‘And then there’s a pension. That’s how they spend people’s money.’

In don Michele’s defence, Piedipapera went round saying that he had deserved it, both medal and pension, because he had thrown himself knee deep into the water, with those great boots, to save the Malavoglia’s lives, which was quite something: three people! And he had been within inches of losing his own life, and everyone was talking about it, so that on Sunday, when he put on his new uniform, the girls feasted their eyes on him, gazing at him to see if he had a medal.

‘Now that she has got that great Malavoglia idiot out of her mind, Barbara Zuppidda will take a more kindly interest in don Michele,’ Piedipapera went round saying. ‘I’ve seen her with her nose between the shutters when he passes by.’

And don Silvestro, hearing this, said to Vanni Pizzuto:

‘A fine advantage you’ve gained yourself, getting padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni out of the way, now that Barbara has her eye on don Michele!’

‘If she has, she’ll soon take it off again, because her mother won’t have anything to do with policemen, or spongers, or foreigners.’

‘You’ll see. Barbara is twenty three, and if she gets it into her head that by waiting for a husband she’ll start to moulder, she’ll take him by hook or by crook. I’ll bet you twelve tari that they’re still talking to one another from the window,’ and he pulled out the new five lire bit.

‘I won’t bet anything,’ replied Pizzuto, shrugging, ‘I don’t give a hang.’

The people who were standing around listening, Piedipapera and Rocco Spatu, choked themselves laughing.

‘I’ll take you on for nothing,’ added don Silvestro, suddenly good-humoured; and he went off with the others to chat with zio Santoro, in front of the wine shop.

‘Listen, zio Santoro, do you want to win twelve tari?’ and he brought out the new coin, although zio Santoro couldn’t see it —

‘Mastro Vanni Pizzuto wants to bet twelve tari that now don Michele the sergeant will go and talk with Barbara Zuppidda, of an evening. Do you want to win those twelve tari?’

‘Holy souls in Purgatory,’ exclaimed zio Santoro kissing his rosary; he had been listening intently with his sightless eyes; but he was ill at ease; and his lips were twitching like a hunting dog’s ears when it scents quarry.

‘They’re friends, don’t worry,’ added don Silvestro smirking. ‘It’s compare Tino and Rocco Spatu,’ added the blind man, after a moment’s concentration.

He knew everyone who went by, by the sound of their steps, whether they wore shoes or went barefoot, and he would say:

‘That’s compare Tino’, or: ‘that’s compare Cinghialenta.’ And since he was always there, telling jokes with this person or that, he knew everything that was happening in all the village; so to lay his hands on those twelve tari, as the children came to get their wine for supper, he called them:

‘Alessi, or Nunziata, or Lia,’ and then asked: ‘Have you seen don Michele? Does he go down the strada del Nero?’

As long as it had been necessary, ’Ntoni, poor lad, had run hither and thither eagerly, and he too had torn his hair. Now that his grandfather was better, he wandered round the village, with his hands under his armpits, waiting to be able to take the Provvidenza to mastro Zuppiddo again to have her patched up; and he went to the wine shop to have a chat, since he hadn’t a penny to his name, and told people how he had looked death in the eye, and that was how he passed his time, chatting and hawking. And when he had been offered the odd glass of wine, he expressed anger towards don Michele, who had stolen his beloved, because he had asked Nunziata if don Michele ever went down the strada del Nero.

‘By the blood of Judas, if I can’t get my revenge for this dishonour, my name isn’t ’Ntoni Malavoglia!’

People enjoyed making him full of gall, and so they offered him drinks. While she rinsed out the glasses, Santuzza turned away so as not to hear the curses and swear words they uttered; but hearing talk of don Michele, she steeled herself and stood listening wide-eyed. She too had become curious, and was all ears when they talked, and she would give presents of apples and green almonds to Nunziata’s little brother, or Alessi, when they came for wine, to find out who had been seen in the strada del Nero. Don Michele swore black and blue it wasn’t true, and often of an evening, when the wine shop was already shut, you could hear all hell breaking loose behind closed doors.

‘Liar,’ shouted Santuzza. ‘Murderer! Thief! Unbeliever!’

The result was that don Michele no longer went to the wine shop, and had to make do with buying wine and drinking it in Pizzuto’s shop, alone with his bottle, in order to avoid trouble.

Instead of being pleased that another dog had thus been removed from that bone that was Santuzza, massaro Filippo proferred mild words and tried to get them to make up, so that the whole thing became hopelessly confused. But it was a waste of time.

‘Can’t you see that he’s lying low and not showing his face here any more?’ exclaimed Santuzza. ‘That is a sign that the thing is absolutely true! No! I don’t want to hear any more about it, even if I have to shut the wine shop and start to do knitting!’

Then massaro Filippo looked sour with anger and he went to beg and beseech don Michele, in the guard’s room, or in Pizzuto’s shop, to make up that quarrel with Santuzza, after all they had been friends; and now people would talk — and he embraced him and tugged him by the sleeve. But don Michele dug his feet in like a mule, and said no. And those who were present, savouring the scene, observed that massaro Filippo cut a fine figure, as sure as God exists!

