Sicilian Stories

by Giovanni Verga

  “Not me!” Lucia would reply. “I don’t like that kind of fun.”

  Brasi pretended to be abashed. He’d pick up the endive leaf she had thrown in his face, and would place it in his bosom, inside his shirt, grumbling:

  “This is my property. I won’t touch it. It’s my property, and it’s got to stay here. If you want to put something I own in the same place, it’s up to you!” And he made the gesture of pulling out a handful of his hair and offering it to her, while sticking his tongue all the way out.

  She’d punch him with her solid peasant girl’s fists that made him hunch up and gave him bad dreams at night, he said. She’d seize him by the hair like a puppy, and she felt a sort of pleasure when she thrust her fingers into that soft, curly fuzz.

  “Let yourself go! Let yourself go! I’m not as irritable as you are, and I’d let you pound me like sausage.”

  Once, Don Venerando caught them at such sport, and raised a terrible row. He said he didn’t want romances in his house; if they didn’t watch it, he’d kick both of them out. But when he found the girl alone in the kitchen, he’d pinch her cheek and try to caress her with two fingers.

  “No! No!” Lucia would complain. “I don’t like such games. If you keep it up, I’ll pack my belongings and leave.”

  “You like it when he does it! And not when I do it, though I’m your master? What’s the meaning of this nonsense? Don’t you know I can give you gold rings and earrings, and furnish your dowry, if I feel like it?”

  And in fact he could, Brasi said in confirmation, because the boss had all the money he wanted, and his wife wore a silk cape like a fine lady’s, now that she was thinner and older than a mummy. Which was why her husband went down to the kitchen to crack jokes with the maids. In addition, he went there to look after his interests, to see how much firewood was burning and how much meat they were cooking. Yes, he was rich, but he knew how hard it was to amass a fortune, and he spatted with his wife all day long; now that she was playing the great lady, she had all kinds of idle fancies, and complained about the smoke from the vine runners and the bad smell from the onions.

  “I want to put together my dowry with my own hands,” Lucia would retort. “My mother’s daughter wants to stay a decent girl, in case a good man asks for her hand.”

  – E tu restaci! – rispondeva il padrone. – Vedrai che bella dote! e quanti verranno a cercartela la tua onestà!

  Se i maccheroni erano troppo cotti, se Lucia portava in tavola due ova al tegame che sentivano l’arsiccio, don Venerando la strapazzava per bene, al cospetto della moglie, tutto un altro uomo, col ventre avanti e la voce alta. – Che credevano di far l’intruglio pel maiale? Con due persone di servizio che se lo mangiavano vivo! Un’altra volta le buttava la grazia di Dio sulla faccia! – La signora, benedetta, non voleva quegli schiamazzi, per via dei vicini, e rimandava la serva strillando in falsetto:

  – Vattene in cucina; levati di qua, sciamannona! paneperso!

  Lucia andava a piangere nel cantuccio del forno, ma Brasi la consolava, con quella sua faccia da mariuolo:

  – Cosa ve ne importa? Lasciateli cantare! Se si desse retta ai padroni, poveri noi! Le ova sentivano l’arsiccio? Peggio per loro! Non potevo spaccar la legna nel cortile, e rivoltar le ova nel tempo istesso. Mi fanno far da cuoco e da garzone, e vogliono essere serviti come il re! Che non si rammentano più quando lui mangiava pane e cipolla sotto un olivo, e lei gli coglieva le spighe nel campo?

  Allora serva e cuoco si confidavano la loro «mala sorte» che nascevano di «gente rispettata» e i loro parenti erano stati più ricchi del padrone, già tempo. Il padre di Brasi era carradore, nientemeno! e la colpa era del figliuolo che non aveva voluto attendere al mestiere, e si era incapriccito a vagabondare per le fiere, dietro il carretto del merciaiuolo: con lui aveva imparato a cucinare e a governar le bestie.

  Lucia ricominciava la litania dei suoi guai: – il babbo, il bestiame, la Rossa, le malannate: – tutt’e due gli stessi, lei e Brasi, in quella cucina; parevano fatti l’uno per l’altra.

  – La storia di vostro fratello colla Rossa? – rispondeva Brasi. – Grazie tante! – Però non voleva darle quell’affronto lì sul mostaccio. Non gliene importava nulla che ella fosse una contadina. Non ricusava per superbia. Erano poveri tutti e due e sarebbe stato meglio buttarsi nella cisterna con un sasso al collo.

