Sparrow (and other stories)

by Giovanni Verga

  The schoolmaster, who had listened to his sister’s hankerings for sunshine and greenery, with his perpetual capacity for self-deception asked her affectionately, ‘Now that autumn’s coming, wouldn’t you like a trip to the countryside?’

  ‘What about the school?’ she replied with a melancholy smile. ‘However, if you were to get a good dowry … with some land …’

  ‘These blessed women! When they get an idea into their heads …’ he replied with a roguish little smile.

  And he seemed to be wavering. But after having given the matter some thought, he eventually said, ‘No, I won’t sell myself!’

  And he buttoned up his coat with dignity.

  ‘If I have to make a choice … If ever … It’s no use!’ he finally concluded. ‘I’m too fond of my freedom.’

  She persisted in saying that it was all very well as long as a man was young, that otherwise he would end up in the clutches of a serving girl, or some scheming woman.

  Then, since her brother refused to be persuaded, the old maid, giving way to a fit of jealousy, remarked about their women neighbours, ‘Don’t you see, they’re already insinuating their way into the house, and beginning to have designs on you.’

  And the poor thing died, broken-hearted at the thought of leaving her brother exposed to the snares of those scheming women.

  Because she left a great void in that cubicle, though she had taken up so little space when she was alive, and her brother felt almost lost in there, with his intense loneliness and grief, during the hours that he was free of the children, he took to visiting the carpenter every evening, drawn by a sweet and melancholy gratitude to the young girl who had been so charitable to his poor dead sister. But the carpenter, who had no understanding of certain things, made it clear that there was nothing the schoolmaster could teach in his workshop; and would he please call only in the morning, for wood shavings, if he needed them.

  And some time later, when Donna Mena saw that the schoolmaster’s visits were becoming too frequent, Aloardino being the excuse for them, and that he never stopped thanking her for the help she had given his poor sister, clasping her hand and making sheep’s eyes at her, she came right out and told him, ‘Now, sir, let’s speak frankly, the neighbours are beginning to talk about us.’

  The poor fellow, caught by surprise, grew flustered. But finally he took his courage in both hands: ‘Well, now, Donna Mena! That poor sister of mine foresaw it. I would never make up my mind to take this step, because I was too fond of my freedom … But now that I’ve got to know you better … if you’re willing …’

  ‘Well, my dear man, you’re not far wrong in your assessment, if you’re tired of going round with the children! But what I own, I and my late lamented husband worked for … And not for someone else’s benefit!’

  Once again, the schoolmaster would pass by, every day, morning and evening, holding one reluctant schoolboy by the hand, the rest trailing behind, with his faded hat over one ear, his shoes always polished, his coffee-coloured whiskers, and the foolish face of one grown old teaching the alphabet, and always seeking his beloved, with his head in the clouds.

  The only difference being that, on returning home, he would lock the door, and sweep the school, make his bed, and all the other little chores for which he no longer had anyone to help him. In the morning, before daylight, he would light the fire, polish his shoes, brush his coat, never failing to do that, and go and drink his coffee in the courtyard, seated on the edge of the well, all sad and lonely, with the collar of his overcoat turned up over his ears. And now that his poor dead sister had no need of it, he even saved the two cents’ worth of milk.

  THE DEVIL’S HAND

  This is a tale for people who go round with their hands clasped behind their back, and studying their shoecaps; for those who take nothing for granted and try to understand why all things human favour reason on the one hand and absurdity on the other. For those whose cotton pompom on their night cap would stand on end if they had a bad dream, and who would let the Ides of March go by without defiance. For spiritualists, players of the lottery, lovers, and storytellers; for all those who examine under a microscope the links by which one thing leads to another, once you dip into the great hamper of life. For chemists and alchemists, who for five thousand years have spent their time seeking the exact point where dream ends and reality begins, and breaking down the simplest units of truth in your ideas, principles, and feelings, investigating how much of your night-time self there is in your waking self, and the reciprocal action and reaction between the two. For those sophisticated people capable of confidently telling you that you are still asleep when the sun looks bright or the rain looks dreary – or, worse still, when you believe yourself to be taking a stroll with your wife on your arm. Finally, for people who would not let you open your mouth, even to talk nonsense, without trying to prove something or other, this story could prove and explain many things, which have deliberately not been spelt out so that every reader can find in it what he will.

