Sparrow (and other stories)

by Giovanni Verga

  THE TRANSLATOR

  Christine Donougher was born in England in 1954. She read English and French at Cambridge and after a career in publishing is now a freelance translator and editor.

  Her translation of The Book of Nights won the 1992 Scott MoncrieffTranslation Prize. Her translations from French for Dedalus are: 7 novels by Sylvie Germain, The Book of Nights, Night of Amber, Days of Anger, The Book of Tobias, Invitation to a Journey, The Song of False Lovers and Magnus, Enigma by Rezvani, The Experience of the Night by Marcel Bealu, Le Calvaire by Octave Mirbeau, Tales from the Saragossa Manuscript by Jan Potocki, The Land of Darkness by Daniel Arsand and Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet. Her translations from Italian for Dedalus are Senso (and other stories) and Sparrow (and other stories).

  CHRONOLOGY

  1840

  2 September. Giovanni Verga was born in Catania, Sicily. His family were landowners and members of the minor nobility.

  1848/9

  Year of Revolutions in Italy.

  1857

  Wrote his first novel, ‘Amore e Patria’ (unpublished).

  1858

  Enrols as a student of law at Catania University.

  1859

  Beginning of the Italian War of Independence.

  1860

  Insurrections in Sicily in April are followed by the arrival of Garibaldi and his volunteers who take Sicily from the Bourbons.

  Verga joins the National Guard founded after the arrival of Garibaldi. He is one of the founders and the editor of the weekly political magazine Roma degli Italiani.

  1861

  The Bourbons are forced out of Naples, and Garibaldi surrenders Naples and Sicily to Victor Emanuel, the Piedmontese king. In plebiscites the people of Southern Italy vote to be part of the newly formed Italian Kingdom under Victor Emanuel.

  Verge abandons his legal studies and publishes his first novel, ‘I Carbonari della Montagna,’ at his own expense.

  1863

  His patriotic novel, ‘Sulle lagune’, is published in a magazine.

  His father dies.

  1864

  Florence becomes the new capital of Italy, replacing Turin.

  1865

  Verga’s first visit to Florence. He becomes a frequent visitor and takes up permanent residence in 1869.

  1866

  20 July, naval battle at Lissa.

  The Austrians retreat from Venice which becomes part of Italy.

  His novel, ‘Una Peccatrice’ is published.

  1869

  Settles in Florence, where he meets Luigi Capuana, the realist writer and theorist. Begins an affair with the 18-year-old Giselda Foljanesi.

  1870

  Rome is taken, and becomes the Italian capital in 1871.

  1871

  Zola’s ‘La Fortune de Rougon’, the first book in the Rougon-Macquart cycle, is published. Zola’s theories and Naturalism become increasingly important and controversial in Italy.

  Verga publishes ‘Storia di una capinera’, which is an immediate success.

  1872

  Goes to live in Milan, where he spends most of the next 20 years. Frequents the literary salons of the city, making a name for himself in the capital of Italian publishing. Giselda Foljanesi marries the Catanese poet Mario Rapisardi.

  1873

  ’Eva’ is published, and is criticized for its immorality.

  1874/6

  ’Tigre Reale’, ‘Eros’, and the novella ‘Nedda’ are published.

  1877

  ’L’Assommoir’ of Zola is published and has an overwhelming influence in Italy. Verga publishes his collected short stories, ‘Primavera e altri racconti.’

  1878

  His mother dies, to whom he was greatly attached.

  1880

  ’Vita dei Campi’ is published. Visits Giselda Foljanesi.

  1881

  ’I Malavoglia’ is published. Verga is disappointed by its lack of success. Begins an affair with countess Dina Castellazi, who is married and in her twenties. It lasts most of his life.

  1883

  Goes to Paris, and visits Zola at Medan. Also goes to London. Publishes ‘Novelle Rusticane’ and the novel ‘II Marito di Elena’, and ‘Per le Vie’. Visits Catania where he sees Giselda Foljanesi. In December Rapisardi discovers a compromising letter from Verga to his wife, and so Giselda is forced to leave and settle in Florence.

  1884

  The play of ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’ is put on with great success in Turin, with Eleonora Dusa playing Santuzza.

  The end of Verga’s affair with Giselda Foljanesi.

  1886–7

  Passes most of his time at Rome. The publication of a French translation of ‘I Malavoglia’ is without success.

  1888

  Returns to live in Sicily.

  1889

  ’Mastro Don Gesualdo’ is published and is an immediate success. D’Annunzio publishes his novel, ‘Il Piacere’.

  1890

  Mascagni’s one act opera of ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’ is put on and enjoys an overwhelming success. Verga sues Mascagni and Sonzogno for his share of the royalties.

  First English translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

  1891

  Publishes a volume of stories, ‘I Ricordi del capitano d’Arce’. Wins his case in the Court of Appeal, getting 143,000 lire (which was a large sum then and put an end to the financial problems which had beset him).

  1895

  Goes with Capuana to visit Zola in Rome.

