carried the lantern—breaking his back with digging, and his sisters
finding no husbands who would take them even at a gift, and his mother
spinning in the dark to save lamp-oil, he said, “I want to be a priest.”
His family sold their mule and their little plot of ground to send him
to school, in the hope that if ever they attained to having a priest in
the house, they would get something better than the land and the mule.
But more than that was required to keep him at the seminary. Then the
boy began to hang about the monastery, hoping to be taken on as a
novice; and one day when the Provincial was expected, and they were busy
in the kitchen, they called him in to help. Father Giammaria, a
kind-hearted old fellow, said to him, “Would you like to stay here?—so
you shall.” And Fra Carmelo, the porter—who was bored to death, sitting
for hours on the cloister wall, with nothing to do, swinging one sandal
against the other—patched him up a scapulary out of old rags which had
been hung out on the fig-tree to scare away the sparrows. His mother,
his brother, and sister protested that if he became a monk it was all up
with them—they would lose the money they had paid for his schooling, and
never get a brass farthing out of him in return. But he shrugged his
shoulders and replied, “It’s a fine thing if a man is not to follow the
vocation to which God has called him.”
Father Giammaria had taken a fancy to him because he was active and
handy in the kitchen, and at all other work; and served mass as though
he had never done anything else in his life, with his eyes cast down,
and his lips primmed up like a seraph. Now that he no longer served the
mass, he still had the same downcast eye and compressed lips, when it
was a question of some scandal among the gentry, or of the common lands
being put up to auction, or of swearing the truth before the magistrate.
No one dared to go to law with him; and if he cast his eyes on a farm
for sale, or on a lot of the common land up at auction, the magnates of
the place themselves, if they ventured to bid against him, did so with
obsequious bows, offering him pinches of snuff. One day he and no less a
person than the Baron himself were at it a whole day—pull devil, pull
baker. The Baron was doing the amiable, and his Reverence, seated
opposite to him, with his cloak gathered up between his legs, at every
advance in the bidding offered him his silver snuff-box, sighing, “What
are you going to do about it, Baron?” At last the lot was knocked down
to him, and the Baron took his pinch of snuff, green with vexation.
This sort of thing quite met the views of the peasants; they were used
to seeing the big dogs fight among themselves over a good bone, and
leave nothing for the little ones to gnaw. But what made them complain
was that this man of God ground them down worse than the very
Antichrist, when they had to share the crops with him; and he had no
scruples about seizing his neighbour’s goods, because the apparatus of
the confessional was all in his hands, and if he fell into mortal sin he
could easily give himself absolution. “It is everything to have the
priest in one’s own house,” they sighed. And the shrewdest of them
denied themselves the very bread out of their mouths, so as to send one
of their sons to the seminary.
“When one gives himself up to the land, one has to do it altogether,”
his Reverence used to say, as an excuse for considering no one. The mass
itself he only celebrated on Sundays, except when there was nothing else
to do; he was not one of those wretched starveling priests who have to
run after the three _tari_ of the mass fee. He had no need of it. So
much so that the Bishop, arriving at his house on a pastoral visit, and
finding his breviary covered with dust, wrote thereon with his finger,
“_Deo gratias!_” But his Reverence had other things to think of besides
wasting his time in reading the breviary, and laughed at the Bishop’s
reproof. If the breviary was covered with dust, his oxen were sleek and
shining, his sheep were thick in fleece, and the crops as tall as a man,
so that his tenants, at any rate, could enjoy the sight of them, and
build fine castles in the air—till they had to settle accounts with
their landlord. It was a relief to their hearts, poor souls. “Crops that
are like witchcraft! The Lord must have passed by them in the night! One
can see that they belong to a man of God, and it is a good thing to work
for him who has the mass and the blessing in his hand!” In May, at the
season when they watched the sky with anxious looks for every passing
cloud, they knew that their landlord was saying mass for the harvest,
and was a better protection against the Evil Eye and the bad season than
pictures of saints or blessed loaves. As for the latter, his Reverence
would not have them scattered about among the crops, because, as he
said, they only served to attract sparrows and other noxious birds. Of
sacred pictures he had his pockets full; he got as many as he wanted, of
the best kind, in the sacristy, without spending a penny, and made
presents of them to his labourers.
