NEDDA
For me the household hearth was a figure of speech, a suitable framework for the gentlest, calmest emotions, just as a moonbeam is a proper light for enhancing blonde tresses; but I used to smile whenever I was told that firelight is virtually a friend. To tell the truth, it seemed to me like a friend who is too compulsory, at times tiresome and despotic, one who’d gradually want to take you by the hands or feet and pull you into his smoky cave to give you a Judas kiss. I was unfamiliar with the pastime of poking the logs and the pleasure of feeling myself washed over by the reverberation of the flames; I didn’t understand the language of the log that crackles teasingly, or grumbles as it blazes; my eyes weren’t accustomed to the odd patterns of the sparks running like fireflies over the blackened brands, the fantastic figures taken on by the wood as it carbonizes, the thousand chiaroscuro gradations of the blue-and-red flame that licks as if timidly, caresses gracefully, and then flares up with impudent petulance. When I became initiated into the mysteries of the tongs and the bellows, I fell madly in love with the voluptuous laziness of the fireside. I drop my body onto that armchair next to the fire the way I would drop a garment onto it, abandoning to the flames the task of making my blood circulate more hotly and my heart beat faster, and charging the flying sparks, which flit about giddily like lovesick butterflies, with the duty of keeping my eyes open and making my thoughts roam just as capriciously. This spectacle of your own thoughts fluttering at random out of your control, leaving you behind while they dash off into the distance and, without your knowledge, waft sweet or bitter gusts into your heart, possesses attractions that can’t be defined. Your cigar half-extinguished, your eyes partly shut, the tongs slipping out of your relaxed fingers, you see the other part of yourself traveling far away, covering dizzying distances; you seem to feel currents of unknown atmospheres passing through your sinews as you smile; you feel the effect of a thousand sensations that would turn your hair gray and dig wrinkles into your brow, though you don’t stir a finger or take a step.
E in una di coteste peregrinazioni vagabonde dello spirito la fiamma che scoppiettava, troppo vicina forse, mi fece rivedere un’altra fiamma gigantesca che avevo visto ardere nell’immenso focolare della fattoria del Pino, alle falde dell‘Etna. Pioveva, e il vento urlava incollerito; le venti o trenta donne che raccoglievano le ulive del podere facevano fumare le loro vesti bagnate dalla pioggia dinanzi al fuoco; le allegre, quelle che avevano dei soldi in tasca, o quelle che erano innamorate, cantavano; le altre ciarlavano della raccolta delle ulive, che era stata cattiva, dei matrimoni della parrocchia, o della pioggia che rubava loro il pane di bocca: la vecchia castalda filava, tanto perché la lucerna appesa alla cappa del focolare non ardesse per nulla, il grosso cane color di lupo allungava il muso sulle zampe verso il fuoco, rizzando le orecchie ad ogni diverso ululato del vento. Poi, nel tempo che cuocevasi la minestra, il pecorajo si mise a suonare certa arietta montanina che pizzicava le gambe, e le ragazze si misero a ballare sull’ammattonato sconnesso della vasta cucina affumicata, mentre il cane brontolava per timore che gli pestassero la coda. I cenci svolazzavano allegramente, mentre le fave ballavano anch’esse nella pentola, borbottando in mezzo alla schiuma che faceva sbuffare la fiamma. Quando tutte furono stanche, venne la volta alle canzonette, Nedda! – Nedda la varannisa! esclamarono parecchie. Dove s’è cacciata la varannisa?
Son qua; rispose una voce breve dall’angolo più buio, dove s’era accoccolata una ragazza su di un fascio di legna.
– O che fai tu costà?
– Nulla.
– Perché non hai ballato?
– Perché son stanca.
– Cantaci una delle tue belle canzonette.
– No, non voglio cantare.
– Che hai?
– Nulla.
– Ha la mamma che sta per morire, rispose una delle sue compagne, come se avesse detto che aveva male ai denti.