  Lucia mandò giù tutto quell’amaro senza dir motto, e se voleva piangere andava a nascondersi nel sottoscala, o nel cantuccio del forno, quando non c’era Brasi. Ormai a quel cristiano gli voleva bene, collo stare insieme davanti al fuoco tutto il giorno. I rabbuffi, le sgridate del padrone, li pigliava per sé, e lasciava a lui il miglior piatto, il bicchier di vino più colmo, andava in corte a spaccar la legna per lui,

  “Then stay one!” her master would reply. “You’ll see what a fine dowry you’ll have! And how many men will seek you out for being respectable!”

  If the macaroni was overcooked, if Lucia brought to the table two fried eggs that had a burnt smell, Don Venerando gave her a good tongue-lashing; in his wife’s presence he was altogether different, sticking out his stomach and talking loud. Did they think they were preparing slops for the pig? With two servants who were eating him out of house and home! If it happened again, he’d fling the food in her face! His wife, bless her, didn’t like that uproar, on account of the neighbors, and she’d send away the servant girl with falsetto shrieks:

  “Back to the kitchen! Get out of here, you sloven! You spendthrift!”

  Lucia would go and cry in the oven corner, but Brasi would cheer her up with that swindler’s face of his:

  “What do you care? Let them yell! If we paid attention to our bosses, woe to us! The eggs had a burnt smell? Too bad for them! I couldn’t split the wood in the yard and flip over the eggs at the same time. They make me be the cook and the man-of-all-work, and they want to be served like the king! Why don’t they remember the days when he used to eat bread and onions underneath an olive tree and she gathered the reaped grain in the field?”

  Then the servant girl and the cook confided in each other with regard to their “evil fate”; they had been born into “honorable families,” and their parents had been richer than their master long ago. Brasi’s father had been a cartwright, no less! The blame lay in his son, who hadn’t wanted to learn the trade, but had taken it into his head to roam around fairs, following the peddler’s wagon: in the peddler’s company he had learned how to cook and tend to livestock.

  Lucia would start the litany of her grievances all over again: her father, the livestock, Redhead, the ruined crops. They were both the same, she and Brasi, in that kitchen; they seemed made for each other.

  “The way your brother and Redhead were?” Brasi would reply. “Thanks a lot!” But he didn’t want to insult her to her face. It didn’t matter to him at all that she was a peasant girl. He wasn’t turning down marriage with her out of pride. Both of them were poor, and he would be better off throwing himself down a well with a rock tied to his neck.

  Lucia swallowed all that bitterness without a murmur; if she wanted to cry, she went and hid in her space under the stairs, or in the oven corner when Brasi wasn’t there. By now she loved that man, after standing in front of the fire with him all day long. Her master’s scoldings and reproaches she took upon herself, and she’d leave Brasi the better portion of food and the fuller glass of wine; she went out to the yard to split

  e aveva imparato a rivoltare le ova e a scodellare i maccheroni in punto. Brasi, come la vedeva fare la croce, colla scodella sulle ginocchia, prima d’accingersi a mangiare, le diceva:

  – Che non avete visto mai grazia di Dio?

  Egli si lamentava sempre e di ogni cosa: che era una galera, e che aveva soltanto tre ore alla sera da andare a spasso o all’osteria; e se Lucia qualche volta arrivava a dirgli, col capo basso, e facendosi rossa:

  – Perché ci andate all’osteria? Lasciatela stare l’osteria, che non fa per voi.

  – Si vede che siete una contadina! –
rispondeva lui. – Voi altri credete che all’osteria ci sia il diavolo. Io son nato da maestri di bottega, mia cara. Non son mica un villano!

  – Lo dico per vostro bene. Vi spendete i soldi, e poi c’è sempre il caso d’attaccar lite con qualcheduno.

  Brasi si sentì molle a quelle parole e a quegli occhi che evitavano di guardarlo. E si godeva il solluchero:

  – O a voi cosa ve ne importa?

  – Nulla me ne importa. Lo dico per voi.

  – O voi non vi seccate a star qui in casa tutto il giorno?

  – No, ringrazio Iddio del come sto, e vorrei che i miei parenti fossero come me, che non mi manca nulla.

  Ella stava spillando il vino, accoccolata colla mezzina fra le gambe, e Brasi era sceso con lei in cantina a farle lume. Come la cantina era grande e scura al pari di una chiesa, e non si udiva una mosca in quel sotterraneo, soli tutti e due, Brasi e Lucia, egli le mise un braccio al collo e la baciò su quella bocca rossa al pari del corallo.

