Sparrow (and other stories)

by Giovanni Verga

  Here he is. He jumps up on the wall. It’s Ali! It’s him! He leaps on me, barking with joy, although panting, and poor Ali, he also is overwrought.

  I hugged him, extremely tightly, because I thought I was going to faint, and I burst into tears.

  When poor Nino arrived, he was pale, tired and breathless! He’d walked from Catania, because the coach had left without him, and he hadn’t been able to find any other carriage prepared to make the journey at that hour. His father, who’d come back with him, kissed him. His mother and Annetta held him in their arms. Everyone made a fuss of him; everyone cried with joy. He must have thought me selfish and disagreeable, because I ran off and shut myself in my room, to cry, and laugh, and sob without restraint, to embrace the foot of the Cross, the furniture and the walls!

  O God! Is there any creature on earth more wretched than me?

  Since this temptation has taken possession of me, I don’t recognize myself any more. My eyes see more clearly, my mind learns of mysteries that should have remained unknown to me forever. My heart experiences new sentiments that it should never have experienced, that it ought never to have been allowed to experience. It’s happy, it feels closer to God, it cries, it feels small, alone, and weak. This is all frightful! On top of which, insignificant trifles become a torment: a look, a gesture, a tone of voice, a step; whether he sits in one place or another; whether he talks to this person or that. You won’t understand, you’ll think I’m mad. O God! If only I were, how happy I would be! This is to experience constant doubt, anxiety, dismay, and indescribable delight. Add to all this, the thought of what my status is, remorse for my sin, my powerlessness to fight against a feeling that is stronger than me, that has seized me, consumes me, overwhelms me, and makes me happy by subjugating me … the desolation of discovering my lowliness, discovering what I am – I’m less than a woman, I’m a poor nun, with a faint heart for everything that falls outside the confines of the convent, and the immensity of this horizon that is unexpectedly opening up before her, blinds and bewilders her.

  I wonder whether this love, this sin, this monstrousness is not an aspect of God! I want to be beautiful, like the feeling I have inside me. I look at myself, surprised by my own unusual curiosity, and I’m saddened by what I find myself to be: a shapeless bundle of black twill, with hair unattractively scraped back, and unrefined manners, a shyness that might seem awkward … and I see other young girls around me, who are elegant and gracious, and commit no sin by being in love, like me … I blush for myself, I blush for my blushes …

  And yet … that’s not all! There’s another cross to bear: the fear that this secret, which I jealously keep to myself, will be discovered! It means being afraid of your blushes, your pallor, the trembling of your voice, the beating of your heart! It means having the impression that your entire being is accusing you, that everyone is spying on you … and feeling ready to die of shame if this disaster should occur! I blush at what I’m writing to you, at what you will read … you who are a part of me!… and I impose it on myself as a form of penance … I’m so madly in love with him, and I’d die of shame if he knew!

  I wish I could throw my arms around his neck, I wish I could die at his feet, but not for all the gold in the world would I dare to give him my hand. And if he looks at me, I lower my eyes. And to think that in any case my father … my stepmother … he, too … might be able to see into my heart! O God! let me sooner die!

  And if I were to tell you that this fear of mine is not completely unfounded … that this morning my stepmother called me, and fixing me with a gaze that seemed to penetrate right through to my heart, she said, ‘You’ve been much too pale and restless for some time now. What’s wrong with you?’

  I was quaking, and I’ve no idea what I stammered out, but I didn’t know what to say. She went on, looking at me in that same unnerving way: ‘I’ve noticed a great change in you in recent days. My child, if the country air doesn’t agree with you, your father won’t insist on keeping you here – he’ll let you return to your convent.’ And she accompanied these few words with such a look and such a tone of voice that seemed to say, ‘I know everything. I know your secret.’

  I felt like dying. Fortunately, I was sitting down, otherwise I’d have fallen to the ground, and she didn’t notice that my eyes filled with tears, because at that moment Giuditta came in, looking very happy. Oh, my poor mama, lying at rest in Camposanto … if only I could have thrown myself in your arms and, bursting into tears, asked your forgiveness!

