then she turned her head away with a gentle sigh. She seemed to have fallen asleep … and it was an everlasting sleep.

  Poor Sister Maria!

  Yet now she’s among the blessed, praying to the Lord for us wretched sinners who in our weakness mourn her death. I must add, to the credit of Mother Superior and the whole community, and to the comfort of all those who loved her in her lifetime, that her funeral was extremely moving. More than thirty masses were celebrated at every altar in the church, and there were more than a hundred candles burning at the De Profundis. Please remember me in your prayers.

  I remain, respectfully, your most devoted servant,

  Sister Filomena

  TEMPTATION

  AND OTHER STORIES

  translated by

  Christine Donougher

  TEMPTATION

  It was like this. Honest to God! There were three of them: Ambrogio, Carlo and Pigna the saddler. It was Pigna who dragged them all off to have a good time. ‘Let’s go to Valprio by tram.’ And with no wretched women in tow! After all, they just wanted to enjoy their day off in peace.


  They played bowls, strolled down to the river, treated themselves to a drink, and finally had lunch at the White Blackbird, under the vine-trellis. It was very crowded, and there was a fellow playing the accordion, and another with a guitar, and there were girls shrieking on the swing, and lovers in search of a shady nook: a real holiday. Until Pigna started fooling about with a pretty girl at the next table, with her hand in her hair and her elbow on the tablecloth. And Ambrogio, who was the peace-loving type, tugged at his jacket and whispered in his ear, ‘Let’s go, otherwise there’ll be an argument.’

  Later, in prison, when he remembered how they had met their downfall, he thought he was going out of his mind.

  In order to catch the tram, towards the end of the day, they walked quite a long way. Carlo, who had been in the army, claimed to know the shortcuts and led them along a path that zigzagged across the meadows. That was their undoing!

  It must have been about seven, a lovely autumn evening, with the fields still green, and not a living soul in sight. They were singing, cheerfully enjoying their country outing, young men, all of them, without a care in the world.

  It might have been better if they had been penniless, or out of work, or had other problems. And Pigna kept saying they had made good use of their money that Sunday.

  The conversation turned to women, and each of them spoke about his girlfriend. And even Ambrogio, suggesting there was more to him than met the eye, told them in elaborate detail what went on with Filippina when they met every evening behind the factory wall.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he finally muttered, for his shoes were hurting, ‘you’ll see, Carlino’s lost the way!’

  Not according to Carlino. The tramway was surely over there, beyond that row of pollarded elms, it just wasn’t in sight yet because of the evening mist.

  ‘Under the bridge, under the bridge gathering fire-woooood …’ Ambrogio sang bass, hobbling along behind.

  After a while they caught up with a peasant girl with a basket over her arm, following the same path. ‘What a stroke of luck!’ exclaimed Pigna. ‘Now we can ask for directions.’

  Indeed! She was a fine figure of a girl, of the kind that awaken temptation when encountered on their own. ‘Young lady, is this the right way to where we’re going?’ asked Pigna, laughing.

  A respectable girl, she lowered her head and quickened her pace without paying any attention to him.

  ‘What a brisk walker, eh?’ mumbled Carlino. ‘If she’s hurrying like that to meet her lover, he’s a lucky guy!’

  Seeing that they were following at her heels, the girl suddenly stopped, with her basket in her hand, and began to shout, ‘Leave me alone and let me go my own way.’

  ‘Hey, we’re not going to eat you, damn it!’ replied Pigna.

  She set off again, with her head down, like the stubborn peasant that she was.

  To break the ice, Carlo asked, ‘O where are you going, pretty maiden … what is your name?’

  ‘Never you mind what my name is, or where I’m going.’

  Ambrogio tried to intervene. ‘Don’t be afraid, we don’t mean you any harm. We’re honest lads, we’re just heading for the tram.’

  Because he looked a decent sort, the young woman finally relented, after all it was getting dark and he was in danger of missing the tram. Ambrogio wanted to know if this was the right way to the tramstop.

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ she replied, ‘but I don’t know this area.’ And she said she was going to town to find herself a job. Pigna, always one for a laugh, made out that he thought she wanted a job as a wet-nurse, and if she didn’t know where to go, he’d find her a good position, all nice and cosy, that very same evening. And since he couldn’t keep his hands to himself, she gave him a dig with her elbow that almost broke his ribs.

  ‘Christ!’ he muttered. ‘Christ, what a powerful punch!’ And the others hooted.

  ‘I’m not afraid of you or anyone else!’ she said.

  ‘Or me?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘And all three of us?’

  ‘What if we were to take you by force?’

  Then they looked around, in the open countryside, and there was not a living soul to be seen

  ‘Now, what about your sweetheart,’ said Pigna to change the subject, ‘now, how come your sweetheart let you go?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ she replied.

  ‘Really? A pretty girl like you?’

  ‘No, I’m not pretty.’

  ‘Oh, come on now!’ And Pigna started paying her compliments, with his thumbs tucked into the armholes of his waistcoat. My God, was she pretty! With those eyes, and that mouth, and so on and so forth!