  I am telling this tale, now that all the characters in it are safe from the indiscreet investigations of the curious. For, of the three characters – like all perfect stories, it is a story with three characters, and you will have already guessed the relationship between them, however little experienced you might be in these matters – he is in Cairo, or thereabouts, running some kind of railway building project, she is dead, poor thing, and the other man is also dead in a manner of speaking. He has become a different person: he is married, has no regrets, and would not even recognize himself in his reflection in a mirror ten years ago, were it not for the insolent hangers-on that pester his wife, who keep putting that mirror right in front of his face, and so resemble him, when he himself was insolently pestering, they drive him to distraction. In short, three ideally suitable characters of no account any more, who practically do not exist – you can imagine they never existed.

  He and the other man were two fine decent fellows, soul mates, friends from childhood, the Orestes and Pylades of Railway Administration. He was an engineer, the other a designer. They lived in the same house, and went everywhere together, which earned them the nickname of the Siamese Twins. They saw each other every day at the office, from nine in the morning until five in the evening. No one could explain how he managed to meet Lina, to court her, and marry her. It was the only wrong this Damon ever did to his Pythias in thirty years.

  But in the end not even in this was there any wrong done. It is true that Pythias-Donati was cross with Damon-Corsi at first, but his crossness did not last a week. Lina was the kind of girl who would have made a bear fall in love with her, and Donati was no bear. She was aware of the jealousy she would have to disarm, and with her sweet smile and her kind and affectionate manner she quietly rooted herself in the two men’s friendship like a slip of ivy, instead of driving herself between them like a wedge. Within the space of a few months there were three friends instead of two, that was all that had changed. Donati felt he now had a sister as well as a brother, and Corsi was even more convinced of it. Of what you are imagining, and what was actually to happen, there was not even the faintest suspicion in the mind of any of the three, otherwise there would be nothing unusual about this story.

  Even more unusual is that this state of affairs went on for eight years, and might have gone on indefinitely. At first, in the demonstations of friendship, of the great affection Donati and Lina felt for each other, there was a slight embarrassment, perhaps caused by the fear they could be misinterpreted. Then habit, the trueness of their hearts, the very purity of those sentiments, made them more expansive, more uninhibited, and more trusting. Donati was at Lina’s side through a long and dangerous illness just as a real brother might have been, and she treated this man who was almost a brother to her husband with all the kindness and consideration of a sister. The closeness between the two small families became so warm, so sincere, so open and unequivocal, that their friends and acquaintances, the rest of the world in
other words, did not regard it as excessive or suspect. A rare thing, I admit, just as the honesty of those souls was rare. But if there was any shortcoming in any one of them, I would not need to drag in here that Fate of which the ancients speak, or what the moderns refer to as the devil’s hand.