But at harvest-time he came riding up on horseback, along with his
brother, who acted as his bailiff, with his gun over his shoulder, and
never left the spot. He slept out in the fields, in spite of the
malaria, so as to look after his interests, without troubling himself
about God or man. The poor wretches who, in the fine season, had
forgotten the hard days of the winter, remained open-mouthed, hearing
him run over the litany of their debts. “So many pounds of beans that
your wife came to fetch at the time of the snow. So many faggots handed
over to your son. So many bushels of grain you have had in advance, for
seed, with interest, at so much a month. Now make up the account.” A
confused account enough. In that year of dearth, when Uncle Carmenio had
left his sweat and his health in his Reverence’s fields, he was forced,
when harvest came, to leave his donkey there too, to pay his debts, and
went off empty-handed, with ugly words in his mouth—blasphemies that
were enough to freeze your very blood. His Reverence, who was not there
to hear confessions, let him swear,—and led the ass into his own stable.
But after 1860, when heresy had triumphed, what good did all his power
and influence do him? The country people learning to read and write, and
able to add up accounts better than he himself; parties fighting for
office in the municipal government, and sharing the spoils without a
consideration in the world for any one but themselves; the next beggar
in the street able to get legal advice for nothing, if he had a quarrel
with you, and force you to pay the costs alone! A priest was nothing
whatever nowadays—either for the judge or the militia captain; he could
no longer, by dropping a hint, get people imprisoned if they failed in
respect to him; in fact, he was good for nothing but to say mass and
hear confessions, just as though he were a servant of the public. The
judge was afraid of the papers—of public opinion—of what Tom, Dick, and
Harry would say—and balanced his decisions like Solomon! They even
envied his Reverence the property he had acquired in the sweat of his
brow; they had “overlooked” him and cast spells on him; the little he
ate at dinner tortured him at night; while his brother, who led a hard
life and dined on bread and garlic, had the digestion of an ostrich, and
knew very well that, in a hundred years’ time, when he, the priest, was
dead, he would be his heir, and find himself rich without lifting a
finger. His mother, poor body, was past work now—she survived only to
suffer herself and be a trouble to other people—helpless in her bed with
paralysis; she had to be waited on, instead of waiting on him.
Everything went wrong in these days.
“There’s no religion now—no justice—no anything!” he would grumble, as
he was growing old. “Now everybody wants to have his say. Those who have
nothing want to grab your share. ‘Get out of that and let me get in!’
That’s it! They’d like to reduce the priests to sacristans—leave them
nothing to do but say mass and sweep out the church. They don’t want to
obey God’s commandments any more—that’s what’s the matter with _them_!”
_G. Verga._
_PADRON ’NTONI’S POLITICS._
... Padron ’Ntoni knew nothing about politics, and contented himself
with minding his own affairs, for he used to say, “He who has charge of
a house cannot sleep when he pleases,” and “He who commands has to give
account.”
In December 1863, ’Ntoni, the eldest of his grandsons, had been called
out for the naval conscription. Padron ’Ntoni went at once to all the
big-wigs of the village, thinking that they would be able to help him.
But Don Giammaria the priest said that it served him right, and that
this was the fruit of that revolution of Satan they had brought about
when they hoisted the tricolour on the church tower. On the other hand,
Don Franco the chemist began to laugh under his great beard, and assured
Padron ’Ntoni, rubbing his hands, that as soon as they were able to rig
up a bit of a republic, which was what was wanted, every one who had to
do with the conscription and the taxes should be kicked out; that there
would then be no more soldiers, but every man in the country would go to
war if it were needed. Then Padron ’Ntoni prayed and entreated him to
get the Republic made soon—before his grandson ’Ntoni had to go for a
soldier, just as though Don Franco had the Republic in his pocket,
insomuch that the chemist ended by losing his temper. Then Don
Silvestro, the Syndic’s secretary, nearly killed himself with laughing,
and said that a nice little sum paid into the pockets of such and such
personages he knew of would have the effect of producing in ’Ntoni some
defect which would make him ineligible for service.
_G. Verga._
_MASTRO PEPPE’S MAGIC._
Mastro Peppe La Bravetta was a stout, stupid, good-natured man, living
in Pescara, who sold pots and pans, and was terribly in awe of his wife,
the severe and miserly Donna Pelagia, who ruled him with a rod of iron.
Besides the income derived from his business, he possessed a piece of
land on the other side of the river which produced enough to keep a pig.
To this property the couple were wont to repair every January, to
preside over the killing and salting of the pig which had been fattening
through the year.