  La poveretta l’aspettava sgomenta, mentre stava china tenendo gli occhi sulla brocca, e tacevano entrambi, e udiva il fiato grosso di lui, e il gorgogliare del vino. Ma pure mise un grido soffocato, cacciandosi indietro tutta tremante, così che un po’ di spuma rossa si versò per terra.

  – O che è stato? – esclamò Brasi. – Come se v’avessi dato uno schiaffo? Dunque non è vero che mi volete bene?

  Ella non osava guardarlo in faccia, e si struggeva dalla voglia. Badava al vino versato, imbarazzata, balbettando:

  – O povera me! o povera me! che ho fatto? Il vino del padrone! . . .

  – Eh! lasciate correre; ché ne ha tanto il padrone. Date retta a me piuttosto. Che non mi volete bene? Ditelo, sì o no!

  Ella stavolta si lasciò prendere la mano, senza rispondere, e quando Brasi le chiese che gli restituisse il bacio, ella glielo diede, rossa di una cosa che non era vergogna soltanto.

  wood for him, and she had learned how to turn over the eggs and dish out the macaroni when it was just right. When Brasi saw her cross herself, her bowl on her knees, before settling down to eat, he’d say:

  “Haven’t you ever seen food before?”

  He used to complain about everything all the time: the place was a prison, and he had only three hours in the evening to go for a stroll or to the inn. If Lucia sometimes asked him, lowering her head and blushing:

  “Why do you go to the inn? Leave the inn alone, it’s not for you”—

  “It’s obvious you’re a farmgirl,” he’d reply. “You people think the devil’s at the inn. I was born of workshop owners, my dear. I’m not a hayseed!”

  “I only say it for your good. You waste your money there, and, besides, there’s always the chance of getting into a fight with someone.”

  Brasi felt softened by those words and those eyes which avoided looking at him. He enjoyed the bliss of it:

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing at all. I say it for your sake.”

  “Don’t you get bored staying here in the house all day?”

  “No, I thank God for my situation, and I wish my relatives were as well off as I am, because I lack for nothing.”

  She was tapping wine, crouching with the jug between her legs; Brasi had gone down to the cellar with her to light her way. Since the cellar was as big and dark as a church, and not even a fly could be heard down there, seeing himself all alone with Lucia, Brasi put his arm around her neck and kissed her on that mouth as red as coral.

  The poor girl had been expecting it in alarm, as she bent over with her eyes on the jug, and both of them were silent, while you could hear his heavy breathing and the gurgling of the wine. All the same, she emitted a muffled cry and darted backward all in a tremble, so that a little red foam spilled on the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” Brasi exclaimed. “You act as if I had slapped you! Then, it isn’t true that you love me?”

  She didn’t dare look him in the face, though she was dying with the desire to do so. She noticed the spilled wine and stammered, ill at ease:

  “Oh, woe is me! Oh, woe is me! What have I done? The master’s wine! . . .”

  “Ah, let it run. The master has plenty of it. Instead of that, pay attention to me. So, you don’t love me? Tell me, yes or no?”

  This time she let him take her hand, without replying; when Brasi asked her to return the kiss, she did, blushing with something that wasn’t merely modesty.

  – Che non ne avete avuti mai? – domandava Brasi ridendo. – O bella! siete tutta tremante come se avessi detto di ammazzarvi.

  – Sì, vi voglio bene anch’io – rispose lei; – e mi struggevo di dirvelo. Se tremo ancora non ci badate. È stata per la paura del vino.

  – O guarda! anche voi? E da quando! Perché non me lo avete detto?

  – Da quando s’è parlato che eravamo fatti l’uno per l’altro.

  – Ah! – disse Brasi, grattandosi il capo. – Andiamo di sopra, che può venire il padrone.

  Lucia era tutta contenta dopo quel bacio, e le sembrava che Brasi le avesse suggellato sulla bocca la promessa di sposarla. Ma lui non ne parlava neppure, e se la ragazza gli toccava quel tasto, rispondeva:

  – Che premura hai? Poi è inutile mettersi il giogo sul collo, quando possiamo stare insieme come se fossimo maritati.

  – No, non è lo stesso. Ora voi state per conto vostro ed io per conto mio; ma quando ci sposeremo, saremo una cosa sola.

  – Una bella cosa saremo! Poi non siamo fatti della stessa pasta. Pazienza, se tu avessi un po’ di dote!

