The House by the Medlar Tree

Giovanni Verga

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2015
• eBook ISBN: 9780486803944
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Classici

Three generations of fishermen conduct an epic struggle against nature, fate, and society in this moving tale by acclaimed realist writer Giovanni Verga. Written in 1881 and set in the Sicilian village of Aci Trezza during the 1860s, the novel recounts an impoverished family's attempts to pay off a crushing debt, to reclaim their lost boat and ancestral home, and to reunite their scattered clan.
This groundbreaking work of fiction offers a revealing look at the social and political climate in post-revolutionary Italy. Verga combines lyrical prose and inspiring social commentary to chronicle the poverty suffered by provincial Sicilian communities after Garibaldi's conquest. Rich in character and starkly honest, The House by the Medlar Tree offers a life-affirming story of misfortunes endured with humor and courage.

TEN

Instead of going for walks, ’Ntoni went to sea every blessed day and had to bend his back at the oar. But when the sea was in an ugly mood and threatened to swallow them at a gulp, the lad showed that he had a heart greater than the sea. “It’s the Malavoglia blood,” his grandfather said. It was a sight to see the lad at work with his hair flying in the wind, while the boat tossed about on the waves like a mullet in love.

Now that the village had so many boats that the fishing was like sweeping the sea clean with a broom, they often hazarded the Provvidenza, old and patched as she was, on the open sea for the sake of the few fish that were to be found. Even on days when clouds hung over Agnone and the eastern horizon was black, the sail of the Provvidenza was always to be seen far out on the leaden sea, looking as small as a pocket handkerchief, and everyone said that Master ’Ntoni and his family went hunting for trouble with a candlestick.

Master ’Ntoni replied that he had a living to make, and when he was far out on the open sea, where the water was as green as grass, and the houses of Trezza looked like a white dot in the distance, and there was nothing but water all round them, and the corks that held up the nets disappeared one by one, he would start talking away to his grandsons out of sheer happiness. In the evening, as soon as the Provvidenza appeared between the Fariglioni, La Longa hurried down to the shore to meet them and look at the fish leaping in the baskets and filling the bottom of the boat as though with silver. Before anyone had time to ask what sort of a catch it was Master ’Ntoni would call out: “A hundredweight!” or “A hundredweight and a quarter!” and he never turned out to be more than a rotolo out; and then he would spend the whole evening talking, while the women pounded the salt among the pebbles. Then they would count the casks one by one, and Uncle Crocifisso would come and inspect the catch and make them an offer with his eyes shut, and Piedipapera would shout and curse until Uncle Crocifisso agreed to the right price. At these times they liked Piedipapera’s shouting, because it’s no use going on being angry with people in this world; and afterwards Piedipapera would bring them the money in a handkerchief and La Longa would count it out in her father-in-law’s presence, and lay aside so much for the housekeeping and so much for the rent. Mena helped to pound the salt and fill the casks too. She wore her blue dress again now, and her coral necklace, which had been given as a pledge to Uncle Crocifisso, and the women were able to go to mass in the village again, because they were starting to get together a dowry for Mena again, in case some young man should set his eyes on her.

“All I want,” said ’Ntoni, moving his oar slowly to prevent the current from causing the Provvidenza to drift away from the circle of nets, while his grandfather was thinking of all these things, “all I want is to see that bitch Barbara gnashing her teeth with rage when we’ve set ourselves on our feet again, and regretting that she ever slammed the door in my face!”

“The test of a good pilot is stormy weather,” the old man answered. “When we’re once more what we used to be, we’ll be in good odour with everybody and all doors will be opened to us again.”

“The one who didn’t close her door to us was Nunziata,” Alessi said, “and Cousin Anna as well.”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed. That’s why the Lord helps them, with all the mouths they have to feed.”

“When Nunziata goes to the lava field for kindlings, or her bundle of washing is too heavy for her, I go and help the poor girl.”

“Now pull over this way, because this time St. Francis has sent us the grace of God.”

The boy stretched his legs and pulled, panting as though he were doing everything himself. Meanwhile ’Ntoni, who was lying flat in the bottom of the boat with his hands under his head against the stretcher, was gazing at the white gulls against the background of endless blue sky, while the Provvidenza rocked gently on the green waves, which came from as far out as the eye could see.

“Why is the sea sometimes green and sometimes blue and sometimes white and sometimes as black as lava? Why isn’t it always the same colour, like the water which is all that it really is?” Alessi asked.

“It’s the will of God,” his grandfather answered. “It tells the seaman when it’s safe to put to sea and when it’s better to stay ashore.”

“Those gulls have a fine life, flying about up there all the time, with nothing to fear from the waves if there’s a storm.”

“When there’s a storm they don’t have anything to eat either.”

“So what we all need is fine weather, then, like Nunziata, who can’t go to the fountain if it’s raining.”

“Neither good weather nor bad weather lasts for ever,” the old man remarked.

