Part 15

’Ntoni Malavoglia raised his fist in the air, and swore that he was going to have done with it, once for all, if he went to the galleys for it--for the matter of that, he had nothing to lose. Santuzza no longer looked upon him as she formerly did, so much had her father obtained of her, always whining and wheedling at her between one Ave Maria and another, since Master Filippo had left off keeping his wine in their cellar. He said that the customers were thinning off like flies at Saint Andrew’s Day, now they no longer found Master Filippo’s wine, which they had drunk ever since they were babies. Uncle Santoro kept on saying to his daughter: “What do you want with that great useless ’Ntoni Malavoglia always about the place? Don’t you see that he is eating you out of house and home, to no purpose? You fatten him like a pig, and then he goes off and makes eyes at Vespa or the Mangiacarubbe, now that they are rich;” or he said, “Your customers are leaving you because you always have ’Ntoni after you, so that nobody has a chance to laugh or talk with you or, He’s so dirty and ragged that he is a shame to be seen; the place looks like a stable, and people don’t want to drink out of the glasses after him. Don Michele looked well at the door, with his cap with the gold braid. People like to drink their wine in peace when they have paid for it, and they like to see a man with a sabre at the door, and everybody took off their caps to him, and nobody was likely to deny a debt to you while he was about. Now that he doesn’t come, Master Filippo doesn’t come either. The other day he was passing, and I wanted him to come in, but he said it was of no use now, for he couldn’t get anything in contraband any longer, now you had quarrelled with Don Michele--which is neither good for the soul nor for the body. People are beginning to murmur already, and to say that the charity you give to ’Ntoni is not blameless, and if it goes on the vicar may hear of it, and you may lose your medal.”

At first Santuzza held out, for, as she said, she was determined to be mistress in her own house; but afterwards she began to see things in another light, and no longer treated ’Ntoni as she used to do. If there was anything left at meals she did not give it to him, and she left the glasses dirty, and gave him no wine; so that at last he began to look cross, and then she told him that she didn’t want any idle fellows about the place, and that she and her father earned their bread, and that he ought to do the same. Couldn’t he help a bit about the house, chopping wood or blowing up the fire, instead of always shouting and screaming about, or sleeping with his head on his arms, or else spitting about everywhere so that one didn’t know where to set one’s foot? ’Ntoni for a while did chop the wood, or blew the fire, which he preferred, as it was easier work. But he found it hard to work like a dog, worse than he did at home, and be treated like a dog into the bargain, with hard words and cross looks--and all for the sake of the dirty plates they gave him to lick.

At last, one day when Santuzza had just come back from confession, he made a scene, complaining that Don Michele had begun to hover about the house again, and that he had waited for her in the piazza when she came home from church, and that Uncle Santoro had called to him when he heard his voice as he was passing, and had followed him as far as Vanni Pizzuti’s shop, feeling the walls with his stick. Santuzza flew into a passion, and said that he had come on purpose to bring her into sin again, and make her lose her communion.

“If you are not pleased you can go,” she said. “Did I say anything when I saw you running after Vespa and the Mangiacarubbe, now that they have got themselves married?”

But ’Ntoni swore there wasn’t a word of truth in it, that he didn’t go running after any women, and that she might spit in his face if she saw him speaking to either of them.

“No, you won’t get rid of him that way,” said Uncle Santoro. “Don’t you see that he won’t leave you because he lives at your expense? You won’t get him out unless you kick him out. Master Filippo has told me that he can’t keep his new wine any longer in the barrels, and that he won’t let you have it unless you make it up with Don Michele, and help him to smuggle it in as he used to do.” And he went off after Master Filippo to Vanni Pizzuti’s shop, feeling his way along the walls with his stick.

His daughter put on haughty airs, protesting that she never would forgive Don Michele after the ugly trick he had played her.

“Let me manage it,” said Uncle Santoro. “I assure you I can be discreet enough about it. Don’t believe I will ever let you go back and lick Don Michele’s boots. Am I your father, or not?”

’Ntoni, since Santuzza had begun to be rude to him, was obliged to look somewhere else for his dinner, for he was ashamed to go home--where all the time his people were thinking of him with every mouthful they ate, feeling almost as if he were dead too; and they did not even spread the cloth any more, but sat scattered about the room with the plates on their knees.

