Sicilian Stories

by Giovanni Verga

  – L’ho contrattato stamattina; ma è troppo caro. Poi farei ridere la gente con quell’asino bianco e nero. Vedete che nessuno l’ha voluto fino adesso!

  – È vero, ma il colore non fa nulla, per quello che vi serve.

  E domandò al padrone:

  – Quanto vi dobbiamo regalare per l’asino di san Giuseppe?

  La padrona dell’asino di san Giuseppe, vedendo che si ripigliava il negozio, andava riaccostandosi quatta, quatta, colle mani giunte sotto la mantellina.

  – Non me ne parlate! – cominciò a gridare compare Neli, scappando per il piano. – Non me ne parlate che non ne voglio sentir parlare!

  – Se non lo vuole, lasciatelo stare – rispose il padrone. – Se non lo piglia lui, lo piglierà un altro. «Tristo chi non ha più nulla da vendere dopo la fiera!»

  – Ed io voglio essere ascoltato, santo diavolone! – strillava l’amico. – Che non posso dire la mia bestialità anch’io?

  E correva ad afferrare compare Neli pel giubbone; poi tornava a parlare all’orecchio del padrone dell’asino, il quale voleva tornarsene

  “If you don’t go away,” her husband replied, “I’ll give you a kick, and a real hard one!”

  That’s how the hours went by at the fair; but none of those who passed in front of St. Joseph’s donkey stopped to look at him. For one thing, his owner had picked out the most undesirable location, next to the low-priced animals, so that the donkey’s magpie coat wouldn’t be too conspicuous next to the beautiful bay she-mules and the shining horses! It took a man like neighbor Neli to bargain for St. Joseph’s donkey, while everyone at the fair started laughing at the sight of him. From waiting in the sun so long, the colt had let his head hang and his ears droop, and his owner had sat down gloomily on the stones, he, too, with his hands dangling between his knees, and with the halter in his hands, looking to and fro at the long shadows that the legs of all those animals that hadn’t found a buyer were beginning to cast on the plain as the sun went down. Then neighbor Neli, his brother, and another friend they had picked up for the occasion passed by, looking up in the air; the owner of the donkey turned his head away so he wouldn’t seem to have been waiting for them there. Neighbor Neli’s friend looked dumbfounded and said, as if he had had the idea:

  “Oh, look at St. Joseph’s donkey! Why don’t you buy this one, neighbor Neli?”

  “I bargained for it this morning, but it’s too expensive. Besides, I’d make people laugh with that black-and-white donkey. You see that nobody has been interested in him up to now!”

  “True, but his color doesn’t matter, for the use you’ll make of him.”

  And he inquired of the owner:

  “What are you asking for St. Joseph’s donkey?”

  The wife of the owner of St. Joseph’s donkey, seeing that negotiations had resumed, approached again very quietly, her hands clasped under her shoulder cape.

  “Don’t talk to me about it!” neighbor Neli started yelling, running away along the level ground. “Don’t talk to me about it, because I don’t want to hear about it!”

  “If he doesn’t want him, let him go,” the owner replied. “If he doesn’t buy him, someone else will. ‘It’s too bad about the man who has nothing left to sell after the fair!’”

  “But I want to be listened to, damn it!” the friend shrieked. “Why am I not entitled to make my stupid remarks, too?”

  And he ran over and grabbed neighbor Neli by the jacket; then he came back and whispered in the ear of the donkey’s owner, who was

  a casa per forza coll’asinello, e gli buttava le braccia al collo, susurrandogli:

  – Sentite! cinque lire più o meno, se non lo vendete oggi, un minchione come mio compare non lo trovate più da comprarvi la vostra bestia che non vale un sigaro.

  Ed abbracciava anche la padrona dell’asino, le parlava all’orecchio, per tirarla dalla sua. Ma ella si stringeva nelle spalle, e rispondeva col viso torvo:

  – Sono affari del mio uomo. Io non c’entro. Ma se ve lo dà per meno di quaranta lire è un minchione, in coscienza! Ci costa di più a noi!

  – Stamattina ero pazzo ad offrire trentacinque lire! – ripicchiava compare Neli. – Vedete se ha trovato un altro compratore per quel prezzo? In tutta la fiera non c’è più che quattro montoni rognosi e l’asino di san Giuseppe. Adesso trenta lire, se li vuole!

  – Pigliatele! – suggeriva piano al marito la padrona dell’asino colle lagrime agli occhi. – Stasera non abbiamo da far la spesa, e a Turiddu gli è tornata la febbre; ci vuole il solfato.