[Illustration]
Now one year it so happened that Pelagia was not very well, and La
Bravetta went to attend the execution alone. And to him, in the course
of the afternoon, came two of his friends, graceless vagabonds, Matteo
Puriello, nicknamed Ciávola, who was a poacher, and Biagio Quaglia,
better known as Il Ristabilito, whose most serious occupation was that
of playing the guitar at weddings and on other festive occasions.
When he saw these two approaching he welcomed them enthusiastically, and
then, leading them into the building where the wonderful pig was laid
out on the table, asked—
“What do you say to this, now? Isn’t he a beauty? What do you think of
him?”
The two friends contemplated the pig in silent wonder, and Ristabilito
clicked his tongue appreciatively against his palate. Ciávola asked,
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Salt it down,” replied La Bravetta, in a voice which trembled with
greedy delight of future banquets.
“Going to salt it?” cried Ristabilito suddenly. “Going to salt it? But,
Ciá, did you ever see any man so stupid as this fellow? To let such a
chance slip!”
La Bravetta, quite dumfoundered, stared first at one and then at the
other with his calf-like eyes.
“Donna Pelagge has always kept you under her thumb,” continued
Ristabilito. “This time she can’t see you; why shouldn’t you sell the
pig, and then we’ll feast on the money.”
“But Pelagge?” stammered La Bravetta, who was filled with an immense
consternation by the image of his wrathful wife presented to his mind’s
eye.
“Tell her that the pig was stolen,” said Ciávola, with a gesture of
impatience.
La Bravetta shuddered.
“How am I to go home and tell her that? Pelagge won’t believe me—she’ll
drive me—she’ll ... You don’t know what Pelagge is!”
[Illustration]
“Uh! Pelagge! uh! uh! Donna Pelagge!” jeered the two arch-plotters in
chorus. And then Ristabilito, imitating Peppe’s whining voice, and his
wife’s sharp and strident one, acted a comic scene in which Peppe was
utterly routed, scolded, and finally cuffed like a naughty boy.
Ciávola walked round the pig, scarcely able to move for laughing. The
unfortunate butt, seized with a violent fit of sneezing, waved his arms
helplessly, trying to interrupt the dramatic representation. All the
window-panes trembled with the noise. The flaming sunset streamed in on
three very different human faces.
When Ristabilito stopped, Ciávola said—
“Well, let’s go away!”
“If you’ll stay to have supper——” began Mastro Peppe, somewhat
constrainedly.
“No, no, my dear boy,” interrupted Ciávola, as he turned towards the
door, “you do as Pelagge tells you, and salt the pig.”
As the two friends walked along the road Ristabilito said to Ciávola—
“_Compare_, shall we steal that pig to-night?”
“How?” said Ciávola.
“I know how, if they leave it where it was when we saw it.”
“Well, let’s do it. But, then?” said Ciávola.
The other’s whole face lit up, and fairly vibrated with a grin of
delight.
“Never mind—_I_ know,” was all he said.
They saw Don Bergamino Camplone coming along in the moonlight—a black
figure between the rows of leafless poplars with their silvery trunks.
They immediately quickened their pace to meet him; and the jolly priest,
seeing their festive looks, asked with a smile—
“What’s up now?”
The friends briefly communicated their project to Don Bergamino, who
assented with much cheerfulness. And Ristabilito added, in a low voice—
“Here we shall have to manage things cunningly. You know that Peppe,
ever since he took up with that ugly old hag of a Donna Pelagge, has
been getting very stingy, and at the same time he’s very fond of wine.
Now we must go and fetch him and take him to Assaù’s tavern. You, Don
Bergamino, must treat us all round. Peppe will drink as much as ever he
can, seeing it costs him nothing, and will get as drunk as a pig; and
then——”
The others agreed, and they went to Peppe’s house, which was about two
rifle-shots distant. When they were near enough Ciávola lifted up his
voice—
“Ohé! La Bravetta-a-a! Are you coming to Assaù’s? The priest is here,
and he’s going to pay for a bottle of wine for us. Ohé-é-é!”
La Bravetta was not long in descending, and all four set off in a row,
joking and laughing in the moonlight. In the stillness the caterwauling
of a distant cat was heard at intervals, and Ristabilito remarked—
“Oh! Pé! don’t you hear Pelagge calling you to come back?”
* * * * *
They crossed the ferry, reached the tavern, and sat till late over
Assaù’s wine, which Mastro Peppe found so good that he was at last
discovered to be incapable of walking home. They assisted him back to
the house and left him to go upstairs alone, which he did with some
difficulty, talking disconnectedly all the time about Lepruccio the
butcher and the quantity of salt needed for the pig, and quite oblivious
of the fact that he had left the door unfastened. They waited a while,
and then, entering softly, found the pig on the table, and carried it
off between them, shaking with suppressed laughter. It was very heavy,
and they were quite out of breath when they reached the priest’s house.