“This is the last blow for me, in my old age,” said his grandfather, and those who saw him pass, bent down with the nets on his shoulders, on his way to his day’s work, said to each other:

“This is Padron ’Ntoni’s last winter. It will not be long before those orphans are left quite alone in the world.”

And Lia, when Mena told her to stay in the house when Don Michele passed by, answered, with a pout: “Yes, it is worth while staying in the house, for such precious persons as we are! You needn’t be afraid anybody ‘ll want to steal us.”

“Oh, if your mother were here you wouldn’t talk in that way,” murmured Mena.

“If my mother were here I shouldn’t be an orphan, and shouldn’t have to take care of myself. Nor would ’Ntoni go wandering about the streets, until it is a shame to hear one’s self called his sister. And not a soul would think of taking ’Ntoni Malavoglia’s sister for a wife.”

’Ntoni, now that he was in bad luck, was not ashamed to show himself everywhere with Rocco Spatu, and with Cinghialenta, on the downs and by the Rotolo, and was seen whispering to them mysteriously, like a lot of wolves. Don Michele came back to Mena, saying, “Your brother will play you an ugly trick some day, Cousin Mena.” Mena was driven to going out to look for her brother on the downs, or towards the Rotolo, or at the door of the tavern, sobbing and crying, and pulling him by the sleeve. But he replied:

“No, it is all Don Michele; he is determined to ruin me, I tell you. He is always plotting against me with Uncle Santoro. I have heard them myself in Pizzuti’s shop; and that spy said to him, ‘And if I come back to your daughter, what kind of a figure shall I cut?’ And Uncle Santoro answered, ‘But when I tell you that the whole place will by that time be dying of envy of you?’”

“But what do you mean to do?” asked Mena, with her pale face. “Think of our mother, ’Ntoni, and of us who have no one left in the world!”

“Nothing! I mean to put Santuzza to shame, and him too, as they go to the mass, before all the world. I mean to tell them what I think of them, and make them a laughing-stock for everybody. I fear nobody in the world. And the druggist himself shall hear me.”

In short, it was useless for Mena to weep or to beg. He went on saying that he had nothing to lose, and the others should look after themselves and not blame him; that he was tired of that life, and meant to end it, as Don Franco said. And since he was not kindly received at the tavern, he took to lounging about the piazza, especially on Sundays, and sat on the church-steps to see what sort of a face those shameless wretches would wear, trying to deceive not only the world, but Our Lord and the Madonna under their very eyes.

Santuzza, not wishing to meet ’Ntoni, went to Aci Castello to mass early in the morning, not to be led into temptation. ’Ntoni watched the Mangia-carubbe, with her face wrapped in her mantle, not looking to the right or to the left, now she had caught a husband. Vespa, all over flounces, and with a very big rosary, went to besiege Heaven that she might be delivered from her scourge of a husband, and ’Ntoni snarled after them: “Now that they have caught husbands, they want nothing more. They’ve somebody to see that they have plenty to eat.” Uncle Crucifix had lost even his devotional habits since he had got Vespa on his shoulders; he kept away from church, to be free from her presence at least for so long a time, to the great peril of his soul.

“This is my last year!” he whined. And now he was always running after Padron ’Ntoni and the others who were badly off. “This year I shall have hail in my vineyard, you’ll see; I shall not have a drop of wine!”

“You know, Uncle Crucifix,” replied Padron ’Ntoni, “as soon as you like, I am ready to go to the notary for that affair of the house, and I have the money here.”

That one cared for nothing but his house, and other people’s affairs were nothing to him.

“Don’t talk to me of the notary, Padron ’Ntoni. If I hear any one speak of a notary I am reminded of the day when I let Vespa drag me before one. Cursed be that day!”

But Cousin Goosefoot, who smelled a bargain, said to him, “That witch of a Wasp, after your death, may be capable of selling the house by the medlar for next to nothing; isn’t it better that you should finish up your own affairs while you can?” And Uncle Crucifix would reply: “Yes, yes, I’ll go to the notary; but you must let me make some profit on the affair. Look how many losses I have had!” And Goosefoot, feigning to agree with him, would add, “That witch of a wife of yours must not know that you have the money, or she might twist your neck for the sake of spending it in necklaces and new gowns.” And he went on: “At least the Mangiacarubbe does not throw her money away, now she has caught a husband. Look how she comes to church in a cotton gown!”