La ragazza che stava col mento sui ginocchi alzò su quella che aveva parlato certi occhioni neri, scintillanti, ma asciutti, quasi impassibili, e tornò a chinarli, senza aprir bocca, sui suoi piedi nudi.
Allora due o tre si volsero verso di lei, mentre le altre si sbandavano ciarlando tutte in una volta come gazze che festeggiano il lauto pascolo, e le dissero:
And in one of those vagabond pilgrimages of the spirit, the crackling flames, perhaps too close to me, made me see again another, gigantic flame that I had once seen burning in the huge hearth of the Pine farmhouse on the slopes of Etna. It was raining, and the wind was howling angrily; the twenty or thirty women who were harvesting the olives on the farm were letting their rain-soaked clothes dry off in front of the fire; the cheerful ones, those with money in their pockets, or those who were in love, were singing; the others were chatting about the olive harvest, which had been poor, about the marriages in the parish, or about the rain, which was taking the food out of their mouths. The elderly wife of the farm manager was spinning, mainly to keep the oil lamp hanging from the hood of the fireplace from burning for nothing. The big wolf-colored dog had his muzzle extended over his paws facing the fire, and he’d prick up his ears at every different howl of the wind. Then, while the food was cooking, the shepherd began playing some mountain tune that tickled your feet, and the girls started dancing on the disjointed tile floor of the vast smoky kitchen, while the dog growled in fear of having his tail stepped on. The ragged clothes were fluttering cheerfully, while the beans were dancing, too, in the pot, muttering amid the froth puffed up by the fire. When all the women were tired, it was time for songs, and several of them called: “Nedda! Nedda from Viagrande! Where’s the girl from Viagrande hiding herself?”
“Here I am,” answered a small voice from the darkest corner, where a girl was squatting on her heels on top of a bundle of firewood.
“What are you doing over there?”
“Nothing.”
“Why didn’t you dance?”
“Because I’m tired.”
“Sing us one of your pretty songs.”
“No, I don’t feel like singing.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s because her mother is going to die,” one of her companions answered, in the same tone as if she had said that Nedda had a toothache.
The girl, who had been resting her chin on her knees, looked up at the woman who had spoken, her eyes wide, dark and sparkling, but dry and almost expressionless; then once again, without opening her mouth, she lowered them to look at her own bare feet.
Then two or three of the women turned toward her and, while the others scattered, all chattering at once like magpies rejoicing over a rich pasture, they said to her:
– O allora perché hai lasciato tua madre?
– Per trovar del lavoro.
– Di dove sei?
– Di Viagrande, ma sto a Ravanusa.
Una delle spiritose, la figlioccia del castaldo, che dovea sposare il terzo figlio di Massaro Jacopo a Pasqua, e aveva una bella crocetta d’oro al collo, le disse volgendole le spalle: – Eh! non è lontano! la cattiva nuova dovrebbe recartela proprio l’uccello!
Nedda le lanciò dietro un’occhiata simile a quella che il cane accovacciato dinanzi al fuoco lanciava agli zoccoli che minacciavano la sua coda.
– No! lo zio Giovanni sarebbe venuto a chiamarmi! esclamò come rispondendo a se stessa.
– Chi è lo zio Giovanni?
– È lo zio Giovanni di Ravanusa; lo chiamano tutti così.
– Bisognava farsi imprestare qualche cosa dallo zio Giovanni, e non lasciare tua madre, disse un’altra.
– Lo zio Giovanni non è ricco, e gli dobbiamo diggià dieci lire! E il medico? e le medicine? e il pane di ogni giorno? Ah! si fa presto a dire: aggiunse Nedda scrollando la testa, e lasciando trapelare per la prima volta un’intonazione più dolente nella voce rude e quasi selvaggia, ma a veder tramontare il sole dall’uscio, pensando che non c’è pane nell’armadio, né olio nella lucerna, né lavoro per l’indomani, la è una
cosa assai amara, quando si ha una povera vecchia inferma, là su quel lettuccio!