In the morning, Mastro Peppe having slept off his wine, awoke, and lay
still a little while on his bed, stretching his limbs and listening to
the bells as they rang for the Eve of St. Anthony. Even in the confusion
of his first awakening he felt a contented sense of possession steal
through his mind, and tasted by anticipation the delight of seeing
Lepruccio cutting up and covering with salt the plump joints of pork.
[Illustration]
Under the impulse of this idea, he rose, and hurried out, rubbing his
eyes the while to get a better view. Nothing was to be seen on the table
but a stain of blood, with the morning sun shining on it.
“The pig! Where is the pig?” cried the bereaved one hoarsely.
A furious excitement seized upon him. He rushed downstairs, saw the open
door, struck his forehead with his fists, and burst into the open air
yelling aloud—calling all his farm labourers round him, and asking them
if they had seen the pig—if they had taken it. He multiplied his
complaints, raising his voice more and more; and at last the doleful
sound, echoing along the river-bank, reached the ears of Ciávola and Il
Ristabilito.
They therefore repaired to the spot at their ease, fully agreed to enjoy
the sight and keep up the joke. When they came in sight, Mastro Peppe
turned to them, all afflicted and in tears, and exclaimed, “Oh! poor me!
They have stolen the pig! Oh! poor me! What shall I do?—what shall I
do?”
Biagio Quaglia stood for a while, looking at this most unhappy man out
of his half-shut eyes, with an expression midway between derision and
admiration, and his head inclined to one shoulder, as if critically
judging of some dramatic effort. Then he came closer and said—
“Ah! yes, yes—one can’t deny it.... You play your part well.”
Peppe, not understanding, lifted his face all furrowed with the tracks
of tears....
“To tell the truth, I never thought you would have been so cute,”
Ristabilito went on. “Well done! Bravo! I’m delighted!”
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked La Bravetta between his sobs. “What’s
that you’re saying? Oh! poor me! How can I ever go home again?”
“Bravo! bravo! that’s right!” insisted Ristabilito. “Go on! Yell
harder!—cry!—tear your hair! Make them hear! That’s it! Make them
believe it!”
And Peppe, still weeping—
“But I say they have really and truly stolen it! Oh, dear! oh, dear!”
“That’s it! Go on! Don’t stop! Again!”
Peppe, quite beside himself with exasperation and grief, redoubled his
asseverations.
“I’m telling the truth! May I die now, at once, if they haven’t stolen
that pig from me!”
“Oh, poor innocent!” jeered Ciávola. “Put your finger in your eye! How
can we believe you, when we saw the pig here yesterday evening? Has St.
Anthony given him wings to fly away with?”
“Oh, blessed St. Anthony! It is just as I say!”
“It’s not so!”
“It is.”
“No!”
“Oh! oh! oh! It is! it is! I’m a dead man! I don’t know how in the world
I am to go home. Pelagge won’t believe me, and if she does, I shall
never hear the end of it.... Oh! I’m dead!...”
At last they pretended to be convinced, and proposed a remedy for the
misfortune.
“Listen here,” said Biagio Quaglia; “it must have been one of the people
hereabouts; for it is certain that no one would have come from India to
steal your pig, would they, Pé?”
“Of course, of course,” assented Peppe.
“Well then—attend to me now,” continued Ristabilito, delighted at the
devout attention accorded to his words; “if no one came from India to
rob you, it is certain that one of the people hereabouts must have been
the thief; don’t you think so?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well, what have we to do? We must get all these labourers together, and
try some charm to discover the thief. And if we find the thief, we’ve
found the pig.”
Mastro Peppe’s eyes brightened with eagerness, and he came closer, for
the hint at a charm had awakened all his innate superstition.
“Now, you know, there are three kinds of magic—the black, the red, and
the white. And you know there are three women in the village skilled in
the art: Rosa Schiavona, Rosaria Pajara, and Ciniscia. You have only to
choose.”
Peppe remained a moment in doubt. Then he decided for Rosaria Pajara,
who enjoyed great fame as a sorceress, and had in past times performed
several marvellous feats.
“Very well,” concluded Ristabilito; “there is no time to be lost. Now,
just for your sake, and only to do you a pleasure, I am going to the
town to get everything that will be wanted. I will talk to Rosaria, get
her to give me everything, and come back before noon. Give me the
money.”