“I don’t care for the Mangiacarubbe; but I know she and all the other women ought to be burned alive. They are only put in the world for our damnation. Do you believe that she doesn’t spend the money? That’s all put on to take in Padron Fortunato, who goes about declaring that he’d rather marry a girl himself out of the street than let his money go to that beggar, who has stolen his son from him. I’d give him Vespa, for my part, if he wanted her! They’re all alike! And woe to whoever gets one for his misfortune! The Lord help him! Look at Don Michele, who goes up and down the black street after Donna Rosolina! What does he need more, that one? Respected, well paid, fat, and comfortable! Well, he goes running after a woman, looking for trouble with a lantern, for the sake of the vicar’s few soldi after his death!”

“No, he doesn’t go for Donna Rosolina, no,” said Goosefoot, winking mysteriously. “Donna Rosolina may take root on her terrace among her tomatoes, with her eyes like a dead fish’s. Don Michele doesn’t care for the vicar’s money. I know what he goes to the black street for.”

“Then, what will you take for the house?” asked Padron ’Ntoni, returning to the subject.

“We’ll see, we’ll see when we go to the notary,” replied old Crucifix. “Now let me listen to the blessed mass;” and so he sent him off for that time.

“Don Michele has something else in his head,” repeated Goosefoot, running his tongue out behind Padron ’Ntoni’s back, and making a sign towards his grandson, who was leaning against the wall, with a ragged jacket over one shoulder, and casting furious looks at Uncle Santoro, who had taken to coming to mass to hold out his hand to the faithful in the intervals of muttered Glorias and Ave Marias, knowing them all very well as they passed him on their way out, saying to one, “The Lord bless you;” to another, “God give you health;” and as Don Michele passed, he said to him, “Go to her, she is waiting for you in the garden. Holy Mary, pray for us! Lord be merciful to me a sinner!” When Don Michele began to go back to the tavern people said: “Look if the cat and dog haven’t made friends! There must have been some reason for their quarrelling. And Master Filippo has gone back too. He seems to have been fonder of Don Michele than of Santuzza! Some people wouldn’t care to be alone, even in Paradise.”

Then ’Ntoni Malavoglia was furious, finding himself hustled out of the tavern worse than a mangy dog, without even a penny in his pocket to pay to go and drink in spite of Don Michele and his mustaches, and sit there all day long for the sake of plaguing them, with his elbows on the table. Instead of which he was obliged to spend the day in the street, like a dog with his tail between his legs and his nose to the ground, muttering, “Blood of Judas! one day there’ll be an upsetting there, that there will.”

Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta, who always had more or less money, laughed in his face from the door of the tavern, pointing their fingers at him, or came out to talk to him in low tones, pulling him by the arm in the direction of the downs, or whispering in his ear. He hesitated always about giving them an answer, like a fool as he was. Then they would come down upon him both at once. “You deserve to die of hunger, there in sight of the door, and to have us sneering at you worse than Don Michele does, you faint-hearted wretch, you!”

“Blood of Judas! don’t talk like that,” cried ’Ntoni, shaking his fist in the air; “or else some day something new will happen, that there will!”

But the others went sneering off and left him, until at last they succeeded in putting him into such a fury that he came straight into the middle of the tavern among them all, pale as a corpse, with his hand on his hip, and on his shoulder his old worn jacket, which he wore as proudly as if it had been a velvet coat, turning his blazing eyes about the room, looking out for somebody. Don Michele, out of respect for his own uniform, pretended not to see him, and made as if he would go away; but ’Ntoni, seeing that Don Michele was not in the humor for fighting, became outrageously insolent, sneering at him and at Santuzza, and spitting out the wine which he drank, swearing that it was poison, and baptized besides, for Santuzza had mixed it with water, and they were simply fools to go into such a place as that to throw away their money; and that was the reason why he had left off coming there. Santuzza, touched in her weakest point, could no longer command her temper, and flew out at him, saying that he didn’t come because they wouldn’t have him, that they were tired of keeping him for charity, and they had had to use the broom-handle to him before he’d go, a great hungry dog! And ’Ntoni began to rage and storm, roaring and flinging the glasses about, which, he said, they had put out to catch that other great codfish in uniform, but he would bring his wine out at his nose for him; he wasn’t afraid of anybody.