  – Santo diavolone! – strillava suo marito. – Se non te ne vai, ti faccio assaggiare la cavezza! – Trentadue e mezzo, via! – gridò infine l’amico, scuotendoli forte per il colletto. – Né voi, né io! Stavolta deve valere la mia parola, per i santi del paradiso! e non voglio neppure un bicchiere di vino! Vedete che il sole è tramontato? Cosa aspettate ancora tutt’e due?

  E strappò di mano al padrone la cavezza, mentre compare Neli, bestemmiando, tirava fuori dalla tasca il pugno colle trentacinque lire, e gliele dava senza guardarle, come gli strappassero il fegato. L’amico si tirò in disparte colla padrona dell’asino, a contare i denari su di un sasso, mentre il padrone dell’asino scappava per la fiera come un puledro, bestemmiando e dandosi dei pugni.

  Ma poi si lasciò raggiungere dalla moglie, la quale adagio adagio andava contando di nuovo i denari nel fazzoletto, e domandò:

  – Ci sono?

  – Sì, ci son tutti; sia lodato san Gaetano! Ora vado dallo speziale.

  – Li ho minchionati! Io glielo avrei dato anche per venti lire; gli asini di quel colore lì sono vigliacchi.

  E compare Neli, tirandosi dietro il ciuco per la scesa, diceva:

  – Com’è vero Dio, glie l’ho rubato il puledro! Il colore non fa niente. Vedete che pilastri di gambe, compare? Questo vale quaranta lire ad occhi chiusi.

  adamant about going back home with the donkey colt. Throwing his arms around the man’s neck, he said softly:

  “Listen! What’s five lire more or less? If you don’t sell him today, you won’t find another ninny as big as my neighbor to buy your animal, which isn’t worth a cigar!”

  And he also embraced the owner’s wife around the neck, whispering in her ear in order to bring her over to his side. But she shrugged her shoulders and replied with a sullen face:

  “It’s my husband’s business. I have nothing to do with it. But if he sells it to you for less than forty lire, he’s a fool, take my word for it! The donkey costs us more!”

  “This morning it was crazy of me to offer thirty-five lire!” neighbor Neli retorted. “See, has he found another buyer at that price? There’s nothing left in the fair but a few mangy wethers and St. Joseph’s donkey. Now, thirty lire, if he wants it!”

  “Take it!” the wife of the donkey’s owner prompted her husband quietly, with tears in her eyes. “We have no money for shopping this evening, and Turiddu’s fever is back; we need sulphur for it.”

  “Damn it!” her husband shrieked. “If you don’t go away, I’ll give you a taste of the halter!” “Thirty-two and a half, and that’s it!” the friend finally shouted, shaking them hard by the collar. “That’s final! This time, what I say has to count, by all the saints in Paradise! And I’m not even asking for a glass of wine for brokering the deal! Can’t you see that the sun has gone down? What are the two of you still waiting for?”

  And he yanked the halter out of the owner’s hand, while neighbor Neli, cursing, drew out of his pocket his hand that was clutching the thirty-five lire, and handed over the money without looking at it, as if his liver were being torn out. His friend stepped off to one side with the wife of the donkey’s owner to count the money on a rock, while the donkey’s owner dashed away through the fair like a colt, cursing and punching himself.

  But then he let himself be overtaken by his wife, who was slowly counting the money again in her kerchief. He asked:

  “Is it all there?”

  “Yes, all of it, thanks to St. Gaeta
no! Now I’m going to the pharmacist’s.”

  “I fooled them! I would have given him to them for even twenty lire! Donkeys that color are bad workers.”

  But neighbor Neli, pulling the donkey behind him down the slope, was saying:

  “As true as there’s a God in Heaven, I stole the colt from him! The color doesn’t matter. See what legs like columns he has, neighbor? This one’s worth forty lire easily.”

  – Se non c’ero io – rispose l’amico – non ne facevate nulla. Qui ci ho ancora due lire e mezzo di vostro. E se volete, andremo a berle alla salute dell’asino.

  Adesso al puledro gli toccava di aver la salute per guadagnarsi le trentadue lire e cinquanta che era costato, e la paglia che si mangiava. Intanto badava a saltellare dietro a compare Neli, cercando di addentargli il giubbone per giuoco, quasi sapesse che era il giubbone del padrone nuovo, e non gliene importasse di lasciare per sempre la stalla dov’era stato al caldo, accanto alla madre, a fregarsi il muso sulla sponda della mangiatoia, o a fare a testate e a capriole col montone, e andare a stuzzicare il maiale nel suo cantuccio. E la padrona, che contava di nuovo i denari nel fazzoletto davanti al banco dello speziale, non pensava nemmen lei che aveva visto nascere il puledro, tutto bianco e nero colla pelle lucida come seta, che non si reggeva ancora sulle gambe, e stava accovacciato al sole nel cortile, e tutta l’erba con cui s’era fatto grande e grosso le era passata per le mani. La sola che si rammentasse del puledro era la ciuca, che allungava il collo ragliando verso l’uscio della stalla; ma quando non ebbe più le poppe gonfie di latte, si scordò del puledro anch’essa.