  In the evening, after dinner, they would all go out for a walk. Donati would give his arm to Lina, and throw his chest out when he read in the eyes of passers-by, ‘What a beautiful woman!’ On Sundays they would lunch together, and take a box at the Municipal Theatre or the Alfieri. Donati loved surprises, surprises that could be anticipated with the calendar to hand, at Christmas, Easter, and on Lina’s name day. He would turn up with an air of nonchalance that betrayed him even more than his pockets, bulging like saddlepacks, and he would rub his hands together when he saw Lina smiling. On winter evenings they would gather round the table in the sitting room, chatting, leafing through magazines and new novels, playing charades, or Lina would play the piano. Donati displayed admirable patience in absorbing the detailed account of every novel that Lina read: this was her sole vice. He was able tactfully to master the art of listening, expressing surprise or query, shuffling in his seat, converting a yawn into an exclamation, when he was actually falling asleep, poor devil, or did not really understand, or, being the straightforward and easy-going chap that he was, when he had not the least interest in all the expressions of surprise he felt the situation demanded. Often, on going to his rooms upstairs, he would find fresh flowers on his desk, a new rug in front of the sofa, a few elegant trifles prominently displayed on his modest pieces of furniture. A discreet glimpse of a joyful smile, originating from the bottom of his heart, would appear on that gentleman’s untroubled face, and was reflected on all those silent knick-knacks. Then by way of expressing his thanks, he would stamp on the floor two or three times. Lina became greatly preoccupied with finding him a wife. He invariably responded by saying, ‘Oh, we’re very happy the way we are. Let’s not open the door to mischief.’ The poor fellow was so convinced of being a part of this little family, was so contented with this tranquil existence, that he felt he would have been setting fire to his home if he had strayed even one step off the beaten track he habitually followed, and by which, in the manner of a perfect employee, his every move was governed. To those friends of his who advised him to start a family, he replied, ‘I already have one, and that’s enough for me.’ Nor did his friends laugh at this. However, Lina said it was not enough. She was thinking of her friend in his later years, in sickness and old age, just as a mother might have. Sometimes, before closing the window, she would hear him walking about, all alone, in the room upstairs, and looking up to the ceiling, she would murmur, ‘Poor young fellow!’ The loneliness of that melancholy, uneventful, monotonous existence at a time of life meant for passion and pleasure lent a certain distinction to that calm and modest character, magnified the austere figure of that solitary individual, exaggerated the idea of what he sacrificed, made the man endearing, caused her a twinge of discomfort in the midst of her happiness, such abounding, complete happiness. It made her think, with a feeling of fondness, of how much support, fraternal affection and comfort she could bring to this existence.

  You who seek to establish how one thing leads to another, make of this what you will!

  In Catania there is no carnival to usher in Lent, but on the other hand there are the festivities on St Agatha’s Day – a huge masked ball whose setting is the whole city – at which both ladies and ordinary townswomen are entitled to wear masks, so that they can mystify their friends and acquaintances, and wander about wherever they like, however they like, with whomever they like, and their husbands have no right to interfere. This is called the right of the masker, a right that no matter what the chroniclers may say, must be a legacy of the Saracens, judging by its great value for women of the harem. The costume consists of an elegant and sober, if possible black, gown, almost completely shrouded in a mantle, that actually covers the entire person, leaving only one eyehole to see through, to drive a man crazy, or send him to the devil. The only coquettishness the costume allows is a glimpse of glove, ankle-boot, petticoat, or embroidered handkerchief, leaving the rest to the imagination. From four in the afternoon until eight or nine in the evening, the masker is her own mistress (which is saying something in our society), she is mistress of the streets, of all places of entertainment, of you, if you have the good fortune to know her, of your wallet and your head, such as you may possess. She will detach you from the arm of a friend, make you leave your wife or lover in the lurch, descend from a carriage, interrupt your business dealings, she will haul you away from the café, call you if you are standing at a window, lead you by the nose from one end of the city to the other, feeling half-dismayed and half-foolish, but with the eloquent expression of a man who has a terrible fear of appearing ridiculous. She will have you getting trampled in the crowd, or, for love of that one eye you can see, buying everything you would rather let the tradesman keep, because that is what she fancies. She will drive you mad and wear you out – the most delicate, most fragile of maskers is indefatigable – she will make a jealous, lovesick fool of you, and when you are exhausted, befuddled and dazed, she will just abandon you there on the pavement, or at the door of a cafe, with a pitiful, fixed smile of a happy man, and a puzzled look in your eyes, a mixture of curiosity and vexation. To tell the truth, there is always someone who is not deserted like that, or left with that expression on his face; but the lucky ones are very few, while nine times out of ten, you remain consumed with curiosity, even if you’re the husband of the woman who has been dragging you around for four or five hours – the secret of the mask-wearer’s identity is sacred. A strange custom for a place with a reputation for having the most jealous husbands in Christendom! Admittedly, it is a custom that is dying out.

  Now it so happened that on one occasion, three or four days before the Festival, Lina, playful as she was, talking about the maskers, said to Donati, ‘I’m telling you, this time I advise you not to be seen on the streets.’