  1896

  The defeat at Adua puts an end to Italy’s colonial expansion. Verga criticizes the demonstrations against the war. Begins writing the third novel in his ‘I Vinti’ cycle, ‘La Duchessa di Leyra’, but never completes it.

  1898

  There are riots in Milan, after the price of bread is increased, which are violently put down by the army. Verga applauds their actions as a defence of society and its institutions.

  1900–3

  Various of his plays are put on, but Verga’s energies turn away from his writing to managing his business interests and living quietly in Sicily.

  1915

  Declares himself in favour of Italian involvement in WW1, and anti-pacificism.

  1920

  His eightieth birthday is celebrated in Rome and Catania. In November he becomes a senator.

  1922

  27 January Verga dies in Catania.

  Mussolini comes to power.

  1925/8

  D. H. Lawrence translates ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’, ‘Vita dei Campi’ and ‘Novelle Rusticane’ into English.

  1947

  Luchino Visconti’s film of ‘I Malavoglia’ called ‘La Terra Trema’.

  1950

  Eric Mosbacher’s translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

  1964

  Raymond Rosenthal’s American translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

  1984

  Dedalus publishes the D. H. Lawrence translations of ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’ and ‘Novelle Rusticane’ (Short Sicilian Novels)

  1985

  Judith Landry’s translation of ‘I Malavoglia’.

  1987

  Dedalus publishes the D. H. Lawrence translation of ‘Vita dei Campi’ under the title of ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’.

  1991

  New Dedalus edition of ‘I Malavoglia’.

  1994

  First English translation of ‘La Storia di una Capinera’ by Christine Donougher published as ‘Sparrow (the Story of a Songbird)’.

  Franco Zeffirelli’s film of ‘La Storia di una Capinera’ called ‘Sparrow’.

  New edition of ‘Novelle Rusticane’ (Short Sicilian Novels).

  1999/2000

  New editions
of ‘Mastro Don Gesualdo’ and ‘I Malavoglia’.

  2002

  Revised versions of ‘Sparrow’ and ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’ with five new stories published under the title of ‘Sparrow, Temptation and Cavalleria Rusticana’.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  The Translator

  Chronology

  The Sparrow

  Monte Ilice, 3 September 1854

  19 September

  27 September

  1 October

  10 October

  23 October

  2 November

  10 November

  16 November

  17 November

  20 November

  21 November

  26 November

  20 December

  26 December

  30 December

  31 December

  7 January 1855

  Catania, 9 January

  10 January

  From the Convent, 30 January

  8 February 1856

  27 February

  28 February, Midnight

  10 March

  Sunday, 29 March, Midnight

  Saturday, 5 April

  Monday, 7 April

  15 May

  27 May

  3 June

  4 June

  7 June

  10 June

  13 June

  24 June

  28 June

  5 July

  25 July

  5 August

  17 August

  26 August

  10 September

  18 September

  18 September

  24 September

  No Date

  No Date

  Temptation and Other Stories

  Temptation

  The Schoolmaster

  The Devil’s Hand

  The Gold Key

  Comrades

  Afterword

  Copyright

  THE SPARROW

  translated by

  Christine Donougher

  Epistolary preface to the first edition of Storia di una Capinera, written by Francesco Dall’Ongaro and addressed to Caterina Percoto.

  My dearest friend,

  A year ago, a young Sicilian, of gentle manner and demeanour, entrusted me with some pages, asking me to read through them, and to offer an opinion on the sad story they contained.

  They were the letters of a young Sicilian nun, written to a friend and companion. I thought at first of sending those pages, telling of a life of sorrow and abnegation, to you with your knowledge of this subject. But then I was so moved by the letters, or rather by the facts they vividly describe, that I couldn’t put them down until I’d read them all, the last one causing even an experienced writer like me to shed genuine tears.

  This was how I expressed my opinion: instead of sending you the manuscript as it was, I gave it to our friend Lampunani to print, and in order that he might give the widest circulation to the emotion that had overwhelmed my own heart at that first reading.

  Now you can read the letters, published in this handsome volume that you might wish to preface with your good wishes to the author, who joins forces with us.

  Francesco Dall’Ongaro

  Rome, 25 November, 1871

  Caterina Percoto’s response and verdict, expressed in a letter to Verga dated 2 March 1872:

  Dear Sir,

  Your lovely Sparrow owes her success to the skill of your pen, which makes me feel I’m in Sicily, and deals so compassionately with one of the worst afflictions suffered by those of my sex in our society. Here, in the Veneto, thanks to the Code Napoleon, the dismal practice of sacrificing our poor young girls to monastic life has ceased for some time now, but the barbaric custom of raising women for enclosed orders still continues.

  You, who are young and blessed with a gift for words so engaging, so true, so effective, will be our champion. Italy will be grateful to you, and Dall’Ongaro and I will be very happy to have been among the first to recognize you as one of our most talented writers.