  Giuditta said, ‘Listen, mama: the Valentini have invited us to go with them to the Bertoni’s house – they live just near by. There’ll be dancing, you know! Come on, now, mama, be a darling! Do let’s go … What fun a dance in the country will be!’ And the dear girl cajoled her mother so sweetly that her stern expression immediately softened. She kissed Giuditta with a smile, and said just one word: ‘Flibbertigibbet!’

  Oh, how blessed is a mother’s holy love, entirely revealed in a single word or caress! How blessed is the happiness which the happiness of our dear ones gives us! They both seemed so beautiful to me just then, in the blessings that Heaven had showered on them, that I prayed to God for all those, like me, who are deprived of them.

  Giuditta hurried away to get ready, skipping and singing to herself, and she called for me to do her hair. She has wonderful chestnut braids. And every day, when I loosen her hair to comb it, I think what a great shame it would be if they were condemned to being cut off like mine. However, that day I was in such turmoil that I couldn’t do anything right. I braided her hair twenty times, but she was never satisfied, and kept angrily undoing her braids.

  ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Anyone would think you were doing it deliberately today!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s not my fault.’

  ‘No, it’s probably that you’re tired of combing my hair.’

  ‘Oh, what ever do you mean, Giuditta! No, I swear I’m not. I’m doing my best,’ I replied tearfully.

  My dear sister is infinitely kind. She looked at me in surprise, shrugged her shoulders, took the comb from my hand, and said, ‘Go on, there’s no reason to cry. I’ll do it myself.’

  I wanted to hug her, to kiss her, to ask her forgiveness, to get rid of that knot of bitterness that I felt here, in my heart. How stupid and troublesome I am! It was already late, and she was keeping everyone waiting. She was right to lose patience and say to me, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, leave me to comb my hair by myself at least!’

  So I went out, wiping my eyes. Annetta met me at the door, and said, ‘What are you doing? Aren’t you coming, too?’

  ‘What can you be thinking of?’ exclaimed my stepmother. ‘A postulant! That would be the limit!’

  Nino kept staring at me and didn’t say anything. I could see him, even though I wasn’t looking at him. Meanwhile, my father came up and asked what all these preparations were for, and the reason for this merriment. ‘What about you?’ he then asked.

  ‘I’m staying at home, papa.’

  ‘No, you can come with us – we’re in the country, after all.’

  ‘Papa, I’d rather stay at home.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay behind with you.’ (Dear papa! He really does love me!)

  ‘What? Then who’ll accompany us?’ said his wife.

  ‘You can go with our friends here.’

  ‘But it’s not good manners, the first time that we’re to visit people we don’t know. Maria can perfectly well stay behind with the maid and the steward for company.’

  There was some further discussion, but papa eventually conceded to his wife’s wishes – because, you know, my poor papa never contradicts her, for the sake of peace.

  My friend, I confess that for the first time in my life, I was sorry to be the only one left out, when everyone was so looking forward to having a good time … And shall I tell you something else? There was another thing that upset me … the idea that he would be seeing so many other pretty young girls
, and that he would even dance with them. At the thought of this, my heart filled with tears …

  Now I’m alone. I watched them go off, in high spirits, singing. Only he looked sad. He gazed at me as if he would like to have asked me a hundred questions. He gave his arm to my sister … How beautiful Giuditta was in her lovely pale-blue dress, leaning on his arm, laughing and chatting with him.

  I followed them with my eyes until they turned into the lane, and disappeared behind the hawthorn hedge that rises above the vineyard wall. Then for a while I could still hear their voices and their laughter, a merriment that was painful to me … O God, what an envious and wicked person I am! I had to think of him to prevent myself from sobbing. I had to remember the way he stared at me, in order not to envy them …

  I was left on my own. The stars began to shine. It was a beautiful autumn evening, still mild and warm …

  The steward’s wife has lit the fire to cook their soup, and placed her baby in its cradle. Her husband has come home from the vineyard, leaving his gun at the door, and started playing with his little boy, who stands between his knees. All is calm, peaceful and serene. Only I am anxious, sad and unhappy.