E scuoteva sempre il capo dopo aver taciuto, senza guardar nessuno, con occhi asciutti, che tradivano tale inconscio dolore quale gli occhi più abituati alle lagrime non saprebbero esprimere.
– Le vostre scodelle, ragazze! gridò la castalda scoperchiando la pentola in aria trionfale.
Tutte si affollarono attorno al focolare, ove la castalda distribuiva con sapiente parsimonia le mestolate di fave. Nedda aspettava ultima, colla sua scodelletta sotto il braccio. Finalmente ci fu posto anche per lei, e la fiamma l’illuminò tutta.
Era una ragazza bruna, vestita miseramente, dall’attitudine timida e ruvida che danno la miseria e l’isolamento. Forse sarebbe stata bella, se gli stenti e le fatiche non avessero alterato profondamente non solo le sembianze gentili della donna, ma direi anche la forma umana. I suoi capelli erano neri, folti, arruffati, appena annodati con dello spago, aveva denti bianchi come avorio, e una certa grossolana avvenenza di lineamenti che rendeva attraente il suo sorriso. Gli
“Then why did you leave your mother?”
“To find work.”
“Where are you from?”
“From Viagrande, but I’m staying at Ravanusa.”
One of the witty girls, the farm manager’s goddaughter, who was to marry farmer Jacopo’s third son at Easter, and who was wearing a lovely gold cross around her neck, said to her, while turning her back to her: “Oh, that’s not far! A little bird could bring the bad news to you!”
Nedda darted at her back a look like the one that the dog curled up in front of the fire was darting at the wooden clogs that were threatening his tail.
“No! ‘Uncle’ Giovanni would have come to call me!” she exclaimed as if in answer to herself.
“Who’s ‘Uncle’ Giovanni?”
“He’s ‘Uncle’ Giovanni from Ravanusa; everyone calls him that.”
“You should have borrowed some money from ‘Uncle’ Giovanni instead of leaving your mother,” another woman said.
“‘Uncle’ Giovanni isn’t rich, and we already owe him ten lire! And the doctor? And the medicine? And our daily bread? Oh, it’s easy enough to say,” Nedda added, shaking her head, and for the first time allowing a more sorrowful tone to tinge her rough, almost savage voice, “but to stand in your doorway watching the sun go down, knowing that there’s no bread in the cupboard, no oil in the lamp, and no work for the next day—that’s a very bitter thing when you’ve got a poor old woman lying ill on her cot!”
And after falling silent, she kept shaking her head, looking at nobody; her eyes were dry but revealed an unwitting sorrow of a kind that eyes more used to weeping couldn’t express.
“Your bowls, girls!” shouted the farm manager’s wife, raising the lid of the pot with a look of triumph.
They all crowded around the hearth, where the farm manager’s wife was ladling out the beans with prudent frugality. Nedda waited till she was the last, her little bowl under her arm. Finally there was room for her, too, and she was totally illuminated by the flames.