  – Ora questo qui – diceva compare Neli – vedrete che mi porta quattro tumoli di farro meglio di un mulo. E alla messe lo metto a trebbiare.

  Alla trebbiatura il puledro, legato in fila per il collo colle altre bestie, muli vecchi e cavalli sciancati, trotterellava sui covoni da mattina a sera, tanto che si riduceva stanco e senza voglia di abboccare nel mucchio della paglia, dove lo mettevano a riposare all’ombra, come si levava il venticello, mentre i contadini spagliavano, gridando: Viva Maria!

  Allora lasciava cascare il muso e le orecchie ciondoloni, come un asino fatto, coll’occhio spento, quasi fosse stanco di guardare quella vasta campagna bianca la quale fumava qua e là della polvere delle aie, e pareva non fosse fatta per altro che per lasciar morire di sete e far trottare sui covoni. Alla sera tornava al villaggio colle bisacce piene, e il ragazzo del padrone seguitava a pungerlo nel garrese, lungo le siepi del sentiero che parevano vive dal cinguettìo delle cingallegre e dall’odor di nepitella e di ramerino, e l’asino avrebbe voluto darci una boccata, se non l’avessero fatto trottare sempre, tanto che gli calò il sangue alle gambe, e dovettero portarlo dal maniscalco; ma al padrone non gliene importava nulla, perché la raccolta era stata buona, e il

  “If I hadn’t been there,” his friend replied, “you wouldn’t have accomplished a thing. I still have here two and a half lire belonging to you. If you like, let’s go and spend it drinking to the donkey’s health.”

  Now the donkey needed all the health he could get in order to work off the thirty-two and a half lire he had cost and the straw he ate. Meanwhile, he attentively trotted behind neighbor Neli, trying to bite his jacket in fun, as if he knew it was the jacket of his new owner, and as if it didn’t matter to him that he was leaving behind forever the stable where he had felt warm, next to his mother, rubbing his muzzle on the rim of the manger, playing with the wether with capers and butts of the head, and prodding the pig in its corner. And the wife of his first owner, counting out the money in her kerchief again in front of the pharmacist’s counter, didn’t even recall that she had seen the colt being born, all black-and-white with his skin shiny as silk, still unable to stand up, curled up in the sunshine in the yard; and that all the grass on which he had grown big and fat had passed through her hands. The only one who remembered the colt was his mother, who brayed as she stretched out her neck toward the stable door; but when her dugs were no longer swollen with milk, she, too, forgot about the colt.

  “Now this one here,” neighbor Neli was saying, “see if he doesn’t carry four tumoli of spelt better than a mule. And at harvest time I’ll make him thresh.”

  At the threshing the colt, tied by the neck in line with the other animals, old mules and crippled horses, trotted on the sheaves from morning till evening, until he was so tired he didn’t feel like snapping up straw from the stack, where they placed him to rest in the shade, when the breeze sprang up, while the farmhands were separating the grain from the straw, shouting: “Long live the Blessed Virgin Mary!”

  Then he lowered his muzzle and let his ears droop, just like an adult donkey, his eyes glassy as if he were tired of looking at that vast white countryside, which seemed to be emitting smoke here and there—it was the dust from the threshing floors—and seemed to have been created for nothing else but letting you die of thirst as you trotted on the sheaves. In the evening he’d return to the village with his saddlebags full, as his owner’s boy followed, jabbing him in the withers with the goad, alongside the hedges bordering the path, which seemed alive with the twittering of the titmice and the fragrance of the calamint and rosemary. The donkey would have liked to take a bite out of the hedges, but they made him keep trotting, until the blood was flowing down his legs and he had to be taken to the veterinarian. But none of that mattered to his owner,

  puledro si era buscate le sue trentadue lire e cinquanta. Il padrone diceva: «Ora il lavoro l’ha fatto, e se lo vendo anche per venti lire, ci ho sempre il mio guadagno».

  Il solo che volesse bene al puledro era il ragazzo che lo faceva trotterellare pel sentiero, quando tornavano dall’aia; e piangeva mentre il maniscalco gli bruciava le gambe coi ferri roventi, che il puledro si contorceva, colla coda in aria, e le orecchie ritte come quando scorazzava pel campo della fiera, e tentava divincolarsi dalla fune attorcigliata che gli stringeva il labbro, e stralunava gli occhi dallo spasimo quasi avesse il giudizio, quando il garzone del maniscalco veniva a cambiare i ferri rossi qual fuoco, e la pelle fumava e friggeva come il pesce nella padella. Ma compare Neli gridava al suo ragazzo: – Bestia! perché piangi? Ora il suo lavoro l’ha fatto, e giacché la raccolta è andata bene lo venderemo e compreremo un mulo, che è meglio.

  I ragazzi certe cose non le capiscono, e dopo che vendettero il puledro a massaro Cirino il Licodiano, il figlio di compare Neli andava a fargli visita nella stalla e ad accarezzarlo nel muso e sul collo, ché l’asino si voltava a fiutarlo come se gli fosse rimasto attaccato il cuore a lui, mentre gli asini son fatti per essere legati dove vuole il padrone, e mutano di sorte come cambiano di stalla. Massaro Cirino il Licodiano aveva comprato l’asino di san Giuseppe per poco, giacché aveva ancora la cicatrice al pasturale, che la moglie di compare Neli, quando vedeva passare l’asino col padrone nuovo, diceva: «Quello era la nostra sorte; quel pelame bianco e nero porta allegria nell’aia; e adesso le annate vanno di male in peggio, talché abbiamo venduto anche il mulo».

  Massaro Cirino aveva aggiogato l’asino all’aratro, colla cavalla vecchia che ci andava come una pietra d’anello, e tirava via il suo bravo solco tutto il giorno per miglia e miglia, dacché le lodole cominciano a trillare nel cielo bianco dell’alba, sino a quando i pettirossi correvano a rannicchiarsi dietro gli sterpi nudi che tremavano di freddo, col volo breve e il sibilo malinconico, nella nebbia che montava come un mare. Soltanto, siccome l’asino era più piccolo della cavalla, ci avevano messo un cuscinetto di strame sul basto, sotto il giogo, e stentava di più a strappare le zolle indurite dal gelo, a furia di spallate: «Questo mi risparmia la cavalla che è vecchia, diceva massaro Cirino. Ha il cuore grande come la Piana di Catania, quell’asino di san Giuseppe! e non si direbbe».

  because the harvest had been good, and the colt had earned back his thirty-two and a half lire. His owner said: “Now he’s done his work, and if I sell him for even twenty lire, I’ll still have made a profit.”

  The only one who loved the colt was the boy who made him trot down
the path on the way back from the threshing floor. He wept while the blacksmith-vet burned the donkey’s legs with red-hot irons and the donkey writhed, his tail in the air and his ears as erect as when he was running around the fairgrounds. He was trying to work himself loose from the twisted rope that was pressing into his lips; and his eyes popped out with the pain, as if he had sense like a human being, when the blacksmith’s assistant came over with new irons red as fire, and his skin was smoking and frying like a fish in the pan. But neighbor Neli shouted to his boy: “Idiot! What are you crying for? Now he’s done his work, and, since the harvest has been good, we’ll sell him and buy a mule, which is better.”

  Boys just don’t understand certain things. After they sold the colt to farmer Cirino, the man from Licodia, neighbor Neli’s son would visit him in his stable and pat his muzzle and neck, while the donkey turned around to sniff him as if his heart had remained attached to him, whereas donkeys were created to be tied up wherever their owner wants, and change their destiny the way they change stables. Farmer Cirino from Licodia had bought St. Joseph’s donkey at a low price because he already had scars on his pasterns. Whenever neighbor Neli’s wife saw the donkey pass by with his new master, she’d say: “He was our good-luck charm. That black-and-white coat brings happiness to the threshing floor. Now our crops are getting worse all the time, so that we’ve had to sell the mule, too.”

  Farmer Cirino had yoked the donkey to the plow along with the old mare, who worked like a gem, and he plowed a good furrow all day long for miles and miles, from the hour when the larks began to warble in the white dawn sky, until the hour when the robins hastened back, with a brief flutter and a melancholy whistling call, to their nests behind the bare brambles that shook in the cold wind, amid the fog that rose like a sea. Only, because the donkey was shorter than the mare, they had placed a cushion of straw on top of his packsaddle, beneath the yoke, and it was a greater effort for him to pull out the sods, which were hardened by the frost, by dint of vigorous thrusts of the shoulders. “This one is saving my old mare for me,” farmer Cirino would say. “He’s got a heart as big as the Plain of Catania, that St. Joseph’s donkey! And you wouldn’t think it, to look at him.”