  ‘Let me pass,’ she said, laughing surreptiously, with lowered gaze.

  ‘A kiss at least. What’s a kiss?’ She could at least give them a kiss as a token of friendship. After all; it was getting dark and there was no one to see.

  She warded them off, lifting her elbows.

  ‘God, what a sight for sore eyes!’ Pigna avidly feasted his eyes on her from beneath her raised arm. Then she squared up to him, threatening to bash his face with her basket.

  ‘Go ahead! Hit me as much as you like. It’ll be a pleasure, coming from you.

  ‘Let me go or I’ll call for help.’

  ‘You can shout your head off,’ he stammered out, his face flushed, ‘no one will hear you.’ The other two wet themselves laughing.

  Finally, as they were closing in on her, the girl, half serious, half laughing, began to strike out at random, hitting whichever of them she could. Then, hitching up her skirt, she took to her heels.

  ‘Ah! you’re asking for it!’ shouted Pigna, running after her, panting. ‘You’re really asking for it!’

  And breathing heavily, he caught up with her, clamping a big heavy paw over her mouth. Then they tore at each other’s hair, both of them lashing out in all directions, the girl frantically biting and scratching and kicking.

  Carlo found himself trapped in the middle when he tried to separate them. Ambrogio grabbed her by the legs so that she didn’t cripple anyone. Eventually, Pigna, pale and panting, got her down on the ground, with his knee on her chest. Then, all three of them, at the touch of that warm flesh, seemed suddenly to be overcome with raving madness, crazed with lust … God save and preserve us!

  She got to her feet like a wild animal, without a word, pulling together her torn dress and picking up her basket. The others exchanged glances, with a strange snigger. As she was about to walk off, Carlo stood in her way with a scowl on his face.

  ‘You won’t say anything?’

  ‘No, I won’t say anything,’ the girl promised in an expressionless voice.

  Whereupon Pigna caught hold of her skirt. She began to scream.

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Help! Murder!

  ‘Stop it, I tell you.’

  Carlo grabbed her by the throat. ‘You want to ruin us all, damn you!’ She was no longer able to scream, held in that tight grip, but she still threatened them with those staring eyes in which they saw the police and the gallows. She turned blue, with her tongue hanging out, a huge, black tongue that could not fit in her mouth any more; and all three of them were frightened out of their wits by the sight of it. Carlo squeezed her throat tighter and tighter as the woman’s arms slackened, and she went limp, her head falling back on the stones, with the whites of her eyes showing. One by one, they let go of her, terrified.

  She lay still, stretched out on her back, on the edge of the path, face up with white staring eyes. Grimly, without a word, Pigna gripped Ambrogio, who had not stirred, by the shoulder, and Carlino stammered, ‘All three of us, mind! All three of us did it! O Mother of God!’

  Darkness had fallen. How much time had passed? There was still the sight of that black, motionless thing lying on the ground, across the pale path. Fortunately, no one came this way. Beyond the patch of corn was a long row of mulberry trees. A dog began to
bark in the distance. And the three friends thought they were dreaming when they heard the whistle of the tram they had been on their way to catch half an hour earlier – it seemed like a hundred years ago.

  Pigna said they should dig a deep hole to conceal what had happened, and he forced Ambrogio to drag the dead girl into the field, since the three of them were in this together. The body was as heavy as lead. Then it would not fit into the hole. Carlino cut off the head with a hunting knife that Pigna happened to have with him. After they had filled in the hole and stamped down the earth, they felt calmer, and set off down the lane. Ambrogio kept a mistrustful eye on Pigna, who had the knife in his pocket. They were dying of thirst, but made a big detour to avoid a country inn that came into view as dawn broke. A cock crowing in the coolness of the early morning made them jump. They proceeded warily, and without uttering a word, but they were loathe to part, almost as if they were chained together.

  The police arrested them a few days later, picking them up one by one: Ambrogio, in a brothel, where he was holed up from morning till night; Carlo, near Bergamo, for the way he was wandering about had attracted their attention; and Pigna at the factory, right there in the midst of the workers coming and going, and the machine roaring away. But at the sight of the police he turned pale and all of a sudden his tongue felt knotted. At the trial, in the dock, they looked daggers at each other, regarding one another as traitors. But later in prison when they remembered how they had got into this mess, they felt as if they were going out of their minds, seeing how one thing leads to another, and how you could start out just having a bit of fun and end up with blood on your hands.

  THE SCHOOLMASTER

  Every morning, before seven, the schoolmaster would be seen passing, as he went from house to house, collecting his pupils: with a walking stick in one hand and a fractious child attached to the other, and a bevy of youngsters trailing behind, who at every stop would throw themselves on the pavement like tired sheep. Donna Mena, the haberdasher, would have her Aloardo waiting, all nice and clean again, by dint of repeated walloping, and the schoolmaster, ever kind and patient, would drag the little brat away with him, screaming and kicking. He would come back later, before lunch, with Aloardino in tow, now completely covered in mud, leave him outside the shop, and take by the hand again the child with whom he had arrived that morning.