  I’m writing down everything that’s close to my heart, and when my tears prevent me from being able to see what I’m writing any more, I look out of my window at the starry sky and the shadow of the trees. I think of that party, and of all those happy people enjoying themselves, with him! I think of him! And then I can’t write any more, I’ve no other thoughts but for him alone. I have to picture him, in my mind’s eye at least, while he’s there dancing and laughing with someone else …

  I’ll say goodbye now …

  21 November

  Marianna! Marianna! Cry with me! Laugh with me! Hug me! He loves me! Would you believe it! He loves me! Can you imagine! I can’t tell you any more. You’ll understand totally what these three little words mean: he loves me!

  Yesterday evening, do you remember? I had that sad letter in front of me, with my elbows resting on the desk. My tears were very quietly falling on to the paper and, without my noticing, were blotting out what I had written. All of a sudden came a noise from outside … the sound of footsteps! Could you explain why the sound of footsteps should be detected by your heart, as though the heart could hear? And why it should shake your nerves, and make your blood run cold?

  I looked up … the window was open, and outside there was a figure, a voice softly calling me. It was him, do you understand? Him! If a cry didn’t escape me, it was because I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Forgive me, signorina,’ he said, ‘forgive me.’ And that was all.

  I dared not look at him, but those words were as sweet as honey to my heart.

  ‘Your mother’s mean and unfair to you. Everyone over there is having fun, and I thought of you, being here on your own … Have I done wrong?’ After a brief pause, during which he must have heard my heart beating, he added, ‘Will you forgive me?’

  Then I looked up at him, and I saw him with his elbows resting on the windowsill and his chin cupped in his hands, as I had seen him before. He had been thinking of me, and his voice was trembling!

  ‘Signor!’ I said. ‘Signor!’ And I couldn’t say anything else. Then he began to sigh, in the same way that I did. ‘Listen, Maria …’ he said, but nothing else. He passed his hand over his eyes, and seemed to be stammering – he, a man! I was shaking all over, as if that name had penetrated every pore of my living flesh. He called me Maria, do you understand? Why did it have that effect on me, to hear him say my name?

  ‘Listen,’ he repeated. ‘You’re a victim.’

  ‘Oh no, signor!’

  ‘Yes, you’re a victim of your circumstances, your stepmother’s unkindness, your father’s weakness, and fate!’

  ‘No, signor, no.’

  ‘Then why are you forced to become a nun?’

  ‘No one’s forced me, signor … it was my own free will.’

  ‘Ah!’ And he sighed again. I think he actually wiped his eyes. I couldn’t see him clearly, because he was in the dark, in front of the window, and my eyes were veiled with tears.

  ‘Necessity,’ I said.

  He didn’t say anything. Then after a few moments’ silence, he asked me – but his voice was husky – ‘And will you return to the convent?’

  I hesitated, but replied, ‘Yes.’

  He fell silent again. He didn’t say any more. Then I waited. I waited for a long time for him to say something. I wiped my eyes to see if he’d gone: he was still there, in the same place, in the same position, except that his face was buried in his hands. This gave me courage, and I stepped forward, away from the candlelight that was bothering me. You know how narrow my little room is – one step and you’re by the window … He heard me and raised his head, and I saw that he was crying. He held out his hand to me, without a word. There was a moment when I couldn’t see anything at all any more, either with my own eyes or in my mind’s eye, and I found myself with my hands in his.

  ‘Maria,’ he said, ‘why are you going to return to the convent?’

  ‘Do you think I know? I must. I was born a nun.’

  ‘So you’ll leave me then?’ And he wept silently, like a child, without the pride that other men have to hide their tears. I think I must have cried too, because I discovered that my cheeks were wet, and my hands as well … but my hands might have been wet with his tears, which I felt dripping on them. In fact, when I was alone again, locked in my room … tell me off and shout at me, if you want to … I kissed my hands while they were still damp.

  We stayed like that, in silence, for a long time. The only thing he said was, ‘How happy I am!’

  ‘And I,’ I replied, almost without being aware of it.