But when the weather was bad, and a nor’wester blew and the corks bobbed up and down on the water all day long as though someone were playing the fiddle for them to dance, and the sea was as white as milk or seethed as though it were boiling, and the rain poured down on their backs all day long and they got soaked to the skin, because no coat could possibly keep it out, and the waves leapt all round them like fish in a frying pan, then it was a different kettle of fish altogether, and ’Ntoni, with his coat collar buttoned up to his nose, had no desire to sing, and he had to keep bailing the Provvidenza the whole time, and his grandfather kept saying that “a white sea means a sirocco” or “a choppy sea means a fresh wind,” as though they were there to learn proverbs; and at home in the evening, when the old man stood at the window, looking out at the weather, he would produce another proverb. “A red moon means wind; a bright moon means fine weather; a pale moon means rain,” he would announce.

“If you know it’s going to rain, why should we go out tomorrow?” ’Ntoni asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to stay in bed for an extra couple of hours?”

“Rain from Heaven means pilchards in the nets!” the old man would reply.

When the water in the boat came up to his knees ’Ntoni would curse and swear.

“Maruzza will have a good fire ready for us when we get home this evening, and we shall all get dry,” his grandfather would tell them.

And at dusk, when the Provvidenza came in with her belly full of the grace of God and her sail billowing like Donna Rosolina’s skirt, and with the lights in the houses winking to one another behind the black Fariglioni rocks as though they were signalling, Master ’Ntoni would point out to his grandsons the beautiful fire blazing in La Longa’s kitchen across the yard in the Strada del Nero, for the wall in front of the house was low, and from the sea you could see the whole house, with the four tiles which provided shelter for the chickens; and you could see the oven through the open door. “What did I tell you?” the old man would exclaim with delight. “Just look at the fire that La Longa has made for us!” And La Longa would be waiting for them on the shore with the baskets all ready. When they had to be carried back empty, nobody had any desire to talk, but when there were not enough of them, and Alessi had to run home for more, the old man would put his hand to his mouth and call out: “Mena! Mena!” Mena would know exactly what was wanted, and they would all come down in procession with more baskets—Mena, Lia, and even Nunziata, with her whole brood following behind her; and then there would be gladness and rejoicing, and the cold and the rain would be forgotten, and they would all sit up late round the fire, gossiping about the grace of God that St. Francis had sent, and about what they would do with the money.

But that sort of thing meant risking one’s life for an extra rotolo of fish, and once the Malavoglia came within a hair’s breadth of all losing their lives for the sake of gain, as Bastianazzo had done. One evening they were opposite Agnone, and the sky was so dark that even Etna was invisible, and the wind was blowing in great gusts that seemed as though they were trying to speak.

“Ugly weather!” said Master ’Ntoni. “The wind’s as changeable as a minx today, and the sea looks just like Piedipapera’s face when he’s going to play some dirty trick on you!”

Although the sun hadn’t gone down yet, the sea was the same colour as the lava field, and every now and then it seethed round them as though a pot were boiling.

“The gulls must all have gone to sleep,” Alessi remarked.

“The Catania light must have been lit by now, but you can’t see it,” said ’Ntoni.

“Keep the helm over to the nor’east, Alessi,” his grandfather ordered. “In half-an-hour we shan’t be able to see anything; it’ll be as black as pitch.”

“We’d be better off in Santuzza’s bar on an evening like this,” said ’Ntoni.

“Or tucked up in your bed asleep, eh?” his grandfather replied. “You ought to be a clerk, like Don Silvestro!”

The poor old man had been complaining of his pains all day long. “It means a change in the weather,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones!”

All of a sudden it grew so dark that you couldn’t even see well enough to curse. Only the waves sweeping past the Provvidenza gleamed as though they had eyes and wanted to swallow her up. In the midst of the roaring expanse of sea the Malavoglia lost any further desire to talk.

“I’ve an idea,” ’Ntoni suddenly said, “that tonight we ought to consign our catch to the devil.”

“Shut up!” said his grandfather, and his voice in the darkness made them all seem very small on their wooden seats.

The wind howled in the Provvidenza’s sail and the rope was singing like a guitar-string. Suddenly the wind started whistling, just like the railway engine when it emerges from the tunnel in the mountain above Trezza, and a wave which nobody saw coming took hold of the Provvidenza and tossed her like a bag of nuts, making her timbers creak.

“Down with the sail! Down with the sail!” shouted Master ’Ntoni. “Cut it down! Cut it down quick!”

’Ntoni, with his knife between his teeth, was standing on the side, hanging over the sea to make a counterweight. He was clinging to the yard like a cat, and the sea raged underneath him as if it wanted to devour him.

“Hold on tight! Hold on tight!” his grandfather shouted above the noise of the raging waters, which seemed to be trying to snatch him from his perch, and were tossing the Provvidenza about like a cork, while the wind made her heel right over. The water rushed in and came up to their knees.

“Damnation!” shouted ’Ntoni. “If I cut down the sail, what shall we do when we want it?”

“Don’t swear! Because now we’re in the hands of God!”

