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THE
HOUSE
BY
THE
MEDLAR
TREE
GIOVANNI VERGA

THE
HOUSE
BY
THE
MEDLAR
TREE
TRANSLATED BY
RAYMOND ROSENTHAL

WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION

BY GIOVANNI CECCHETTI

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

Berkeley Los Angeles London
University of California Press
Berkeley and Los Angeles, California
University of California Press, Ltd.
London, England
(c) 1964 by Raymond Rosenthal
Giovanni Cecchetti's introduction (c) 1983 by the
Regents of the University of California
Printed in the United States of America

First published in 1964 by The New American Library

as a Signet Classic

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Verga, Giovanni, 1840-1922.
The house by the medlar tree.
Translation of: I Malavoglia. I. Title.
PQ4734.V5M33 1983 853\8 83-3466
ISBN 0-520-04846-6
ISBN 0-520-04850-4 (pbk.)
This translation is for my wife, Haidy, whose acute and
sensitive knowledge of two languages, Italian and English,
has been of inestimable help to me in this and other
translations.
—R.R.
 INTRODUCTION

Like all works of genius, The House by the Medlar Tree

is rich in permanent significance. Its being again made avail-
able in English must be saluted as a literary event. Al-
though it first appeared more than a hundred years ago,
it is still extraordinarily fresh. Its main themes and more so
the novelty of its narrative technique identify it as one of
the first, if not the first, of the most "spontaneous," and
most strenuously sought, narrative forms developed and
mastered by the greatest European and American writers
of our own century. In Italy it is a classic, and as a classic it
deserves to be read in the context of modern literature.

Critics no longer marvel at Verga's "leap into genius."

Some find its seeds scattered in various passages of his early
novels and others are satisfied with the great works of his
maturity without attempting to account for their origins.
The components of genius are many: among them are a
profound awareness of human destiny; a knowledge of
social truths reached through observation, meditation, and
reading; and, not least, an expressive medium, through
which characters, springing from the private realm of mem-
ory, claim independent life on the page and relate their
inner vicissitudes effortlessly in words so full of implica-
tions that each one of us can recognize himself in them.
These are the apparent components of Verga's genius—
as suggested by our perception of his works and by the
scanty documentation he has left us.
vii
viii INTRODUCTION

We can say with a measure of certainty that, like others

before him, Verga attained the stature of a great writer by
relentlessly pursuing a literary ideal. After publishing a
number of undistinguished novels of passion, he became
convinced that his generally bourgeois characters and the
social milieu within which they moved were false at the
roots and that he needed to return to the fundamentals of
human existence to find a voice free of the redundancies
which do not contain life but distort it. In Eros, the last,
the most complex, and the most thought-provoking of his
early novels, he wrote: "The whole science of life consists
in simplifying human passions and in reducing them to their
natural proportions." Thus he was implicitly rejecting the
artificiality of the late romantic narratives, including his
own, and proclaiming the necessity for renewal by focusing
on the fundamentals of life.
It was certainly as a result of this insight that in 1874, at
the age of thirty-four, he interrupted the composition of
Eros to write a short story, "Nedda," in which for the first
time he let his memory lead him back to Sicily, the land of
his youth, to relive in his imagination the unglamorous trials
and tribulations endured by an illiterate peasant girl. Al-
though chronologically a pivotal work, "Nedda" is not a
masterpiece; it is at times marred by saccharine compassion
and by unreticent social polemics at the expense of objec-
tive narrative. But it is a beginning, the moment at which
the writer turned his attention to the type of character and
social milieu that would become the living feature of all his
mature works and masterpieces.
Verga himself must have realized the significance "Ned-
da" had for his literary career. Shortly after completing it,
he began to write a longer story framed in a similar Sicil-
ian eftvironment, in which the characters belonged to gen-
erally the same social class and were moved by equally
elemental passions and by the same impulses for sheer sur-
vival. In 1875 he wrote to his publisher, Emilio Treves of
Milan: "Soon I'll send you Padron 'Ntoni (Master 'Ntoni),
a novelette about fishermen." But the novelette never
reached the publisher, due to Verga's dissatisfaction with
it. It was repeatedly rewritten over the next six years, until
it was turned into one of the great novels of the century,
I Malavoglia (The House by the Medlar Tree).
During those six years Verga broadened his vision of life
 INTRODUCTION ix
and of society and deepened his search for an appropriate
narrative style. He read Balzac, Flaubert, and the first vol-
umes of Zola's Rougon-Macquarf, and he followed as
closely as he could the development of French naturalism
and the many discussions reported in French literary jour-
nals; he also read Darwin. He participated in some of the
debates on the need for a new literature that took place in
Milan within the group of writers and artists who called
themselves Scapigliati (The Disheveled) and who may be
defined as the "Lost Generation" of nineteenth-century
Italy. Revolutionary in the arts as well as in their manner of
life, they paid heed to the ideas coming from beyond the
Alps, just as they found inspiration and revelatory power
in the music of Wagner.
Verga was profoundly interested in those same ideas. He
accepted the Flaubertian theory of impersonality, but also
felt it was no great discovery, since he had always tried to
be objective by putting himself, as he would say later, "un-
der the skin of [his] characters, trying to see with their eyes
and speak in their words." But he rejected the basic prin-
ciples of French naturalism, especially the positivistic
theory of heredity, the treatment and analysis of characters
as "clinical cases," and the deliberate exploration of city
slums. After considering the visions of other writers and
welding some of their beliefs onto his own, he planned a
cycle of five novels, each one presenting a successive stage
in the human effort to gain financial well-being and then to
assert it in an ever-widening social context. The plan be-
came clear to him in the early spring of 1878, when he
wrote to his friend Salvatore Paola: "I am thinking of a
work that I consider great and beautiful—a sort of phan-
tasmagoria of the struggle for existence, extending from the
rag picker to the cabinet minister and to the artist—taking
all forms, from ambition to greed, and lending itself to a
thousand representations of the great human tragicomedy."
The phenomenon of a cycle of novels, as that which
Verga planned after the examples of Balzac and of Zola's
work in progress, developed in Europe along with the con-
cept that common people could slowly rise to wealth and
power and thereby reach a social level previously ex-
clusive to the privileged few. The French Revolution, which
declared the rights of all citizens and resulted in the ascent
of the bourgeoisie, and the subsequent wave of socialist
X INTRODUCTION