  Donati knew that Lina had never disguised herself as a masker before, and since she was his only female friend from whom he might expect any surprises, he replied with a shrug of his shoulders:

  ‘Well, I’ve escaped unscathed for the last eight years!’

  ‘Unscathed or not, that’s up to you. A wise man takes no chances!’

  But Donati did not want to act wisely, on the contrary, this particular danger attracted him, without making him mindful of what is said in the Gospel. It would be fun, a superb opportunity for giving Lina a real treat by pretending not to recognize her, for gaining the upper hand and beguiling her rather than allowing himself to be beguiled, for enjoying her confusion, playing the innocent, and having a good laugh with her about it all afterwards. He spent the whole day at the office, at his drawing board, dwelling on the idea, learning his lesson by heart, rehearsing quips and ripostes, preparing witty remarks at leisure. There was something illicit about the idea of taking the arm of that lovely young lady while pretending not to know her, of being alone with her in the middle of the crowd, of being her sole protector for an hour, a stranger to her, a new man, and this illicitness, like a stroke of good luck, gave him a sense of elation.

  Now this is where the devil takes a hand, revelling in overturning all the good intentions with which hell is paved, penetrating any chinks in them, throwing into relief what lies behind the best sentiments, exposing the reverse side of the most honourable actions, deeds that seem to have the least ambiguous of motives.

  The night before the feast day, Donati had a bad dream. But so vivid, strange and surprising was it, the elements that accompanied it so true to life, that even after he woke, he remained uncertain for some time whether it had been a dream or not, and he could not sleep for the rest of the night. He dreamt he was alone with Lina, a Lina who seemed never to have known him, dressed as a masker, with her dark shining eyes, her voice and hands trembling with emotion. Th
ey were at a table in Cafe Sicily, which he never frequented, where they sat motionless, silent, gazing at each other. All of a sudden she let her mantle drop to her shoulders, staring at him all the while with frenzied eyes, flushed as he had never seen her before, and seizing his head, with her hands on his temples, she planted a hot feverish kiss on his mouth.

  Poor Donati, lying in his bed, leapt six inches into the air, woke with a pounding heart, and spent five minutes rubbing his eyes, still feeling stunned. Gradually he calmed down, ended up laughing at himself, and gave the matter no further thought.

  The next day he played the innocent, pretending not to notice Lina’s mischievous smiles, her bustling manner, the unusual comings and goings in the house. He said he would have to spend the evening at the office, because of some extra work, and went to stand guard outside the library.

  He waited and waited, and finally, around five o’clock, Lina came hurrying from Quattro Cantoni, a little hampered by her mantle, but gracefully hampered. She made directly for where he was standing, as if she had known he would be there, plunged into the crowd and without further ado tucked her arm under his. By this alone, Donati would have recognized her anywhere. Animated and loquacious, she was determined to bewilder him with her constant stream of chatter, to invent a thousand stories to confuse him, to embarrass him with the little English and French she retained from school, pretending now to be some foreign lady, now a young girl entitled to be the focus of his attention, now a friend who had disguised herself to save him from great danger, now a distant relative, who had been reminded of his existence and come to solicit the gift of a gold necklace. Donati pretended to be taken in, chuckled up his sleeve, enjoyed himself enormously, took delight in confusing her instead, leading her to suppose that she had divined some great secrets, letting her construct countless stories of no substance on the fanciful foundations she herself had suggested to him. Finally, when he saw she was more intrigued, when he caught in her eyes the first gleam of a fresh emotion, something between surprise and shyness at finding herself with a completely different man, he burst out laughing and, with that waggish good humour of his, said to her, ‘My dear Lina, if you want to discover my secret and pass as some unknown woman entitled to be the focus of my attention, you shouldn’t wear that bracelet, which I really can’t take my eyes off, I know it so well!’ Lina too began to laugh, threw back her mantle a little, and said, ‘Well done! Now that you’ve won, you can treat me to a sorbet, since we’re right outside the Cafe Sicily.’ And they went in.