Cavalleria rusticana and Other Stories by Giovanni Verga Read Free Book Online
Authors: Giovanni Verga
stood there, her eyes filling with tears.
‘You can shed as many tears as you like, you crybaby!’ yelled the steward, who was always shouting to show how dutifully he was safeguarding the owner’s money. ‘I pay you the same as the others, even though you’re weaker and smaller than they are! The wage you get from me for a day’s work is higher than any other landowner pays in the whole of Pedara, Nicolosi and Trecastagni put together! Three
carlini,
as well as the minestra!’
‘I’m not complaining,’ said Nedda, timidly pocketing the few
soldi
the steward had counted out for her coin by coin to make it look bigger. ‘It’s the bad weather that’s to blame, for taking away from me nearly half of what I could have earned.’
‘Complain to the Lord God then!’ bawled the steward.
‘Not the Lord God! If anyone’s to blame, it’s myself for being so poor!’
‘Pay the poor girl for the whole week,’ the steward was told by the master’s son, who was there to supervise the olive-gathering. ‘You only lose a few
soldi.’
‘I can only give her what’s right and proper!’
‘I’m telling you to pay her for the whole week!’
‘All the landowners for miles around will be up in arms against both of us if we go changing the rules.’
‘You’re right,’ replied the son of the employer, who was a rich landowner with a fair number of neighbours.
Nedda gathered up her rags and tatters and bade farewell to her companions.
‘You’re not going back to Ravanusa at this hour, are you?’ some of them asked her.
‘My mother’s ill in bed!’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid about having so little money in my pocket. But my mother’s ill, and now that I don’t have to work tomorrow, I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I stayed here overnight.’
‘Shall I come along and keep you company?’ the young shepherd asked, in a jesting tone of voice.
‘The only company I need is God and the Virgin,’ she replied simply, bowing her head as she set off across the fields.
The sun had set some little time before, and the mountain-top was casting its shadow ever more deeply across the valley. Nedda quickened her step, and when darkness fell completely she began to sing like a bird to keep up her courage. After every dozen steps she turned round in alarm, and whenever a stone was dislodged from the wall alongside her by the rain, or the water lying on the leaves of the trees was driven like hailstones into her face by a sudden gust of wind, she stopped dead and trembled all over like a lamb that has strayed from the flock. An owl pursued her from tree to tree hooting a mournful lament, and every so often, glad of its company, she whistled back at it as the bird never grew tired of following her. As she was passing a shrine by the gate of a farm, she stopped for a moment to recite a hurried Ave Maria,on the alert in case the guard-dog that was baying furiously leapt on her over the boundary wall, before hurrying on and looking over her shoulder two or three times at the tiny lamp burning in homage to the Virgin that lit the way for the farmer whenever he came back late in the evening. Its light strengthened her courage, and prompted her to pray for her poor mother. From time to time a sharp pain would pierce her heart as she recalled how ill her mother was, whereupon she would begin to run, singing at the top of her voice to drown her sorrows. Or she would try and remember the carefree days of the wine harvest, or those wondrous moonlit summer evenings when they all flocked back from La Piana 2 to the joyful sound of the bagpipes, but in her mind’s eye all she could see was the wretched pallet on which her sick mother was lying. She tripped on a jagged chip of lava and gashed her foot, the darkness was so complete that at almost every turning of the path she stumbled against the wall or the hedge, and she began to lose her nerve and think she had lost her way. But suddenly she heard the
‘You can shed as many tears as you like, you crybaby!’ yelled the steward, who was always shouting to show how dutifully he was safeguarding the owner’s money. ‘I pay you the same as the others, even though you’re weaker and smaller than they are! The wage you get from me for a day’s work is higher than any other landowner pays in the whole of Pedara, Nicolosi and Trecastagni put together! Three
carlini,
as well as the minestra!’
‘I’m not complaining,’ said Nedda, timidly pocketing the few
soldi
the steward had counted out for her coin by coin to make it look bigger. ‘It’s the bad weather that’s to blame, for taking away from me nearly half of what I could have earned.’
‘Complain to the Lord God then!’ bawled the steward.
‘Not the Lord God! If anyone’s to blame, it’s myself for being so poor!’
‘Pay the poor girl for the whole week,’ the steward was told by the master’s son, who was there to supervise the olive-gathering. ‘You only lose a few
soldi.’
‘I can only give her what’s right and proper!’
‘I’m telling you to pay her for the whole week!’
‘All the landowners for miles around will be up in arms against both of us if we go changing the rules.’
‘You’re right,’ replied the son of the employer, who was a rich landowner with a fair number of neighbours.
Nedda gathered up her rags and tatters and bade farewell to her companions.
‘You’re not going back to Ravanusa at this hour, are you?’ some of them asked her.
‘My mother’s ill in bed!’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid about having so little money in my pocket. But my mother’s ill, and now that I don’t have to work tomorrow, I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I stayed here overnight.’
‘Shall I come along and keep you company?’ the young shepherd asked, in a jesting tone of voice.
‘The only company I need is God and the Virgin,’ she replied simply, bowing her head as she set off across the fields.
The sun had set some little time before, and the mountain-top was casting its shadow ever more deeply across the valley. Nedda quickened her step, and when darkness fell completely she began to sing like a bird to keep up her courage. After every dozen steps she turned round in alarm, and whenever a stone was dislodged from the wall alongside her by the rain, or the water lying on the leaves of the trees was driven like hailstones into her face by a sudden gust of wind, she stopped dead and trembled all over like a lamb that has strayed from the flock. An owl pursued her from tree to tree hooting a mournful lament, and every so often, glad of its company, she whistled back at it as the bird never grew tired of following her. As she was passing a shrine by the gate of a farm, she stopped for a moment to recite a hurried Ave Maria,on the alert in case the guard-dog that was baying furiously leapt on her over the boundary wall, before hurrying on and looking over her shoulder two or three times at the tiny lamp burning in homage to the Virgin that lit the way for the farmer whenever he came back late in the evening. Its light strengthened her courage, and prompted her to pray for her poor mother. From time to time a sharp pain would pierce her heart as she recalled how ill her mother was, whereupon she would begin to run, singing at the top of her voice to drown her sorrows. Or she would try and remember the carefree days of the wine harvest, or those wondrous moonlit summer evenings when they all flocked back from La Piana 2 to the joyful sound of the bagpipes, but in her mind’s eye all she could see was the wretched pallet on which her sick mother was lying. She tripped on a jagged chip of lava and gashed her foot, the darkness was so complete that at almost every turning of the path she stumbled against the wall or the hedge, and she began to lose her nerve and think she had lost her way. But suddenly she heard the