thought, which focused on the cause of the proletariat dur-

ing the first sixty years of the nineteenth century, were in-
strumental in nourishing such a concept and in drawing the
attention of writers to it. Whether or not Verga's thinking
was influenced by widespread social theories, it appears
that he had always been convinced that the accumulation
of wealth is an essential prerequisite for respectability and
power, because wealth rules the world (as one of his main
characters, Mastro-don Gesualdo, likes to repeat). The
poor are subjected to all kinds of adversities and abuses
simply because they are poor. Yet they keep trying to better
their condition in the hope of reaching financial security.
Verga called this effort "struggle for existence," thus apply-
ing the Darwinian theories of the survival of the species and
natural selection to human society.
The "struggle for existence" was to be explored within
the framework of the society of Sicily, the society he knew
best. But he also equated it with the motivating force of
human activity, which produces the current of progress. He
saw it as a movement that appears grandiose if regarded
from a distance and as a whole. In the glory of its totality,
Verga says in the preface to The House by the Medlar Tree,
are lost all the anxieties, the ambitions, the greed, the self-
ish compulsions that prompt it on an individual level. Like
a great tide, it sweeps everyone away. The novelist is noth-
ing more than an observer, himself carried away by the
flood; he may be interested in those who fall by the way-
side, in the doomed who raise their arms in despair and
bend their heads under the brutal steps of those who are
hurrying on—the victors of today, who will be the doomed
of tomorrow. Such is Verga's vision of mankind's march
toward progress. There are no winners, only losers.
Through Verga's eyes, the Darwinian struggle for survival
turns first into a struggle for progress and then into a uni-
versally devastating effort to realize one's own greed and
one's own ambitions. The five novels were to be collectively
entitled I vinti (The Doomed). Verga completed only two
of them: I Malavoglia (The House by the Medlar Tree),
which concentrates on "the struggle for the bare necessi-
ties," and Mastro-don Gesualdo, which deals with a middle-
class character fatefully driven by an irresistible compul-
sion to accumulate wealth through all the means at his
disposal, so that his children and grandchildren can enjoy
 INTRODUCTION xi
the power that wealth assures. Although they were designed
as parts of a series, these novels may be considered inde-
pendent masterpieces. Of the third, La Duchessa de Leyra
(The Duchess of Leyra), Verga was only able to draft the
first two chapters.
The foregoing should not suggest that Verga conceived
his novels as sociological dissertations, but rather that he
gave himself an ideological platform on which to stand and
from which to report the actions and reactions of the peo-
ple he was "observing." He devised a somewhat massive,
and yet elastic, frame merely because he initially felt that
to give purpose and direction to his work he should not
lose sight of a comprehensive human landscape. He never
let his characters elaborate on the logic or nonlogic of the
human condition, but simply let them live it; he never let
them analyze their impulses, but simply let them be driven
by them.
The preface to The House by the Medlar Tree was writ-
ten in January 1881, when the text of the novel was being
printed. It was sent to the publisher together with an alter-
nate preface; of the two, Emilio Treves was to select the
one he thought more appropriate. Treves's choice stands to
prove the exceptional literary insightfulness of a nineteenth-
century publisher. The preface he chose has become indis-
pensable for the understanding of the novel and of Verga's
intentions in writing it. The opening paragraph defines
The House by the Medlar Tree:
This story is the sincere and dispassionate study of how the
first anxious desires for material well-being must probably
originate and develop in the humblest social conditions,
and of the perturbations caused in a family, which had until
then lived in relative happiness, by the vague yearning for
the unknown and by the realization that they are not so
well off and that they could indeed be better off.

Although this passage appears saturated with a specific

social purpose, there are phrases—such as "anxious de-
sires," "relative happiness," and "vague yearning for the
unknown"—that betray the writer's effort to look inside
the individual members of the family and bring their emo-
tional complexities to light with the greatest possible ob-
jectivity. Such an effort is also expressed in the first two
adjectives, "sincere" and "dispassionate." Further on Verga
xii INTRODUCTION

states that his goal can be achieved by leaving the picture

"its clear, calm colors and its simple design," thus insisting
on the means through which he can realize his purpose. He
is obviously referring to what he calls "form," that is to say,
to narrative style and to language: "one must be truthful in
order to present the truth, since form is as inherent a part
of the subject as each element of the subject itself is neces-
sary to the explanation of the general argument."
Verga must have conceived and developed the funda-
mental concept of the oneness of characters and style over
the years he spent writing The House by the Medlar Tree.
He soon translated it into the principle that the writer
should limit himself to the essential by eliminating all that
is superfluous and all that could be suggested between the
lines, thereby charging every word with nuances and im-
plications that open vast horizons before the reader's eyes.
Much later he told a Roman journalist the following an-
ecdote:
I had published some of my first novels.... I was planning
others. One day I happened to lay my hands on a logbook.
It was a rather ungrammatical and asyntactical manuscript,
in which the captain related certain difficulties his ship
had faced—in a sailor's style, without a word more than
necessary, briefly. It impressed me. I re-read it. It was what
I had unconsciously been looking for.

We do not know the time of this incident; we do not even

know if it really took place. I would conjecture that it in-
dicates no more than a point of consciousness, the moment
when the writer clearly realized that to be himself he had
to abandon the romantic forms—the authorial intrusions;
the endless descriptions for the sake of description—so that
the characters would narrate themselves.
Almost one year before completing The House by the
Medlar Tree, Verga sent a journal a piece entitled "L'a-
mante di Gramigna" (Gramigna's Mistress), prefacing it
with a letter to the editor in which he tried to justify the ex-
treme compression of the narrative:
Here is not a story, but the sketch of a story. It will at least
have the merit of being short and of being factual—a
human document as they say nowadays. . . . I shall repeat
it to you as I picked it up along the paths in the country-
side, with nearly the same simple and picturesque words
 INTRODUCTION xiii
characterizing popular narration, and you will certainly
prefer to find yourself face to face with the naked, un-
adulterated fact, rather than having to look for it between
the lines of a book, through the lens of the writer.
This time, by means of a complex terminology of which
we can detect the source, Verga reveals his slow search
for a narrative style. "Factual" and "human document" are
further developed when he mentions the "science of human
passions" and "the perfect novel of the future," whose
"every part will be so complete that the creative process
will remain a mystery . . . its manner and its reason for ex-
isting [will be] so necessary that the hand of the artist will
remain absolutely invisible [so that] the work of art will
seem to have made itself." Some of these statements, as
well as their terminology, resemble fairly closely some of
the tenets of French naturalism as assimilated and modified
by the writers of the Italian verismo "school," of which
Verga is thought to be the greatest exponent. This is espe-
cially true of the emphasis put on impersonality, that is to
say, on the absence of embellishments and personal intru-
sions by the narrator. But the "science of human passions"
repeats what Verga had stated several years before in Eros.
Still greater emphasis falls on the essentiality of the story
and on the elimination of the superfluous, reminding us of
the prose of the logbook ("without a word more than neces-
sary"). Verga had discovered the power of the words left
unsaid.
During the same period, he tested his literary convictions
in a number of short stories (soon to be collected in the
volume Vita dei campi [Life in the Fields], which must be
rated among the best produced in Europe in the last cen-
tury). One of them is "Cavalleria rusticana," which was
later turned into a one-act play and won universal acclaim
due to Pietro Mascagni's opera. This story is very probably
the reelaboration of an episode expunged from an early
draft of The House by the Medlar Tree. Others, such as
"La lupa" (The She-Wolf), "Rosso Malpelo," and "Ieli,"
are equally celebrated. Although not all marked by the
same narrative compression, all are governed by a tempo
born of the world of their protagonists and retain some of
the features of "popular narration," as Verga understood it.
In Verga's day popular narration of folklore was con-
sidered by many a fresh and powerful manifestation of hu-
xiv INTRODUCTION

man creativity that could serve as an unparalleled model

and an inexhaustible source for writers. This romantic tenet
was widely accepted in Italy during the second half of the
nineteenth century and it became a logical component of
the verismo principles. Verga's interest in popular narration
was awakened and nurtured through his friendship with
Luigi Capuana and through the works of the greatest con-
temporary Italian scholar in folklore, Giuseppe Pitre, who
collected the oral traditions of Sicily. It is a matter of record
that the stories of "L'amante di Gramigna," "La lupa"
(The She-Wolf), and possibly '"Cavalleria rusticana" and
"Rosso Malpelo" were told again and again by the people
of the area in which Verga spent his youth. When Luigi
Capuana wanted to pay his highest tribute to "L'amante di
Gramigna," he claimed that its author had recreated the
events with an "artistic power rivaling popular narration."
It is also possible that some of the events occurring in The
House by the Medlar Tree are based on fact. But what must
be kept in mind is that through a specific social view, by
amalgamating fact and vision and by pursuing his ideal of
the oneness of form and subject matter, Verga created ex-
traordinarily powerful works.
Either in 1878 or in 1879, when the project for The
House by the Medlar Tree became clear in his mind, Verga
prepared a detailed outline of the action, including defini-
tions of the main characters and a chronology. The novel
is set in the period immediately following the conquest of
Sicily by Garibaldi (1860) and the subsequent annexation
of the island to the Kingdom of Italy, after centuries of
feudalism under the Spaniards and the Bourbons. With the
new government, most Sicilians looked forward to radical
social reforms, but they saw very little accomplished and
felt cheated in their expectations. The House by the Medlar
Tree does not go directly into these problems. Occasionally,
there is a feeling of suspense between the old and the new:
on one side the nostalgia for the good old days and on the
other the hope for a more just society. (This theme was to
be dealt with much more visibly nearly a century later by
Tomasi di Lampedusa in The Leopard, although from a to-
tally different angle.) In The House by the Medlar Tree the
characters—with the exception of the pharmacist—do not
discuss politics as such. Even when they are personally af-
fected rather than thinking of a political and social system,
 INTRODUCTION xv
they normally take a fatalistic attitude, as though stricken
by a mysterious power, which at most is identified with
"the king." Young 'Ntoni feels the need for change, but ex-
clusively in personal terms.
Verga presents the effects without debating the causes;
otherwise the narrative would not be born of the world of
the characters. One of the springs of the action resides in the
Kingdom of Italy's institution of compulsory military ser-
vice; this and other new laws weigh heavily on a village of
fishermen. Even though the head of the Malavoglia family
and the other villagers believe in earning their daily bread
according to their traditional ways and would not think of
rebelling, no one can remain immune to external forces.
Historical events that may appear remote have a decisive
effect even on the inhabitants of an obscure village of
fishermen on the eastern coast of Sicily.
The chronology of The House by the Medlar Tree en-
compasses approximately thirteen years, from 1864 to
1877. But Verga mentions only one date: he writes in the
first chapter that in "December 1863 'Ntoni, the eldest of
the grandchildren," had been called up "for service in the
navy." Shortly thereafter he tells us that it is the following
September. Some other dates are merely suggested. Toward
the center of the novel, for instance, we can infer that it is
1866 because the family is informed that Luca was killed in
the battle of Lissa (fought between the Italians and the Aus-
trians on July 20 of that year). While The House by the
Medlar Tree hinges on a set of dates, it is not a historical
novel. The dates are nothing more than points of reference
intended to place the narrative within a believable temporal
frame, simply because every human being is grounded in
time.
The story of the Malavoglia family is also the story of the
community in which they live. Hence the great number of
minor characters and the apparent complexity of the plot.
This has led many critics to assert that the real protagonist
is the entire village, rather than just one family. I do not
think that such a view can be shared. The Malavoglias live
in a well-defined environment and constantly interact with
their friends and neighbors. It could not be otherwise. The
villagers thus exert a distinct influence on the Malavoglias'
destiny, which necessarily makes them an integral part of
the story. The village itself, less than ten miles north of
xvi INTRODUCTION

Catania, is never described; yet we feel familiar with its

every corner. From the very beginning we are immersed in
its atmosphere, as if we had moved there and were not
merely spectators, but villagers ourselves.
The novel is also the story of the house by the medlar
tree—a house that symbolizes the family's very roots and
its unity—and of how it was lost. Together with the house
there is the fishing boat—the other house, the home away
from home, which makes survival possible. If the village is
the world in which the Malavoglias move and express them-
selves, the house and the fishing boat are the more intimate
parts of this world; they are a source of comfort, nourish-
ment, and rest; they are essential, for they represent life
itself. The house and the boat make the Malavoglias re-
spected in the village.
The patriarchal grandfather, Master 'Ntoni, is the skip-
per. He is firmly planted in tradition, and when he speaks
he utters proverbial maxims, because old sayings never lie.
He knows that whatever is done now has been done an infi-
nite number of times in the past, that life is but the perennial
repetition of the same gestures in the constant purpose of
survival, that in our voyage we can travel no other path than
that marked from time immemorial, and that whoever tries
to change paths will reap sorrow and perhaps even death.
Such truths are found only in the words that have always
contained them.
Yet at one point in his life this solidly conservative man,
so fond of repeating "Stick to your trade, you may not get
rich but you'll earn your daily bread," gives in to the natural
yearning to be better off: he risks a speculation on a cargo
of lupins, which he buys on credit from the village usurer.
This deviation from tradition is ostensibly motivated by the
fact that the eldest of his grandchildren is in the navy and
Master 'Ntoni is trying "to find ways to make ends meet";
but it is a deviation nonetheless. The speculation brings dis-
aster, with his son, Bastianazzo, dead and the fishing boat
wrecked. It is the beginning of a series of grave losses, all
of them spawned by that first step outside the established
path. Maruzza too will try to change trades so that she may
contribute to the meager finances of the family. She will
take advantage of the outbreak of cholera in Catania to sell
eggs to those who have fled to the haven of the countryside;
but she will catch the disease herself and die of it. Like the
 INTRODUCTION xvii
heroes of ancient Greek tragedies, she too seems to do
everything possible to aid the hand of destiny.
Master 'Ntoni is extraordinarily resilient. He fights
against the disaster he has brought upon himself: he returns
to his normal trade and tries to rally the family, but he is
not able to put together enough money to pay his debt.
True, Uncle Crocifisso's lupins were nearly rotten and
therefore worthless; yet Master 'Ntoni never gives this fact
any serious consideration. For him what counts is the obli-
gation he has incurred, which is a matter of conscience; the
rest is not his business, but Uncle Crocifisso's. Against the
advice of the lawyer, Scipioni, he mortgages the house to
buy time. But the house will be lost, and so will the boat
together with all the fishing implements. The latter loss
brings Master 'Ntoni intense physical suffering, for he has
identified with them: "but when they carried off the lobster
pots, the nets, the harpoons and poles and everything else,
Master 'Ntoni felt as though they were ripping the guts from
his belly." Even after taking a job on someone else's boat,
he keeps fantasizing about the house by the medlar tree, of
how they will buy it back, and of how they will put together
a dowry to settle the girls. He is indeed Verga's hero. His
entire world collapses around him, yet he stands like a
giant, indomitable in his courage, unbending in his confi-
dence. Only one thing will crush him. When disgrace befalls
a member of the family, everything is lost, and Master
'Ntoni is finished, for poverty can be lived with and over-
come through hard work, but disgrace cannot. Thus he will
invoke death as liberation.
Different from his grandfather is young 'Ntoni, who has
been in Naples and has seen people who wallow in luxury
and never have to break their backs working. He complains
about being a poor devil and cannot accept Master 'Ntoni's
philosophy. After the first third of the novel, he acquires
enormous relevance. Grandfather and grandchild become
antagonists representing two widely different generations
with a gigantic gap between them—both of them doomed
to defeat. Young 'Ntoni is a hero too, the one who em-
bodies the beginnings of what Verga calls "progress."
In spite of a deviation which confirms the rule, Master
'Ntoni is basically the same throughout the story and like
tradition he does not need to be explained. Young 'Ntoni,
however, is very carefully prepared and developed. He is
xviii INTRODUCTION

fundamentally good, attached to his family and understand-

ing of their needs. What he cannot understand is the passive
acceptance of an unrewarding and hopeless life. He be-
lieves that it is possible to find fortune in the world. He
fancies opportunities but does so nebulously, without a
specific program and without realizing that even to catch
opportunities requires ability and hard work. In him we
recognize the determining power of "the vague yearning
for the unknown." His inner motivations are essentially
the same as those of many restless poor, who rebel against
the establishment because they can no longer stand the
straitjacket in which they are confined, only to end up as
social outcasts precisely because society does not tolerate
those who threaten to usurp material benefits rather than
earn whatever benefits are to be had by following the rules.
The episode of young 'Ntoni's leaving home to seek his
fortune elsewhere is possibly based on Verga's observation.
Sicily, traditionally a land of extreme poverty for the many,
has seen her children leave in large numbers. The late
1870s and early 1880s was the time when the great migra-
tions to the New World began. A few of the emigrants later
returned, generally well off and ostentatious with their
wealth, but most were never to be seen again. This theme
had already entered the romantic literary traditions of sever-
al countries, especially in northern Europe, where mass mi-
grations had begun much earlier. In Italy, Alessandro Man-
zoni, although referring to less remote lands, had noted it
in I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed); later, in England,
Emily Bronte had given it great relevance in one of the
most celebrated novels to deal with the theme, Wuthering
Heights. As a rule, the hero realizes his dreams by returning
rich. Young 'Ntoni, on the other hand, comes back home
shoeless and in rags, poorer than when he left. Here, as
throughout the narrative, Verga follows the stringent logic
of human reality, which can be neither deflected nor modi-
fied, because it coincides with the substance of the char-
acter. For him it is another way to abandon romantic
artificiality and pursue facts rather than dreams.
Young 'Ntoni carries his destiny within himself; at times
he may ignore it, even negate it, but ultimately he will not
be able to resist it. Circumstances will, of course, favor it,
but he will always take the fatal steps. Yet the reader can-
not help being moved by both compassion and admiration
 INTRODUCTION xix
for a man who, in his own way and within the serious
limitations of his background, could feel in his bones a
manner of life that would be attainable only many decades
later. It was to be men like him—though much better pre-
pared, with much more practical objectives and with a much
clearer vision—who over a long period of years were to
make reality out of his aspirations.
Verga himself must have had the indistinct perception
that with young 'Ntoni he was creating a man projected
toward the distant future. At the end of chapter 10, the
pharmacist speaks of his favorite subject, social revolu-
tion, and adds that "new men" are needed to carry it out.
The town clerk rebukes him by drowning in sarcasm the
names of some of these "new men," especially 'Ntoni
Malavoglia, whom he judges irresponsible and inept.
Through the town clerk Verga voices his conservative con-
viction that one should stick to one's trade without being
seduced into unproductive fantasies. But that "new man"
label suddenly, if sarcastically, attached to young 'Ntoni
may indeed signify Verga's historical perception of his
character. It was precisely this aspect of young 'Ntoni's
personality that Luchino Visconti developed and empha-
sized in his 1948 film version of The House by the Medlar
Tree, entitled La terra trema.
Young 'Ntoni's belief that society overflows with injus-
tice, complicated by his desire to make money without hard
work and by his natural restlessness, causes him to ignore
tradition and to choose a way of life that clashes with it.
As a result, he becomes instrumental in his sister's disgrace
and ends up in jail for five years. During that time he learns
about himself, about the roots he has forsaken, and about
why he cannot replant himself in the village. At the end of
that last chapter, where Verga so masterfully concludes the
stories of all his characters, young 'Ntoni reappears in the
village, only to leave it forever. He walks the deserted
streets for the last time, "now that he knows everything,"
and when at dawn he sees life continue with the same voices
and the same gestures, as if nothing had ever happened, he
picks up his bundle and walks away, alone with his alien-
ation. It is the end of The House by the Medlar Tree. There
is no house and no family for the one who has ostracized
himself from them. We are left with the feeling that young
'Ntoni is embarking on a long and mysterious journey, as
XX INTRODUCTION

if he were not leaving just his village but the planet itself,
to wander forever in the vacuum he has created. But he will
remain with us, not only as the personification of the "vague
yearning for the unknown," but also as an intensely com-
plex human being who has been destroyed by his own un-
bridled and untimely aspirations, and above all as the first,
and certainly one of the best, examples in Western literature
of the alienation of modern man.
Of the other characters that are an integral part of the
mechanism of the novel, Uncle Crocifisso is the first to come
to mind. He is the ultimate symbol of the dire economic
realities by which everyone is governed. A known usurer
and an exploiter, he has a definite function in the village,
for in times of need he can be of help, although in his own
way. Everyone respects him, not only because he is rich,
but also because he "sticks to his trade" and does a good
job of it. In a society ruled by the struggle for survival, the
one who manages to acquire money and property is both
understood and admired. Uncle Crocifisso is solid and does
not let himself be fooled. However, such people as Master
'Ntoni and the Malavoglia family, who have allowed them-
selves to plummet from near prosperity to near indigence,
must be avoided like lepers. That Master 'Ntoni has done
all in his power to pay his debt and has been brought to a
desperate pass only because of his unflinching honesty is
irrelevant; and so is the fact that Uncle Crocifisso has ac-
quired the house and the boat by totally unscrupulous
means. What counts is that Uncle Crocifisso has won and
that Master 'Ntoni has been trapped. And since the Mala-
voglias no longer have property with which to protect them-
selves, no lasting relationship can be established with them
—this is what Master Cipolla, who breaks his son's engage-
ment with Mena Malavoglia, accusing Master 'Ntoni of
having cheated him into agreeing to the marriage, tells the
old man; and what Barbara will tell young 'Ntoni.
But Uncle Crocifisso too carries his pecular destiny with
him. To pick up a plot of land, he marries Vespa, who in
turn is after his money and soon gains control of everything
he owns. Thus he is punished by the very greed that has
guided his life. Uncle Crocifisso is the prototype of the pro-
tagonists of two other Verga works: Mazzaro of "La roba"
(Property) and especially Mastro-don Gesualdo, the ex-
 INTRODUCTION xxi
tremely complex man who falls victim to his compulsive
desire for wealth.
The sexual mores of the characters significantly deter-
mine the course of some events. During young 'Ntoni's
trial, the lawyer tries to justify his client's knifing of don
Michele as an attempt to restore the honor of the family
after don Michele had supposedly "seduced" young 'Ntoni's
sister Lia. It is a common line of defense in Sicily; the
lawyer utilizes it, whether it corresponds to the truth or not,
for he knows that such a motivation will be not only ac-
cepted but expected. As a consequence Lia, although in-
nocent, has to leave town and in order to survive must be-
come a prostitute in the city. In such a society, a girl is
supposed to guard her virginity until she is allowed to give it
to a husband; any appearance of distraction or of looseness
is blown out of proportion and equated with prostitution.
Don Michele had been seen entering the Malagvoglia cot-
tage one evening to tell the girls to urge their brother
'Ntoni to steer clear of the smugglers. This, added to the
lawyer's "defense," is enough for the villagers to believe
that Lia had indeed behaved like a prostitute. The girl's
reputation is permanently ruined and she has no choice but
to leave. Thus, in order to avoid the appearance of dishon-
or, she is actually forced to become a prostitute by the same
people who abhor prostitution. It is one of the paradoxes of
human interaction: in its blind intransigence, society often
creates for the individual the very destiny it vehemently
condemns.
Lia's plight also deeply affects her sister's future. Some
of the most beautiful passages in the novel are devoted to
the intensely lyrical, tender, and sad story of the love be-
tween Mena, Master 'Ntoni's older granddaughter, and
Alfio Mosca. In the last chapter, when he returns to the
village, Alfio is no longer poor and can marry Mena, who
is still in love with him. But she has to refuse because of
what has happened to Lia. And he must agree with her; all
he can do is curse fate. The disgrace of a woman weighs
heavily on her close female relatives. It is a remnant of the
tribal system, under which the sins of one member were
visited on the entire tribe, and even on future generations.
Should Alfio marry Mena, the villagers would say that his
wife is a prostitute's sister, one who must have the same
xxii INTRODUCTION

inclinations in her blood, and he would be ridiculed and

despised by the very group in which he has his roots.
The entire novel is constructed with a supreme sense of
equilibrium. Each chapter is magnificent in itself but can-
not be separated from the whole, very much as Master
'Ntoni's five fingers cannot be separated from his hand. The
interaction between events and style is prodigiously effort-
less. Reading is like following the rhythm of life as it
reaches into the most intimate, capillary ramifications of
the village. Everything seems obvious; but it is the highly
difficult "obvious" that only great artists can attain. The
transitions from one character to another and from one
chapter to the next are accomplished by means of associa-
tion: a name occurs in the narration, and soon the corre-
sponding person is before us in action. The dialogue has the
crucial function of revealing events, thoughts, and emotions.
As already indicated, Verga's effort to place himself
"under the skin of his characters" so that he could "speak
in their words" and his fascination with some of the features
of "popular narration" led him to narrate in the words of
the characters. Previously even the most poignant stories
had carried in every sentence the visible imprint of the
author, and the reader had to look at characters "through
the lens of the writer." Verga's texts often sound as though
they were related by a popular narrator who belongs to the
same social milieu as the characters and who has been wit-
ness to the events. More often the very thoughts and words
of the individual characters are audible in the narrative
stream. We are under the impression that the characters
are painting their own portraits. This feature has caused
some critics to speak of "dialogued narration" and of "free
indirect speech." In reality we are confronted with an em-
bryonic form of interior monologue. In our age, after Joyce
and Faulkner, when even the stream of consciousness seems
to have been surpassed, this narrative technique may not
sound so noteworthy, but in 1880 it was a remarkable
achievement indeed.
In addition to narrating in the words of his characters,
Verga's desire for objectivity led him to the creation of a
language that was to be the most "real" for them. As Sicil-
ians they would express their emotions in dialect, in ex-
pressive patterns that could not carry the same weight if
translated into the existing literary language. Verga refused
 INTRODUCTION xxiii
to let his Sicilian peasants and fishermen speak the shallow
bourgeois idiom of the time, but he had to write in Italian.
Thus he created a linguistic medium by which those poor,
illiterate people could live with all their emotional fresh-
ness: he adopted many local expressions and grafted them
onto the old trunk of standard Italian. With very few ex-
ceptions, every word in the works of the mature Verga can
be found in a common Italian dictionary. As a matter of
fact, he uses a rather limited vocabulary, and yet every
word sounds new and original. However, the cadences and
the rhythms evoking emotions and environments are often
unusual, not quite Italian; they may sound translated. Of
course this observation does not concern The House by
the Medlar Tree in an English version. But it carries some
significance if we consider that such an expressive texture
makes translating any Verga work a particularly difficult
undertaking.
Besides speaking in the words of his characters, Verga
also tried to "see with their eyes." Hence his avoidance of
all descriptions per se, contrary to the modes of the roman-
tic writers and of his own contemporaries. For him the
outside world is not a mere construct of the author, but an
integral part of the characters' lives. It therefore should be
presented through their reactions and their feelings, not
through the writer's eyes. In The House by the Medlar Tree
we learn of the landscape, of the weather, of the sea, of the
houses, and of the village only from the people who live in
them. The first sea storm, in which Bastianazzo perishes,
is suggested through an atmosphere created by the reactions
of the villagers; it is never described directly, for none of
those who suffer its consequences had personally experi-
enced it. Thus it is much more tragic. The second storm is
depicted through the eyes of the survivors; it is not cheap-
ened with a bravura description by the writer.
Indeed Verga never forgets "the naked and unadulter-
ated fact," and his novel does appear "to have made it-
self." But because of its language, because of the associa-
tional method applied in every page, and because of its
extraordinary evocative power, The House by the Medlar
Tree is also a work of poetry, as William Dean Howells
asserted in 1890. As in a poem, certain recurring images
run through the entire text and stay with the reader. In the
theoretical introduction to "L'amante di Gramigna" Verga
xxiv INTRODUCTION

implied that he aimed at "the perfect novel of the future."

With The House by the Medlar Tree he came as close to
this ideal as seems humanly possible.*

—Giovanni Cecchetti
* For a more detailed discussion of the various aspects of Verga's
narratives, and especially of The House by the Medlar Tree, I
take the liberty of referring the reader to my book, Giovanni
Verga (Twayne Press, Boston, 1978), pp. 41-97.
The best and most representative of Verga's short stories are
available in English under the general title, The She-Wolf and
Other Stories, and so is his second great novel of / vinti (The
Doomed), Mastro-don Gesualdo. The two volumes are pub-
lished by the University of California Press and both are in my
translation.
 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

WORKS BY GIOVANNI VERGA

in recent editions, chronologically according to
first appearance
I carbonari della montagna. Sulle lagune. Milan: Vita e
Pensiero, 1975.
Una peccatrice e altri racconti. Milan: Mondadori, 1943ff.
Eros. Il marito di Elena. Milan: Mondadori, 1946ff.
Tutte le novelle. Milan: Mondadori, 1979.
1 Malavoglia. Milan: Mondadori, 1972ff.
Mastro-don Gesualdo. Milan: Mondadori, 1972ff.
Teatro. Milan: Mondadori, 1972.

In English
(recent translations)
Cavalleria rusticana. Translated by Eric Bentley. In Modem
Theater, 1. New York: Doubleday, 1955.
The She-Wolf and Other Stories. Translated by Giovanni
Cecchetti. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1973. (The best and most representative
of Verga's short stories.)
Mastro-don Gesualdo. Translated by Giovanni Cecchetti.
Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 1979.
XXV
xxvi SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM

Alexander, Alfred. Giovanni Verga. London: Grant &
Cutler, 1972.
Cattaneo, Giulio. Verga. Turin: UTET, 1963.
Raya, Gino. Bibliografia verghiana. Rome: Ciranna, 1972.
Santangelo, Giorgio. Storia della critica verghiana. Florence:
La Nuova Italia, 1962.
Bergin, Thomas G. Giovanni Verga. New Haven, Conn.: Yale
University Press, 1931. Reprint. Westport, Conn.:
Greenwood Press, 1969.
Bigazzi, Roberto. I colori del vero. Pisa: Nistri-Lischi, 1969.
Cecchetti, Giovanni. Giovanni Verga. Boston: Twayne
Press, 1978.
. Il Verga maggiore. Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1968ff.
Chandler, S. B. "The Primitive World of Giovanni Verga."
MosaicS (1972): 117-128.
Debenedetti, Giacomo. Verga e il naturalismo. Milan:
Garzanti, 1976.
De Roberto, Federico. Casa Verga. Florence: Le Monnier,
1964.
Luperini, Romano. Pessimismo e verismo in Giovanni Verga.
Padua: Liviana, 1968.
. Verga e le strutture narrative del realismo. Padua:
Liviana, 1976.
Mariani, Gaetano. Storia della scapigliatura. Caltanisetta-
Roma: Sciascia, 1967.
Masiello, Vitilio. Verga tra ideologia e realtà. Bari: De
Donato, 1972.
Navarria, Aurelio. Lettura di poesia nell'opera di Giovanni
Verga. Messina-Florence: D'Anna, 1962.
Ragusa, Olga. Verga's Milanese Tales. New York: S. F.
Vanni, 1964.
Russo, Luigi. Giovanni Verga. Bari: Laterza, 1947ff.
Scrivano, Riccardo. La narrativa di Giovanni Verga. Rome:
Bulzoni, 1977.
Spitzer, Leo. "L'originalità della narrazione ne I Malavoglia."
Belfagor 11 (1956): 27-53.
 C A S T OF CHARACTERS

The Malavoglia:
Master 'Ntoni
Bastianazzo (Bastiano), his son
Comare Maruzza, called La Longa,
wife of Bastianazzo
Master 'Ntoni's 'Ntoni
Comare Mena (Filomena),
called Saint Agatha
their children
Luca
Alessi (Alessio)
Lia (Rosalia)

Uncle Crocifisso (Crucifix), also called Dumbbell,

money lender
Comare La Vespa (Wasp), his niece

Don Silvestro, town clerk

Don Franco, pharmacist
La Signora (The Lady), his wife
Don Giammaria, the priest
Donna Rosolina, his sister
Don Michele, customs sergeant
Don Ciccio, doctor
Dr. Scipioni, lawyer
xxvii
xxviii CAST OF CHARACTERS

Mastro Croce Callà, called Silkworm and Giufà (puppet),

mayor and mason
Betta, his daughter

Master Fortunato Cipolla, owner of vineyards, olive groves,

and boats
Brasi Cipolla, his son
Comare Sister Mariangela, called Santuzza, tavern keeper
Uncle Santoro, her father
Nunziata, later Alessi's wife
Turi, one of her brothers
Compare Alfio Mosca, carter
Mastro Turi Zuppiddo (Lame), caulker
Comare Venera, called La Zuppidda, his wife
Comare Barbara, their daughter
Compare Tino (Agostino) Piedipapera (Duckfoot),
middleman
Comare Grazia Piedipapera, his wife
La Locca (The Madwoman), sister of Uncle Crocifisso
Menico (drowned with lupin boat), her older son
La Locca's son, her younger son
Cousin Anna
Rocco Spatu, her son
Mara, one of her daughters
Comare Tudda (Agatuzza)
Comare Sara (Rosaria), her daughter
Compare Mangiacarrube, fisherman
La Mangiacarrube, his daughter
Mastro Vanni Pizzuto, barber
Massaro Filippo, farmer
Mastro Cirino, sexton and shoemaker
Peppi Naso, butcher
Uncle Cola, fisherman
Barabba, fisherman
Compare Cinghialenta, carter
THE
HOUSE
BY
THE
MEDLAR
TREE
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE

This story is the sincere and dispassionate study of how

the first anxious desires for material well-being must prob-
ably originate and develop in the humblest social condi-
tions, and of the perturbations caused in a family, which
had until then lived in relative happiness, by the vague
yearning for the unknown and by the realization that they
are not so well off or that they could indeed be better off.
The motive force of human activity that propels the cur-
rent of progress is here caught at its source, in its most
modest, material expressions. The mechanism of the pas-
sions acting as determinant in these low spheres is less com-
plex and can therefore be observed with greater precision.
All one need do is leave the picture its clear, calm colors
and its simple design. Gradually, as that search for material
well-being by which man is tormented grows and expands,
it also tends to rise and pursue an ascendant course through
the social classes. In I Malavoglia (The House by the Med-
lar Tree) it is still only the struggle for the bare necessities.
Once these are satisfied, the search turns into greed for
riches and in Mastro-don Gesualdo is personified by a
middle-class character framed in the still-narrow confines
of a small provincial town, though here the colors will begin
to be more vivid and the design broader and more var-
ied. Then it will become aristocratic vanity in La Du-
chessa de Leyra (The Duchess of Leyra), and ambition in
V Onorevole Scipioni (The Honorable Scipioni), to arrive
finally at L'uomo di lusso (The Man of Luxury), who
3
4 AUTHOR'S PREFACE

gathers in himself all those yearnings, all those vanities,

and all those ambitions, embracing them and suffering from
them, feeling them in his blood and being consumed by
them. As the sphere of human activity widens, the mech-
anism of the passions becomes more complex, and the
characters certainly appear less original, but they are also
more peculiar due to the subtle influence of their upbring-
ing on their personalities and also due to the large dose of
artificiality inherent in civilized manners. Even their lan-
guage tends to grow more individualized, enriched by all
the half-tones of ambiguous sentiments, all the artifices of
speech, which serve to give prominence to ideas in an age
that imposes, as a rule of good taste, flat and common for-
mality to conceal the uniformity of emotions and ideas. If
the artistic reproduction of such milieus is to be precise,
one must scrupulously follow the norms of this analysis;
one must be truthful in order to present the truth, since
form is as inherent a part of the subject as each element of
the subject itself is necessary to the explanation of the
general argument.
The fateful, incessant, often difficult and feverish course
that humankind travels to achieve the conquest of progress
is grandiose in its results when seen as a whole, from a dis-
tance. The glorious light accompanying it obliterates the
anxieties, the greed, the selfishness, all the passions, all the
vices that are turned into virtues, all the weaknesses that aid
the tremendous task, all the contradictions from whose
friction the light of truth is generated. The resulting benefit
for humankind covers whatever is mean-spirited in the per-
sonal interests that produce it; it justifies them as necessary
means to stimulate the activity of the individual who un-
consciously works for the benefit of all. Every impulse of
such universal activity, from the search for material well-
being to the loftiest ambitions, is legitimated by the simple
fact that it contributes to attaining the goal of the incessant
movement. When one knows where this immense current
of human activity is headed, one certainly does not ask how
it gets there. Only the observer, he too swept along by the
flood, has the right to be interested, as he looks around, in
the weak who fall by the wayside, in the weary who let
themselves be overtaken by the waves in order to end the
struggle sooner, in the doomed who raise their arms in des-
pair and bend their heads under the brutal steps of those
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 5
who are pressing on—the victors of today, who are also in
a hurry and eager to arrive and who themselves will be
overtaken tomorrow.
I Malavoglia (The House by the Medlar Tree), Mastro-
don Gesualdo, La Duchessa de Leyra (The Duchess of
Leyra), L'Onorevole Scipioni (The Honorable Scipioni),
and L'uomo di lusso (The Man of Luxury), are all peo-
ple who are doomed and whom the current has strewn
along the banks, after having swept them away and
drowned them, each one bearing the stigmata of his sin,
which should have been the emblazoned splendor of his
virtue. Each one of them, from the lowliest to the most
highly placed, has had his part in the struggle for existence,
for material well-being or for ambition: the humble fisher-
man; the newly rich; the intruder into the upper classes;
the man of talent and robust will, who feels he has the
strength to dominate other men and to seize that portion
of public esteem which social prejudice denies him because
of his illegitimate birth and who has now the power to make
laws—he who was born outside the law—and finally the
artist, who believes he is pursuing his ideal, though he is
actually pursuing another form of ambition. The one who
observes this spectacle does not have the right to judge it;
it is already much if he can draw aside from the field of
struggle for an instant, to study it without passion and to
render the scene clearly and with appropriate colors, so as
to offer the picture of reality as it was, or as it should have
been.—Milan, January 19, 1881