  You see, Marianna, we were crying and saying that we were happy! But we hadn’t yet said that we loved each other. Such sweetness flooded my heart that I wasn’t thinking of anything any more, and I no longer felt ashamed to be with a man … with him … alone, at night! We didn’t speak, and didn’t look at each other. We gazed up at the sky, and it was as though our spirits communed through the surface of our hands, and embraced each other in the meeting of our gazes among the stars.

  Marianna, this part of God that has been given to mankind must be very great if everything before it – both sin and crime, duties and the most sacred attachments – pales into insignificance, if it can create a paradise out of a single word!

  I’ll leave you now. My heart’s too full to think of anything else. In writing to you, I’ve relived the same emotions … Now I need to be alone, to dream, think and be happy …

  26 November

  How wretched we are, my friend, if we can’t be the judges of our own happiness. I wrote you a letter that today is a bitter irony, that I can’t read without crying. Listen: there we were, at the window, silent and happy, with our dreams. All of a sudden there was uproar: Vigilante was barking, and my father’s voice could be heard, as well as Gigi’s. I abruptly drew back and closed the window. I was trembling all over, as if I’d committed a great offence. Papa found me in bed. I was running a fever and it lasted all night. Giuditta didn’t come. I could hear her talking in the next room. She sounded annoyed and in a very bad mood. The next day I was so pale when I got up that papa wanted to send for the doctor. Later, mama called me to her room, and just looking at her face, I felt my knees buckle. She spoke at length about her responsibilities and mine, about my vocation, and the need imposed on me by my poverty to be ruled by that vocation. She spoke of the dangers that a young girl destined for the convent might encounter in the most straightforward relationships, and concluded by telling me that in future, when outsiders came to our house, even the Valentini, I was to stay shut in my room.

  My God! how did I endure the torment of those reproofs. She seemed to take delight in needling me, in levelling at me veiled accusations of a thousand misdeeds, and she didn’t even make clear to me whether or not she’d discovered that Nino had left the
dance to come and find me.

  More than once, while she was talking, I felt that I was about to faint, but she didn’t notice my pallor, or my trembling, she didn’t notice that I had to clutch the back of a chair because I couldn’t stand upright any more. If she’d realized the state I was in, she would surely have taken pity on me and spared me this torture. Once I could be alone, I went to bed. My fever had returned. I felt ill, and I wished I were dead.

  Giuditta didn’t even come then. She was cross with me. My God, what have I done to her? I had the sense of being like one of those criminals that everyone avoids and no one dares to go near … I felt ashamed before that window, opposite my bed, there, like some adamant accuser. I was hurt by this isolation and neglect. Towards evening I called for my sister – I needed to see her, to be comforted. Even my dear papa looked more serious than usual. Giuditta eventually came, but she seemed very cold. I threw myself into her arms, and I thought the tears that made me feel much better irritated her.

  Now I’m alone. Everyone seems to be avoiding me, and I’m hateful to myself. They’re right, I’m very much at fault. Only God can pardon me – God whom I’ve sinned against by loving one of His creatures more than Him.

  I sew, I sew, all day long at the window, with the curtains kept scrupulously closed, and I cry when I’m lucky enough not to be seen, and to be able to give vent to my tears. And my eyes sting … The sky is cloudy, the fields desolate, the rustling of the trees frightens me, the birds don’t sing any more … only occasionally I hear a plaintive nightingale somewhere. Yet I spend hours with my hands crossed in my lap, looking through the window-panes at those huge dark clouds racing westwards, at the treetops slowly swaying and shedding their dead leaves. Winter has arrived in the natural world, just as the winter of the soul has arrived. Carino has flown away, poor thing! I neglected him so much! He’s taken his chirpiness and his lively twittering somewhere else, because I’m living in such a gloomy atmosphere. Only Vigilante comes now and again to seek me out, hoping for a smile, expecting me to stroke him. He comes in very quietly, almost hesitantly, questioning me with his beautiful eyes, asking whether he’s bothering me. Then he stops in uncertainty, and wags his tail and licks his lips – all of which means to say, ‘I’m sorry to be so persistent.’ And he comes and lays his head on my lap to tell me that he still loves me, and he looks sad when he goes away, but he still wags his tail and stops at the door to say goodbye.