When Alessi, who was clinging to the tiller, heard his grandfather say this, he started shrieking: “Mother! Mother!”

“Shut up!” his brother, with the knife between his teeth, shouted at him. “Shut up, or I’ll kick your arse!”

“Cross yourself and keep quiet,” said his grandfather. After that the boy did not dare make a sound.

The sail was so taut that suddenly it collapsed, and in a flash ’Ntoni had hauled it in and furled it.

“You know your calling like your father did,” his grandfather said to him. “You’re a Malavoglia too!”

The boat righted herself; she made a great leap and then went on tossing about on the waves.

“Now we want a firm hand on the tiller; give it to me!” said Master ’Ntoni. Although the boy clung to it like a cat too, some waves came which knocked both their chests against it.

“Use your oar, Alessi, use your oar!” ’Ntoni shouted. “You’re fit to do a job too! The oars are worth more than the tiller now!” Alessi, pulling against the stretcher, plucked up what courage he could.

“Hold tight!” his grandfather called out. What with the howling of the wind, his voice could barely be heard from one end of the boat to the other. “Hold tight, Alessi!”

“Yes, grandfather, yes!” the boy replied.

“Are you frightened?” ’Ntoni asked him.

“No!” his grandfather answered for him, “but let us commend ourselves to God!”

“Heaven help us!” exclaimed ’Ntoni, whose chest was heaving. “What we need now is iron arms, like a steam-engine’s. This sea’s getting the better of us!”

His grandfather said nothing, and for a moment they stopped and listened to the howling of the wind.

“Mother must be on the shore, looking out for us,” said Alessi.

“Forget about your mother,” his grandfather answered. “It’s better not to think about her now.”

After another long interval, ’Ntoni, panting with exhaustion, asked: “Where are we?”

“In the hands of God,” the old man replied.

“Let me cry, then,” exclaimed Alessi, who was at the end of his tether; and he started shrieking and shouting for his mother at the top of his voice, in the midst of the roaring of the wind and sea; and this time no one had the spirit to tell him to be quiet.

Eventually his brother, in a changed voice that he did not recognise himself, said:

“It’s all very well making that noise, but nobody can hear you, and it’s better to keep quiet. Keep quiet, because it’s not right to act like that, either for your own sake or for ours!”

“Set the sail!” ordered Master ’Ntoni. “Hold her into the wind and let us trust ourselves to God.”

The wind made the operation very difficult, but in five minutes the sail was set and the Provvidenza started leaping over the waves, heeling over like a wounded bird. The three Malavoglia clung to the windward side, and nobody spoke, because when the sea is in that mood you have no spirit to open your mouth.

Master ’Ntoni was the only one to speak. “They must be telling their beads for us at home by now,” he said.

Night had come down as black as pitch. The Provvidenza scudded before the wind and waves, and they said no more.

“The light on the mole!” ’Ntoni shouted. “Do you see it?”

“To starboard! To starboard!” Master ’Ntoni yelled. “It’s not the light on the mole! We’re running on the rocks! Furl the sail! Furl the sail!”

“I can’t furl the sail!” ’Ntoni replied, his voice stifled by the storm and his exertions. “The sheet’s wet! The knife, Alessi, the knife!”

“Cut it down! Quick!”

A second later there was a crash. The Provvidenza, which had been heeling hard over, righted herself as suddenly as though a spring had been released and nearly flung them all into the sea. The broken yard, together with the sail, came crashing down into the boat. Then a voice was heard moaning “Ah! Ah!” as though someone was about to die.

“Who is it? Who’s moaning?” asked ’Ntoni, who was using his teeth as well as his knife to cut the bolt-ropes of the sail, which had fallen on to the boat with the yard and was covering everything. A gust of wind suddenly seized it and carried it whistling away. Then the two brothers were able to clear the remnants of the yard and drop it into the sea. The boat righted herself, but Master ’Ntoni did not rise to his feet or answer when ’Ntoni called. Now, when wind and sea are in tumult together, nothing is more frightening than to get no answer from someone to whom you call. “Grandfather! Grandfather!” Alessi shouted too, and when no answer came both brothers’ hair stood on end. The night was so black that you could not see from one end of the Provvidenza to the other, and Alessi was no longer weeping with terror. The old man lay in the bottom of the boat with a gaping wound in his head. ’Ntoni groped until he found him, and thought he was dead, because he was not breathing and did not move. The abandoned tiller swung this way and that, while the boat rocked and plunged amid the waves.

“St. Francis of Paola! Blessed St. Francis!” the two lads shrieked, no longer knowing what to do.

Merciful St. Francis, going about in the storm to rescue the faithful, heard them and extended his mantle under the Provvidenza just when she was about to be smashed like a nut-shell on the Pigeon Rock, just under the customs shed. The boat leapt the rock like a colt and landed nose downwards on dry land. “Courage! Courage!” the guards shouted from the sho...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Copyright
• Translator’s Note
• Contents
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Fourteen
• Fifteen
• Author’s Note