  Caterina Percoto

  I had seen a poor songbird locked in a cage: it was fearful, sad, ailing, with a look of terror in its eye. It cowered in a corner of its cage, and when it heard the cheerful song of the other little birds twittering in the green meadow or the azure sky, it watched them with what seemed a tearful gaze. But it dared not rebel, it dared not break the wire that held it captive, poor creature. Yet its captors loved it – they were sweet children, who toyed with its sorrow, and recompensed it for its melancholy with breadcrumbs and kind words. The poor songbird tried to resign itself. It was not ill-natured, it did not even mean to reproach them with its sorrow, for it tried to peck sadly at the odd seed or breadcrumb; it could not swallow them. After two days it tucked its head under its wing and the next day it was found stone-dead in its prison.

  The poor songbird had died! Yet its bowl was full. It had died because within that tiny body was something that needed not only grain to live on, and that suffered from something other than hunger and thirst.

  The mother of those two children that had been the poor little bird’s innocent but merciless executioners told me the story of an unhappy girl whose body had been imprisoned within the walls of a convent, and whose spirit had been tortured by superstition and love – one of those intimate stories that pass unnoticed every day – the story of a shy and tender heart, of one who had loved and wept and prayed, without daring to let her tears be seen or her prayers heard, who had eventually withdrawn into her sorrow and died. And I thought then of the poor songbird that would gaze at the sky through the bars of its prison, that would not sing, that would peck sadly at its grain, that had tucked its head under its wing and died.

  That is why I have called it Storia di una Capinera – The Story of a Songbird.

  Monte Ilice, 3 September 1854

  My dear Marianna,

  I promised to write to you, and, you see, I’m keeping my promise! In the three weeks I’ve spent here, running about the countryside – alone! all alone, mind you! – from dawn till dusk, sitting on the grass beneath these huge chestnut trees, listening to the birds singing with happiness, as they hop about, like me, giving thanks to the good Lord, I haven’t found a moment, not a single moment, to tell you that I love you a hundred times more, now that I’m far away from you, and don’t have you beside me every hour of the day, as I used to, there, in the convent. How happy I should be if you were here with me, gathering wild flowers, chasing butterflies, daydreaming in the shade of these trees when the sun beats down, and strolling arm in arm on these lovely evenings, by moonlight, with no other sound but the droning of insects – a melodious sound to me, because it means that I’m in the countryside, out in the open air – and the song of that melancholy bird I don’t know the name of, but which brings the sweetest tears to my eyes when I stand at my window at night, listening to it. How beautiful the countryside is, Marianna! If only you were here with me! If only you could see these mountains, in the moonshine or at sunrise, and the ample shade of the woods, and the azure-blue of the sky, and the green of the vines hidden in the valleys, all around the little houses, and the deep-blue of the sea glistening far away in the distance, and all these villages climbing up the sides of the mountains – big mountains that seem tiny beside our majestic old Etna! If only you could see how beautiful our Mount Etna is at close quarters! From the belvedere at the convent, it appeared to be a huge, isolated peak, always snowcapped. Now I can count the tops of all the little mountains around it. I can see its deep valleys and wooded slopes, its proud summit on which the snow, reaching down into the gullies, marks out great brown patches.

  Everything here is beautiful – the air, the light, the sky, the trees, mountains and valleys, and the sea! When I thank the Lord for all these beautiful things, I do so with a word, a tear, a look, alone in the middle of the countryside, kneeling on the moss in the woods, or sitting on the grass. I think that the good Lord must be more
pleased, because I thank him with my whole heart, and my thoughts are not imprisoned beneath the dark vault of the chancel, but reach up into the lofty shade of these trees, and out into all the vastness of this sky and these horizons. They call us God’s chosen, because we’re destined to be wedded to the Lord, but did not the good Lord create all these beautiful things for everybody? And why should his brides be deprived of them?

  Oh goodness! How happy I am! Do you remember Rosalia, who tried to convince us that the world outside the convent had greater charms? We couldn’t imagine it, do you recall? And we laughed at her! If I hadn’t been out of the convent, I’d never have believed it possible that Rosalia was right. Our world was so restricted: the little altar, those poor flowers, deprived of fresh air, languishing in their vases, the belvedere from which we could see a mass of rooftops, and then away in the distance, as though in a magic lantern, the countryside, the sea, and all the beautiful things that God created. And there was our little garden, a hundred paces from end to end, and purposely arranged, it seemed, so that the walls of the convent could be seen above the trees, where we were allowed to stroll for an hour under the supervision of the novice mistress, but without being able to run about and enjoy ourselves. And that was all!

  And, you know … I’m not sure that we were right not to give a little more thought to our families. It’s true, I’ve had the greatest misfortune of all the postulants, because I lost my mother. But I feel now that I love my papa much more than I love Mother Superior, my sisters and my confessor. I feel that I love my dear papa with more trust and greater fondness, even though I can’t claim to have had close contact with him for more than three weeks. You know that I was put inside the convent before I had even turned seven, when I was left on my own by my poor mama. They said they were giving me another family, and other mamas who would love me … Yes, that’s true … But the love I feel for my father makes me realize how very different my poor mother’s affection would have been.