  – Ah! che cuore nero avete voi! No! Voi non mi avete voluto bene mai!

  – Sì, che ve n’ho voluto. E son qui tutto per voi; ma senza parlar di quella cosa.

  – No! Non ne mangio di quel pane! lasciatemi stare, e non mi guardate più!

  Ora lo sapeva com’erano fatti gli uomini. Tutti bugiardi e traditori. Non voleva sentirne più parlare. Voleva buttarsi nella cisterna piuttosto a capo in giù; voleva farsi Figlia di Maria; voleva prendere il suo buon nome e gettarlo dalla finestra! A che le serviva, senza dote? Voleva rompersi il collo con quel vecchiaccio del padrone, e procurarsi la dote colla sua vergogna. Ormai! . . . Ormai! . . . Don Venerando l’era sempre attorno, ora colle buone, ora colle cattive, per guardarsi i suoi interessi, se mettevano troppa legna al fuoco, quanto olio consumavano per la frittura, mandava via Brasi a comprargli un soldo di tabacco, e cercava di pigliare Lucia pel ganascino, correndole dietro per la cucina, in punta di piedi perché sua moglie non udisse, rimproverando la ragazza che gli mancava di rispetto, col farlo correre a quel modo! – No! no! – ella pareva una gatta inferocita. – Piuttosto pigliava la sua roba, e se ne andava via! – E che mangi? E dove lo trovi un marito senza dote? Guarda questi orecchini! Poi ti regalerei 20 onze per la tua dote. Brasi per 20 onze si fa cavare tutti e due gli occhi!

  “You’ve never had a kiss?” Brasi asked with a laugh. “Oh, my! You’re trembling as if I’d said I’d kill you.”

  “Yes, I love you, too,” she replied, “and I was dying to let you know. If I’m still trembling, think nothing of it. It was because I was scared about the wine.”

  “Well, look at that! You, too? For how long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ever since that remark that we were made for each other.”

  “Oh!” said Brasi, scratching his head. “Let’s go back upstairs, because the boss may come.”

  Lucia was very contented after that kiss; it seemed to her as if Brasi had sealed his promise to marry her with that kiss on her mouth. But he didn’t even refer to it, and if the girl brought up the subject, he’d reply:

  “What’s your hurry? Anyway, it’s pointless to put the yoke on our necks when we can be together like husband and wife.”

  “No, it’s not the same thing. Now you’re on your own and I’m on my own; but when we get married, we’ll be one united pair.”

  “We’ll be a fine pair! Anyway, we’re not made of the same stuff. It would be different if you had even a little dowry!”

  “Oh,
how mean you are! No, you’ve never really loved me!”

  “Yes, I have. And here I am, all yours. But let’s not talk about that.”

  “No! I won’t go along with such things! Leave me alone, and don’t look at me anymore!”

  Now she knew what men were like. All liars and cheats. She didn’t want to hear any more about them. Sooner, she’d jump into the well head first; she thought about becoming a Daughter of Mary;4 she wanted to take her good name and throw it out the window! What good was it to her without a dowry? She wanted to sell herself cheaply to that dirty old man, her master, and obtain a dowry shamefully. By this time! . . . By this time! . . . Don Venerando was always around her, now acting kindly, now acting nastily, looking out for his interests, seeing whether they were putting too much wood on the fire, how much oil they used for the fried dishes. He’d send Brasi out to buy him a soldo’s worth of snuff, and then he’d try to pinch Lucia’s cheek, following her around the kitchen on tiptoe so his wife wouldn’t hear, reproaching the girl for her lack of respect toward him, making him run around that way! “No! No!” She resembled a maddened cat. Rather than that, she said, she’d pack up her things and leave! “And what will you eat? And where will you find a husband without a dowry? Look at these earrings! Besides, I’d give you 20 onze for your dowry. For 20 onze Brasi will let both his eyes be gouged out!”

  __________

  4. The Daughters of Mary are a lay society of religious young women.

  Ah! quel cuore nero di Brasi! La lasciava nelle manacce del padrone, che la brancicavano tremanti! La lasciava col pensiero della mamma che poco poteva campare, della casa saccheggiata e piena di guai, di Pino il Tomo che l’aveva piantata per andare a mangiare il pane della vedova! La lasciava colla tentazione degli orecchini e delle 20 onze nella testa!

  E un giorno entrò in cucina colla faccia tutta stravolta, e i pendenti d’oro che gli sbattevano sulle guance. Brasi sgranava gli occhi, e le diceva: