Sicilian Stories

by Giovanni Verga

  Alla ragazza quel «sorella mia» le scendeva al cuore dolce come il miele, e ci ripensava tutta la sera, mentre filava zitta accanto al lume; e ci mulinava, ci mulinava sopra, come il fuso che frullava.

  La mamma, sembrava che glielo leggesse nel fuso, e come da un par di settimane non si udivano più ariette alla sera, né si vedeva passare quello che vendeva le rane, diceva colla nuora: – Com’è tristo l’inverno! Ora non si sente più un’anima pel vicinato.

  Adesso bisognava tener l’uscio chiuso, pel freddo, e dallo sportello non si vedeva altro che la finestra di rimpetto, nera dalla pioggia, o qualche vicino che tornava a casa, sotto il cappotto fradicio. Ma Pino il Tomo non si faceva più vivo, che se un povero malato aveva bisogno di un po’ di brodo di rane, diceva la Lucia, non sapeva come fare.

  Her mother, who saw all this, and who was also listening, would look at her daughter and say that, as for her, the music cheered her up. Lucia pretended not to know anything about it. But every day, at the hour when the frogcatcher went by, she never failed to show herself at the window, spindle in hand. As soon as “the character” came back from the river, he’d wander up and down the village; he was always roaming around that area with his string of frogs in his hand, yelling: “Singing fish! Singing fish!”—as if the poor folk in those alleys were able to buy “singing fish.”

  “They should be good for sick people,” Lucia used to say, dying to establish a rapport with “the character.” But her mother didn’t want them to spend money on her.

  “The character,” seeing Lucia watching him furtively, her chin on her bosom, would slacken his pace in front of her door; on Sundays he mustered up enough courage to come a little closer, even to the point of sitting on the adjacent veranda step, his hands hanging between his thighs. In the group of women he’d tell how he caught the frogs, which took infernal shrewdness. He, Pino “the character,” was shrewder than a red-coated donkey, and he’d wait until the women had dispersed before going over and saying to Mis’ Lucia: “We need rain for the crops!” or: “There won’t be many olives this year.”

  “What does that matter to you? You make your living from the frogs,” Lucia would say.

  “Listen, my sister, we all depend on one another like the fingers of one hand, or like the rooftiles, each one passing along the water to the next. If grain isn’t harvested and oil isn’t pressed, no money comes into the village, and no one buys my frogs. Get it?”

  That “my sister” sank into the girl’s heart as sweetly as honey; she kept thinking about it all evening, while she was spinning silently beside the lamp. She meditated and meditated on it, like the whirring spindle.

  Her mother seemed to have read her secret in the spindle. After a couple of weeks during which no more songs were heard in the evening, and the frog vendor wasn’t seen passing by, she said to her daughter-in-law: “How gloomy winter is! Now you can’t hear a soul in the neighborhood.”

  Now they had to keep the door shut because of the cold, and all they could see through the casement was the window opposite, black with rain, or some neighbor coming home in his sopping overcoat. But Pino “the character” wasn’t to be seen, so that if a poor sick person needed a little frog broth, Lucia said, he didn’t know what to do.

  – Sarà andato a buscarsi il pane in qualche altro modo – rispondeva la cognata. – Quello è un mestiere povero, di chi non sa far altro.

  Santo, che un sabato sera aveva inteso la chiacchiera, per amor della sorella, le faceva il predicozzo:

  – A me non mi piace questa storia del Tomo. Bel partito che sarebbe per mia sorella! Uno che campa delle rane, e sta colle gambe in molle tutto il giorno! Tu devi cercarti un campagnuolo, ché se non ha roba, almeno è fatto della stessa pasta tua.

  Lucia stava zitta, a capo basso e colle ciglia aggrottate, e alle volte si mordeva le labbra per non spiattellare: – Dove lo trovo il campagnuolo? – Come se stesse a lei a trovare! Quello solo che aveva trovato, ora non si faceva più vivo, forse perché la Rossa gli aveva fatto qualche partaccia, invidiosa e pettegola com’era. Già Santo parlava sempre per dettato di sua moglie, la quale andava dicendo che quello delle rane era un fannullone, e certo era arrivata all’orecchio di compare Pino.

  Perciò ad ogni momento scoppiava la guerra tra le due cognate:

  – Qui la padrona, non son io! – brontolava Lucia. – In questa casa la padrona è quella che ha saputo abbindolare mio fratello, e chiapparlo per marito.

  – Se sapevo quel che veniva dopo, non l’abbindolavo, no, vostro fratello; ché se prima avevo bisogno di un pane, adesso ce ne vogliono cinque.

  – A voi che ve ne importa se quello delle rane ha un mestiere o no? Quando fosse mio marito, ci avrebbe a pensar lui a mantenermi.

  La mamma, poveretta, si metteva di mezzo, colle buone; ma era donna di poche parole, e non sapeva far altro che correre dall’una all’altra, colle mani nei capelli, balbettando: – Per carità! per carità! – Ma le donne non le davano retta nemmeno, piantandosi le unghie sulla faccia, dopo che la Rossa si lasciò scappare un parolaccia «Arrabbiata!».

  – Arrabbiata tu! che m’hai rubato il fratello!

  Allora sopravveniva Santo, e le picchiava tutte e due per metter pace, e la Rossa, piangendo, brontolava:

  – Io dicevo per suo bene! ché quando una si marita senza roba, poi i guai vengono presto.

  E alla sorella che strillava e si strappava i capelli, Santo per rabbonirla tornava a dire:

  – Cosa vuoi che ci faccia, ora ch’è mia moglie? Ma ti vuol bene e parla pel tuo meglio. Lo vedi che bel guadagno ci abbiamo fatto noi due a maritarci?

  “He’s probably gone to earn his living in some other way,” her sister-in-law replied. “The trade he’s in is a poor one, just good enough for someone who can’t do anything else.”

  Santo, who had heard that conversation one Saturday evening, gave his sister a scolding out of love for her:

  “I don’t like this business with ’the character.’ A fine match he’d make for a sister of mine! A man who lives off frogs and stands with his legs in the water all day! You need to find yourself a field hand; even if he doesn’t own anything, at least he’d be made of the same stuff as you.”

  Lucia kept quiet, her head bowed and her brow knitted; sometimes she bit her lips to keep from blurting out: “Where am I to find this field hand?” As if it were up to her to find him! The one man she had found didn’t show up anymore, maybe because Redhead had given him a dressing down, she was so envious and scandal-mongering. By now Santo always spoke at his wife’s dictation, and she kept saying that the frog fellow was a good-for-nothing. This must have reached neighbor Pino’s ears.

  And so, war broke out between the two sisters-in-law constantly:

  “I’m not the woman of the house!” Lucia grumbled. “The woman of this house is the one who was able to hoodwink my brother and catch him as a husband.”

  “If I had known what was coming, I wouldn’t have hoodwinked your brother, no, ma’am; because if I needed one loaf of bread before, now I need five.”

  “What does it matter to you whether the frog fellow has a proper trade or not? If he were my husband, he’d have to worry about supporting me.”

  Her mother, poor woman, tried to mediate with calming words; but she wasn’t much of a talker, and all she could do was to run back and forth between them, her hands in her hair, stammering: “Please! Please!” But the women didn’t even pay attention to her; they scratched each other’s faces after Redhead let slip the insult: “Man crazy!”

  “You’re the one who’s man crazy! You stole my brother from me!”

  Then Santo would intervene and beat both of them to pacify them; and Redhead would weep and grumble:

  “I said it for her own good! Because when a woman marries and there’s no money, the troubles come fast.”

  To calm down his sister, who was shrieking and pulling out her hair, Santo would repeat:

  “What can I do about it, now that she’s my wife? She loves you and she says tho
se things to help you. See what a great benefit we two have gained from getting married?”

  Lucia si lagnava colla mamma.

  – Io voglio farci il guadagno che ci han fatto loro! Piuttosto voglio andare a servire! Qui se si fa vedere un cristiano, ve lo scacciano via. – E pensava a quello delle rane che non si lasciava più vedere.

  Dopo si venne a conoscere che era andato a stare colla vedova di massaro Mariano; anzi volevano maritarsi: perché è vero che non aveva un mestiere, ma era un pezzo di giovanotto fatto senza risparmio, e bello come san Vito in carne e in ossa addirittura; e la sciancata aveva roba da pigliarsi il marito che gli pareva e piaceva.

  – Guardate qua, compare Pino – gli diceva: – questa è tutta roba bianca, questi son tutti orecchini e collane d’oro; in questa giara qui ci son 12 cafisi d’olio; e quel graticcio è pieno di fave. Se voi siete contento, potete vivere colle mani sulla pancia, e non avrete più bisogno di stare a mezza gamba nel pantano per acchiappar le rane.

  – Per me sarei contento – diceva il Tomo. Ma pensava agli occhi neri di Lucia, che lo cercavano di sotto all’impannata della finestra, e ai fianchi della sciancata, che si dimenavano come quelli delle rane, mentre andava di qua e di là per la casa, a fargli vedere tutta quella roba. Però una volta che non aveva potuto buscarsi un grano da tre giorni, e gli era toccato stare in casa della vedova, a mangiare e bere, e a veder piovere dall’uscio, si persuase a dir di sì, per amor del pane.

  – È stato per amor del pane, vi giuro! – diceva egli colle mani in croce, quando tornò a cercar comare Lucia dinanzi all’uscio. – Se non fosse stato per la malannata, non sposavo la sciancata, comare Lucia!

  – Andate a contarglielo alla sciancata! – gli rispondeva la ragazza, verde dalla bile. – Questo solo voglio dirvi: che qui non ci avete a metter più piede.

  E la sciancata gli diceva anche lei che non ci mettesse più piede, se no lo scacciava di casa sua, nudo e affamato come l’aveva preso. – Non sai che, prima a Dio, mi hai obbligo del pane che ti mangi?

  A suo marito non gli mancava nulla: lui ben vestito, ben pasciuto, colle scarpe ai piedi, senza aver altro da fare che bighellonare in piazza tutto il giorno, dall’ortolano, dal beccaio, dal pescatore, colle mani dietro la schiena, e il ventre pieno, a veder contrattare la roba. – Quello è il suo mestiere, di fare il vagabondo! – diceva la Rossa. E Lucia rimbeccava che non faceva nulla perché aveva la moglie ricca che lo campava. – Se sposava me avrebbe lavorato per campar la moglie. – Santo, colla testa sulle mani, rifletteva che sua madre glielo

  Lucia complained to her mother.

  “I want to gain the benefit that they did! Rather than that, I want to become a servant! Here, if a man shows up, they chase him away.” And she’d think about the frog fellow, who never came around anymore.

  Then she found out that he had gone to live with farmer Mariano’s widow; in fact, they intended to get married. Because, while it was true that he didn’t have a proper trade, still he was a well-built young man with nothing lacking; really just as handsome as a flesh-and-blood St. Vitus, and not merely a picture; and the crippled woman was rich enough to choose any husband that appealed to her.

  “Look at this, neighbor Pino,” she’d say, “this is all white linen, these are all gold earrings and necklaces; this tall jar contains 12 cafisi of olive oil; and that wicker container is filled with beans. If it satisfies you, you can live with your hands folded, and you’ll never again need to stand in the swamp up to mid-thigh catching frogs.”

  “I, for one, am satisfied,” “the character” said. But he thought about Lucia’s dark eyes, which were seeking him below her window frame, and about the crippled woman’s sides, which jerked like those of frogs when she moved around the house showing him all those possessions. But on one occasion when he had been unable to earn a penny in three days, and had had the good fortune to stay in the widow’s house eating, drinking, and watching the rain from the doorway, he finally determined to accept for the sake of a good living.

  “It was for the sake of a good living, I swear!” he’d say, his hands crossed to confirm the statement, when he revisited neighbor Lucia at her door. “If it hadn’t been for the bad year I was having, I wouldn’t have married the cripple, neighbor Lucia!”

  “Go tell it to the cripple!” the girl replied, green with bile. “I want to tell you just this: you needn’t set foot in here anymore.”

  And the crippled woman, too, told him not to set foot there, or else she’d chase him out of her house just as naked and hungry as when she had taken him in. “Don’t you know that, God excepted, it’s to me that you owe the bread you eat?”

  Her husband lacked for nothing; well dressed and fed, with shoes on his feet, he had nothing to do but loiter in the square all day, visiting the greengrocer, the butcher, and the fishseller, his hands behind his back and his stomach full, watching people haggling over merchandise. “That’s his trade: being a bum!” Redhead would say. And Lucia would retort that he did nothing because he had a rich wife to support him. “If he had married me, he would have worked to support his wife.” Santo, head in hands, recalled that his mother had advised

  aveva consigliato, di pigliarsela lui la sciancata, e la colpa era sua di essersi lasciato sfuggire il pan di bocca.

  – Quando siamo giovani – predicava alla sorella – ci abbiamo in capo gli stessi grilli che hai tu adesso, e cerchiamo soltanto quel che ci piace, senza pensare al poi. Domandalo ora alla Rossa se si dovesse tornare a fare quel che abbiamo fatto! . . .

  La Rossa, accoccolata sulla soglia, approvava col capo, mentre i suoi marmocchi le strillavano intorno, tirandola per le vesti e pei capelli. – Almeno il Signore Iddio non dovrebbe mandarci la croce dei figliuoli! – piagnucolava.

  Dei figliuoli quelli che poteva se li tirava dietro nel campo, ogni mattina, come una giumenta i suoi puledri; la piccina dentro le bisacce, sulla schiena, e la più grandicella per mano. Ma gli altri tre però era costretta lasciarli a casa, a far disperare la cognata. Quella della bisaccia, e quella che trotterellava dietro zoppicando, strillavano in concerto per la viottola, al freddo dell’alba bianca, e la mamma di tanto in tanto doveva fermarsi, grattandosi la testa e sospirando: – Oh, Signore Iddio! – e scaldava col fiato le manine pavonazze della piccina, o tirava fuori dal sacco la lattante per darle la poppa, seguitando a camminare. Suo marito andava innanzi, curvo sotto il carico, e si voltava appena per darle il tempo di raggiungerlo tutta affannata, tirandosi dietro la bambina per la mano, e col petto nudo – non era per guardare i capelli della Rossa, oppure il petto che facesse l’onda dentro il busto, come al Castelluccio. Adesso la Rossa lo buttava fuori al sole e al gelo, come roba la quale non serve ad altro che a dar latte, tale e quale come una giumenta. – Una vera bestia da lavoro – quanto a ciò non poteva lagnarsi suo marito – a zappare, a mietere e a seminare, meglio di un uomo, quando tirava su le gonnelle, colle gambe nere sino a metà, nel seminato. Ora ella aveva ventisette anni, e tutt’altro da fare che badare alle scarpette e alle calze turchine. – Siamo vecchi, diceva suo marito, e bisogna pensare ai figliuoli. – Almeno si aiutavano l’un l’altro come due buoi dello stesso aratro. Questo era adesso il matrimonio.

  – Pur troppo lo so anch’io! – brontolava Lucia – che ho i guai dei figli, senza aver marito. Quando chiude gli occhi quella vecchierella, se vogliono darmi ancora un pezzo di pane me lo danno. Ma se no, mi mettono in mezzo a una strada.

  La mamma, poveretta, non sapeva che rispondere, e stava a sentirla, seduta accanto al letto, col fazzoletto in testa, e la faccia gialla dalla malattia. Di giorno s’affacciava sull’uscio, al sole, e ci stava

  him to marry the crippled woman; he was to blame for letting the bread escape from his mouth.

  “When we’re young,” he would preach to his sister, “we have in our head the same foolish notions you have now, and we look only for what we like, without thinking about the future. Ask Redhead now if we would do the same thing over again! . . .”

  Redhead, squatting on the threshold, nod
ded in confirmation, while her kids were screaming all around her, tugging her by her clothes and hair. “At least the Lord God shouldn’t send us the cross of having children!” she’d whimper.

  The children that were able to followed her to the fields every morning, like colts following a mare: the baby girl in the knapsack on her back and the somewhat bigger one holding her hand. But she was compelled to leave the other three at home, where they drove her sister-in-law to despair. The one in the knapsack, and the one toddling clumsily after her, would shriek in harmony along the path, in the chill of the white dawn; every so often their mother had to halt, scratching her head and sighing: “Oh, Lord God!” And she’d warm the little girl’s purple hands with her breath, or she’d take the infant out of the bag to nurse her while she went on walking. Her husband went ahead, bent under his load and scarcely turning long enough for her to catch up, all out of breath, dragging the girl behind her by the hand, and with her bosom bare. He had no mind to look at Redhead’s hair, or her bosom throbbing inside her bodice, as he had done at Castelluccio. Now Redhead pulled out those breasts in sunshine or frost, like objects whose only purpose is to supply milk, just like a mare. A real beast of burden—as for that, her husband couldn’t complain—hoeing, reaping, and sowing harder than a man when she pulled up her skirts in the grainfield, revealing legs that were darkened halfway up. Now she was twenty-seven, and dainty shoes and dark-blue stockings were the last things on her mind. “We’re old,” her husband said, “and we’ve got to think about the children.” At least they helped each other like two oxen yoked to the same plow. That was their marriage now.

  “Unfortunately, I experience it, too,” Lucia used to grumble, “I’ve got the headache of the children without having a husband. When my old mother dies, they’ll go on giving me a crust of bread only if they feel like it. If not, they’ll throw me out in the street.”