‘Massaro Filippo needs help,’ said Pizzuto. ‘That Santuzza would devour the Cross itself!’

Then one fine day Santuzza put on her shawl and went to confession, although it was Monday, and the wine shop was full of people. Santuzza went to confession every Sunday and stayed for an hour with her nose to the grille of the confessional, rinsing out her conscience, which she liked to keep cleaner than her glasses. But that time donna Rosolina, who kept a jealous eye on her the brother the priest, and who also confessed often in order to see what he was up to, was left astounded, there where she was, waiting on her knees, that Santuzza should have such a lot on her mind, and she noticed that her brother the priest blew his nose more than five times.

‘What was up with Santuzza to-day for her to take so long?’ she asked don Giammaria when they were at table.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied her brother, stretching his hand out towards the plate. But she knew his weak point, leaving the lid on the tureen, and tormented him with questions, so that at last the poor fellow had to say that his lips were sealed, and as long as he was at table he sat with his nose in his plate, and gobbled the maccheroni as if he hadn’t seen food for two days, so that it almost choked him, and he grumbled to himself because people would simply never leave him alone. After the meal he took his hat and his cloak, and went to pay a visit to Zuppidda.

‘There must be something behind all this,’ donna Rosolina muttered. ‘There must be some very dirty business between Mariangela and Zuppidda, something he can’t talk about because of the seal of confession.’ And she went to the window to see how long her brother would stay in comare Venera’s house.

Zuppidda was incensed on hearing what suor Mariangela was telling her through don Giammaria, and she went out on to the balcony and yelled that she didn’t want other people’s second-hand goods, and Santuzza would do well to heed that! And if she saw don Michele going down her road she would gouge out his eyes with the distaff she had ready to hand, despite the pistol he wore across his stomach, because she wasn’t afraid of pistols or of anyone, and she wouldn’t give her daughter to anyone who ate the king’s bread and played the policeman, and he was in mortal sin with Santuzza into the bargain, don Giammaria had told her so under the seal of the confessional but she turned a blind eye to the seal of the confessional when her Barbara was involved—and she swore so much that la Longa and cousin Anna had to close the door so that the little girls shouldn’t hear; and her husband mastro Turi too, not to be outdone, bawled:

‘If they involve me, I’ll do something I’ll regret, by God! I’m not afraid of don Michele, or massaro Filippo, or all Santuzza’s mob!’

‘Be quiet,’ comare Venera contradicted him promptly. ‘Haven’t you heard that massaro Filippo isn’t involved with Santuzza any more?’

The others carried on saying that Santuzza had massaro Filippo to help her say her prayers, Piedipapera had seen him.

‘Nice work! Massaro Filippo needs help too,’ repeated Pizzuto.

‘Haven’t you seen him coming to beg and beseech don Michele to help him?’

In the chemist’s shop don Franco called people in just so he could cackle about the matter.

‘I told you so, didn’t I? They’re all the same, those pious folk! With the devil under their skirts! Now that they’re giving don Michele a medal, they can hang it up along with the Daughter of Mary medal that Santuzza’s got.’ And he poked his head out of the doorway to see if his wife was at the window upstairs. ‘Eh! Church and barracks! Throne and altar! Always the same story, you mark my words!’

He wasn’t afraid of the sabre and the holy water sprinkler; and he didn’t give a hang about don Michele, and indeed he read him a lecture about his behaviour when the Signora wasn’t at the window and couldn’t hear what was being said in the chemist’s shop; but donna Rosolina gave her brother a good ticking off, as soon as she came to hear that he had got himself into that scrape, because sabre-bearers have to be kept sweet.

‘Sweet my eye,’ replied don Giammaria. ‘The people who are taking the bread from our very mouths? I’ve done my duty. I don’t need them. If anything, it’s they who need us.’

‘At least you ought to say that Santuzza sent you, under the seal of the confessional,’ maintained donna Rosolina, ‘then you wouldn’t have to arouse bad feelings.’

But she went round mysteriously telling all the neighbourhood women and men that it was under the seal of the confessional, when they came buzzing round her wanting to know how the business had come out into the open. Ever since he had heard don Silvestro say that he wanted to have Barbara fall for him like a ripe pear, Piedipapera had gone round whispering:

‘This is all don Silvestro’s doing, because he wants Barbara to fall for him.’

And he said it so often that it reached the ear of donna Rosolina, while she was making the tomato preserve, with her sleeves tucked up, and she exerted herself defending don Michele to people, so that it should be known that they personally didn’t wish don Michele ill, although he was a government man; and she said that man is a hunter, and Zuppidda ought to think about looking after her daughter herself, and if don Michele had other involvements this concerned him and his conscience alone.

‘This is don Silvestro’s doing, because he wants Zuppidda for himself, and he’s bet twelve tari that he can make her fall for him,’ la Vespa told her, while she was helping donna Rosolina to make the tomato preserve; she had come to beg don Giammaria to drum some scruples into the head of that scoundrel zio Crocifisso, because it was harder than a mule’s. ‘Doesn’t he see that he has one foot in the grave?’ she said.