She was a swarthy girl, shabbily dressed, with that shy, coarse bearing produced by poverty and isolation. She might have been pretty, had not privations and labors thoroughly ruined not only her sweet womanly features, but even her human shape, as it were. Her hair was black, thick, tousled, contained only by a bit of string; she had teeth white as ivory, and a certain rough charm in her face that made her smile attractive. Her eyes were big and dark, swimming in a bluish
occhi avea neri, grandi, nuotanti in un fluido azzurrino, quali li avrebbe invidiati una regina a quella povera figliuola raggomitolata sull’ultimo gradino della scala umana, se non fossero stati offuscati dall’ombrosa timidezza della miseria, o non fossero sembrati stupidi per una triste e continua rassegnazione. Le sue membra schiacciate da pesi enormi, o sviluppate violentemente da sforzi penosi erano diventate grossolane, senza esser robuste. Ella faceva da manovale, quando non avea da trasportare sassi nei terreni che si andavano dissodando, o trasportava dei carichi in città per conto altrui, o faceva altri di quei lavori più duri che da quelle parti stimansi inferiori al compito dell’uomo. I lavori più comuni della donna, anche nei paesi agricoli, la vendemmia, la messe, la ricolta delle ulive, erano delle feste, dei giorni di baldoria, proprio un passatempo anziché una fatica. È vero bensì che fruttavano appena la metà di una buona giornata estiva da manovale, la quale dava 13 bravi soldi! I cenci sovrapposti in forma di vesti rendevano grottesca quella che avrebbe dovuto essere la delicata bellezza muliebre. L’immaginazione più vivace non avrebbe potuto figurarsi che quelle mani costrette ad un’aspra fatica di tutti i giorni, a raspar fra il gelo, o la terra bruciante, o i rovi e i crepacci, che quei piedi abituati ad andar nudi nella neve e sulle roccie infuocate dal sole, a lacerarsi sulle spine, o ad indurirsi sui sassi, avrebbero potuto esser belli. Nessuno avrebbe saputo dire quanti anni avesse cotesta creatura umana; la miseria l’avea schiacciata da bambina con tutti gli stenti che deformano e induriscono il corpo, l’anima e l’intelligenza – così era stato di sua madre, così di sua nonna, così sarebbe stato di sua figlia – e dell’impronta dei suoi fratelli in Eva bastava che le rimanesse quel tanto che occorreva per comprenderne gli ordini e per prestar loro i più umili, i più duri servigi.
Nedda sporse la sua scodella, e la castalda ci versò quello che rimaneva di fave nella pentola, e non era molto!
– Perché vieni sempre l’ultima? Non sai che gli ultimi hanno quel che avanza? le disse a mo’ di compenso la castalda.
La povera ragazza chinò gli occhi sulla broda nera che fumava nella sua scodella, come se meritasse il rimprovero, e andò pian pianino perché il contenuto non si versasse.
– Io te ne darei volentieri della mia, disse a Nedda una delle sue compagne che aveva miglior cuore; ma se domini continuasse a piovere . . . davvero! . . . oltre a perdere la mia giornata non vorrei anche mangiare tutto il mio pane.
– Io non ho questo timore! rispose Nedda con un tristo sorriso.
fluid, and a queen might have envied them, though she was just a poor girl huddled on the lowest rung of the social ladder, if they hadn’t been dulled by the melancholy timidity of poverty, or if they didn’t look stupid because of her constant sad resignation. Her limbs, crushed by enormous weights, or violently strengthened by painful efforts, had become coarse without being robust. She worked as a construction laborer when she wasn’t carrying rocks on land that was being tilled, bringing loads into town for other people, or performing other, harder labors of the kind that are considered in those areas to be beneath a man’s dignity. The tasks more common to women, even in farm regions—grape and grain harvesting and olive gathering—were like holidays to her, days of merrymaking, a pastime rather than a chore. Although, to tell the truth, they brought in barely half the income from a good summer’s day as a construction worker, which would produce a whopping 13 soldi! The layers of rags in lieu of a dress made a grotesquerie of what should have been her delicate female beauty. The most vivid imagination couldn’t conceive that those hands compelled to do rough work every day, scraping in the ice, the burning soil, the brambles, or rock clefts, that those feet accustomed to go bare on the snow and on boulders scalded by the sun, to be cut with thorns or callused on the rocks, might have been beautiful. No one could have told the age of that human creature; from her childhood on, poverty had crushed her with every privation that stunts and toughens the body, soul, and mind—it had been that way with her mother and grandmother, it would be that way with her daughter—and it was sufficient for her to have retained that little bit of the imprint of her brothers-in-Eve which would allow her to understand their orders and to perform the lowest and hardest services for them.
Nedda held out her bowl, and the farm manager’s wife poured into it the beans remaining in the pot, and it wasn’t a lot!
“Why do you always show up last? Don’t you know that those who are last get only what’s left over?” the farm manager’s wife said, as i
f to make things up to her.
The poor girl looked down at the black broth that was steaming in her bowl, as if she deserved the reproach, and she walked away very slowly, so that it wouldn’t spill out.
Sicilian Stories Page 3