Don Michele, white with rage, with his cap on one side, stammered, “This will end badly, will end badly!” while Santuzza rained flasks and glasses upon both of them. At last they flew at each other with their fists, until they both rolled on the floor like two dogs, and the others went at them with kicks and thumps trying to part them, which at last Peppi Naso, the butcher, succeeded in doing by dint of lashing them with the leather strap which he took off his trousers, which took the skin off wherever it touched.

Don Michele brushed off his uniform, picked up his sabre, which he had lost in the scuffle, and went out, only muttering something between his teeth, for his uniform’s sake. But ’Ntoni Malavoglia, with the blood streaming from his nose, called out a lot of bad names after him--rubbing his nose with his sleeve meanwhile, and swearing that he would soon give him the rest of it.

XIV.

|Ntoni Malavoglia did meet Don Michele, and “gave him his change,” and a very ugly business it was. It was by night, when it rained in torrents, and so dark that even a cat could have seen nothing at the turn on the down which leads to the Rotolo, whence those boats put out so quietly, making believe to be fishing for cod at midnight, and where ’Ntoni and Rocco Spatu, and Cinghialenta and other good-for-nothing fellows well known to the coast-guard, used to hang about with pipes in their mouths--the guards knew those pipes well, and could distinguish them perfectly one from another as they moved about among the rocks where they lay hidden with their guns in their hands.

“Cousin Mena,” said Don Michele, passing once more down the black street--“Cousin Mena, tell your brother not to go to the Rotolo of nights with Cinghialenta and Rocco Spatu.”

But ’Ntoni would not listen, for “the empty stomach has no ears”; and he no longer feared Don Michele since he had rolled over with him hand to hand on the floor of the tavern, and he had sworn, too, to “give him the rest of it,” and he would give him the rest of it whenever he met him; and he wasn’t going to pass for a coward in the eyes of Santuzza and the rest who had been present when he threatened him. “I said I’d give him the rest when I met him next, and so I will; and if he chooses to meet me at the Rotolo, I’ll meet him at the Rotolo!” he repeated to his companions, who had also brought with them the son of La Locca. They had passed the evening at the tavern drinking and roaring, for a tavern is like a free port, and no one can be sent out of it as long as they have money to pay their score and to rattle in their pockets. Don Michele had gone by on his rounds, but Rocco Spatu, who knew the law, said, spitting and leaning against the wall the better to balance himself, that as long as the lamp at the door was lighted they could not turn them out. “We have a right to stay so long!” he repeated. ’Ntoni Malavoglia also enjoyed keeping Santuzza from going to bed, as she sat behind her glasses yawning and dozing. In the mean time Uncle Santoro, feeling his way about with his hands, had put the lamp out and shut the door.

“Now be off!” said Santuzza, “I don’t choose to be fined, for your sake, for keeping my door open at this hour.”

“Who’ll fine you? That spy Don Michele? Let him come here, and I’ll pay him his fine! Tell him he’ll find ’Ntoni Malavoglia here, by Our Lady’s blood.”

Meanwhile the Santuzza had taken him by the shoulders and put him out of the door: “Go and tell him yourself, and get into scrapes somewhere else. I don’t mean to get into trouble with the police for love of your bright eyes.”

’Ntoni, finding himself in the street in this unceremonious fashion, pulled out a long knife, and swore that he would stab both Santuzza and Don Michele. Cinghialenta was the only one who had his senses, and he pulled him by the coat, saying: “Leave them alone now! Have you forgotten what we have to do to-night?”

La Locca’s son felt greatly inclined to cry.

“He’s drunk,” observed Spatu, standing under the rain-pipe. “Bring him here under the pipe; it will do him good.”