Peppe took three _carlini_ from his waistcoat pocket, and held them out
hesitatingly.
“Three _carlini_?” shouted the other, putting back his hand. “_Three
carlini!_ She’ll want ten at least!”
On hearing this Pelagge’s husband was almost struck dumb.
“What? Ten _carlini_ for a charm?” he stammered, feeling with trembling
fingers in his pocket. “Here are eight for you. I have no more.”
“Well, well,” said Quaglia dryly; “we’ll see what we can do. Are you
coming along, Ciá?”
The two companions set off at a smart pace for Pescara, along the
poplar-bordered path, in Indian file, Ciávola demonstrating his delight
by mighty thumps on Ristabilito’s back. When they reached the town, they
entered the shop of a certain Don Daniele Pacentro, a chemist of their
acquaintance. Here they purchased certain drugs and spices, and got him
to make them up into little balls the size of walnuts, which were then
well coated with sugar and baked. Biagio Quaglia (who had disappeared in
the meantime) then returned with a paper full of dirt swept up in the
road, of which he insisted on having two pills made, in appearance
exactly similar to the others, but mixed with bitter aloes, and only
very slightly coated with sugar. The chemist did as he was desired,
putting a mark on the two bitter pills, at Ristabilito’s suggestion.
The two jokers now returned to Peppe’s farm, and reached it about noon.
La Bravetta was awaiting them with great anxiety, and as soon as he saw
them shouted, “Well?”
“Everything is in order!” replied Ristabilito triumphantly, showing the
little box of magic confectionery. “Now, seeing to-day is the Eve of St.
Anthony, and the peasants are taking a holiday, you must call them all
together, out here in the open air, and give them a drink. You have some
casks of Montepulciano; you might as well have some of that out for
once. And when they are all assembled it will be my business to do and
say all that has to be said and done.”
Two hours later, the afternoon being very warm, bright, and clear, and
La Bravetta having spread the report, all the farmers of the
neighbourhood and their labourers came in response to the invitation. A
great flock of geese went waddling about among the heaps of straw in the
yard; the smell of the stable came in puffs on the air. They stood
there, quietly laughing and joking with one another, as they waited for
the wine,—these rustics, with their bow-legs, bent by heavy labour,—some
of them with faces wrinkled and ruddy as old apples, and eyes that had
been made gentle by long patience, or quick with years of cunning;
others young and limber, with beards just coming, and home care
evidenced in their patched and mended clothes.
Ciávola and Ristabilito did not keep them waiting long. The latter,
holding the box in his hand, directed them to make a circle round him,
and then, standing in the middle, addressed them in a short oration, not
without a certain gravity of voice and gesture.
“Neighbours,” he began, “none of you, I am sure, knows the real reason
why Mastro Peppe de’ Sieri has summoned you here....”
A movement of astonishment at this strange preamble passed round the
circle, and the joy at the promised wine gave place to uneasy
expectations of various kinds. The orator continued—
“But, as something disagreeable might happen, and you might afterwards
complain of me, I will tell you what it is all about before we make the
experiment.”
The listeners looked into one another’s eyes with a bewildered air, and
then cast curious and uncertain glances at the little box which the
orator held in his hand. One of them, as Ristabilito paused to consider
the effect of his words, exclaimed impatiently—
“Well?”
“Presently, presently, neighbours. Last night there was stolen from
Mastro Peppe a fine pig which was going to be salted down. No one knows
who the thief is; but it is quite certain that he will be found among
you, because no one would come from India to steal Mastro Peppe’s pig.”
[Illustration]
Whether it was a happy effect of the strange argument from India, or the
action of the mild winter sun, La Bravetta began to sneeze. The rustics
took a step backward, the whole flock of geese scattered in terror, and
seven consecutive sneezes resounded freely in the air, disturbing the
rural stillness of the spot. The noise restored some cheerfulness to the
minds of the assembly, who in a little while regained their composure,
and Ristabilito continued as gravely as ever—
“To find out the thief Mastro Peppe intends to give you to eat of
certain good _confetti_, and to drink of a certain old Montepulciano,
which he has tapped to-day on purpose. But I must tell you one thing
first. The thief, as soon as he puts the sweets into his mouth, will
find them bitter—so bitter that he will be forced to spit them out. Now,
are you willing to try? Or perhaps the thief, rather than be found out
in this way, would like to go and confess himself to the priest? Answer,
neighbours.”