’Ntoni, quieted a little by the drenching he got from the rain-pipe, let himself be drawn along by Cinghialenta, scolding all the while, swearing that as sure as he met Don Michele he’d give him what he had promised him. All of a sudden he found himself face to face with Don Michele who was also prowling in the vicinity, with his pistols at his belt and his trousers thrust into his boots. ’Ntoni became quite calm all of a sudden, and they all stole off silently in the direction of Vanni Pizzuti’s shop. When they reached the door, now that Don Michele was no longer near them, ’Ntoni insisted that they should stop and listen to what he had to say.

“Did you see where Don Michele was going? and Santuzza said she was sleepy!”

“Leave Don Michele alone, can’t you?” said Cin-ghialenta; “that way he won’t interfere with us.”

“You’re all a lot of cowards,” said ’Ntoni.

“You’re afraid of Don Michele.”

“To-night you’re drunk,” said Cinghialenta, “but I’ll show you whether I’m afraid of Don Michele. Now that I’ve told my uncle, I don’t mean to have anybody coming bothering after me, finding out how I earn my bread.”

Then they began to talk under their breath, drawn up against the wall, while the noise of the rain drowned their voices. Suddenly the clock struck, and they all stood silent, counting the strokes.

“Let’s go into Cousin Pizzuti’s,” said Cinghialenta. “He can keep his door open as late as he likes, and doesn’t need to have a light.”

“It’s dark, I can’t see,” said La Locca’s son.

“We ought to take something to drink,” said Rocco Spatu, “or we shall break our noses on the rocks.”

Cinghialenta growled: “As if we were just out for our pleasure! Now you’ll be wanting Master Vanni to give you a lemonade.”

“I have no need of lemonade,” said ’Ntoni. “You’ll see when I get to work if I can’t manage as well as any of you.”

Cousin Pizzuti didn’t want to open the door at that hour, and replied that he had gone to bed; but as they wouldn’t leave off knocking, and threatened to wake up the whole place and bring the guards into the affair, he consented to get up, and opened the door, in his drawers.

“Are you mad, to knock in that way?” he exclaimed. “I saw Don Michele pass just now.”

“Yes; we saw him too.”

“Do you know where he came from?” asked Pizzuti, looking sharply at him.

’Ntoni shrugged his shoulders; and Vanni, as he stood out of the way to let them pass, winked to Rocco and Cinghialenta. “He’s been at the Malavoglia’s,” he whispered. “I saw him come out.”

“Much good may it do him!” answered Cinghialenta; “but ’Ntoni ought to tell his sister to keep him when we have anything to do.”

“What do you want of me?” said ’Ntoni, thickly.

“Nothing to-night. Never mind. To-night we can do nothing.”

“If we can do nothing to-night, why did you bring me away from the tavern?” said Rocco Spatu. “I’m wet through.”

“It was something else that we were speaking of;” and Vanni continued: “Yes, the man has come from town, and he says the goods are there, but it will be no joke trying to land them in such weather as this.”

“So much the better; no one will be looking out for us.”

“Yes, but the guards have sharp ears, and mind you, it seems to me that I heard some one prowling about just now, and trying to look into the shop.”

A moment’s silence ensued, and Vanni, to put an end to it, brought out three glasses and filled them with bitters.

“I don’t care about the guard!” cried Rocco Spatu, after he had drunk. “So much the worse for them if they meddle in my business. I’ve got a little knife here that is better than all their pistols, and makes no noise, either.”

“We earn our bread the best way we can,” said Cinghialenta, “and don’t want to do anybody harm. Isn’t one to get one’s goods on shore where one likes?”

“They go swaggering about, a lot of thieves, making us pay double for every handkerchief that we want to land, and nobody shoots them,” added ’Ntoni Malavoglia. “Do you know what Don Giammaria said? That to rob thieves was not stealing. And the worst of thieves are those fellows in uniform, who eat us up alive.”

“I’ll mash them into pulp!” concluded Rocco Spatu, with his eyes shining like a cat’s.

But this conversation did not please La Locca’s son at all, and he set his glass down again without drinking, white as a corpse.

“Are you drunk already?” asked Cinghialenta.

“No,” he replied, “I did not drink.”

“Come into the open air; it will do us all good. Good-night.”