—Trans. R. R. and G. C.
 CHAPTER ONE

There was a time when the Malavoglia were as thick

as the stones on the old Trezza road. You could find them
even at Ognina and Aci Castello, all seagoing folk, good,
upright, the exact opposite of what you would think from
their nickname. And this is as it should be. In the parish
register they were in truth called Toscano, but that didn't
mean a thing, for ever since this world was a world they'd
been known from father to son as Malavoglia at Ognina,
Trezza, and Aci Castello, and they had always had their
own boats in the water and their own roof tiles in the
sun. But now at Trezza all that was left of them was Mas-
ter 'Ntoni's branch of the Malavoglia, who lived in the
house by the medlar tree and kept the Provvidenza
moored on the beach below the wash shed, alongside
Uncle Cola's Concetta and Master Fortunato Cipolla's
big trawler.
The squalls that had driven the other Malavoglia here,
there, and everywhere had passed over the house by the
medlar tree and the boat moored below the wash shed
without doing too much damage; and Master 'Ntoni, to
explain the miracle, used to lift his clenched fist, a fist
made like a chunk of walnut, and say: "To pull an oar
the five fingers must work together."
He also used to say: "Men are made like the fingers of
a hand: the thumb must act like a thumb, and the little
finger must act like a little finger."
7
8 GIOVANNI VERGA

And Master 'Ntoni's family was truly set out like the
fingers of a hand. First came the old man himself, the
thumb, who commanded when to feast and when to fast;
then his son Bastiano, called Bastianazzo, because he was
as big and burly as the St. Christopher painted under the
arch of the fish market in the city of Catania; and big
and burly as he was, he'd put about directly when or-
dered, and wouldn't even blow his nose without his
father's say-so. In fact he had taken Maruzza for a wife
when he'd been told to take her. Then came Maruzza
herself, or La Longa, a tiny woman who kept busy weav-
ing, salting anchovies, and bearing children, like a good
housewife. And last the grandchildren, in order of age.
'Ntoni, the eldest, a loafer of twenty, who was still get-
ting clouts from his grandfather, and then a few kicks
lower down to straighten him out when the clout had been
too hard. Then Luca who, his grandfather always said, had
more good sense than his older brother; and Mena, short
for Filomena, who was nicknamed Saint Agatha because
she was forever at the loom, and you know what they say:
Woman at the loom, hen in the coop, and mullet in Janu-
ary! After Mena came Alessio, Alessi for short, a little
snot-nose who was the spitting image of his grandfather;
and finally Lia, short for Rosalia, who was not yet fish,
flesh, or fowl. On Sundays, when they walked into church
one behind the other, it looked like a procession.
Master 'Ntoni also repeated certain sayings and prov-
erbs which he had heard from the old folks, because, as
he put it, "the sayings of the old folks never lie." For
instance: "Without a man at the tiller the boat can't
sail."—"You've got to be a sexton before you can be the
Pope."—Or: "Stick to your trade, you may not get rich but
you'll earn your bread."—"Be satisfied to be what your
father made you, if nothing else you won't be a rascal."
And many other wise maxims.
That's why the house by the medlar tree prospered, and
Master 'Ntoni was considered a man with his head screwed
on right, and they would have made him a councilman if
Don Silvestro, the town clerk, who was a shrewd fellow,
hadn't preached that he was a rotten reactionary, one of
those who supported the Bourbons and plotted for the re-
 T H E H O U S E BY T H E M E D L A R TREE 9
turn of King Bomba's son, so that he could tyrannize the
village just as he tyrannized his own house.
But Master 'Ntoni wouldn't have even known King
Bomba's son if he saw him, and minded his own business,
and used to say: "The man who runs a household can't
sleep whenever he wishes," because "he who commands
must give an accounting."
In December, 1863, 'Ntoni, the eldest of the grand-
children, was called up for service in the navy. And then
Master 'Ntoni ran to see all the bigwigs in the village,
who can help us poor people. But Don Giammaria, die
parish priest, replied that it was just what he deserved,
and that it was all due to that revolution out of hell which
they'd made by unfurling a tricolor kerchief on the church
tower. On the other hand, Don Franco, the pharmacist,
began snickering behind his big beard and rubbing his.
hands, and vowed that if they ever managed to put to-
gether some kind of a republic, all the people in charge
of taxation and military service would get a parting kick
in the behind because there wouldn't be any more sol-
diers and sailors, and if the need arose, the whole country
would go to war. When he heard this, Master 'Ntoni
begged and pleaded with him for the love of God to make
his republic soon, at least before his grandson 'Ntoni
went off to the service, as though Don Franco had the
republic in his pocket; and he pleaded so much that finally
the pharmacist went into a rage. Later Don Silvestro, the
town clerk, had a big laugh over this conversation, but
at last he said that if Master 'Ntoni slipped a wad of
money into the palm of the right person, whom he hap-
pened to know, the government might be able to find a
defect in his grandson and declare him unfit. But as luck
would have it the boy was built without a flaw, as they
can still make them at Aci Trezza, and the conscription
doctor, when he saw that hulking young man in front of
him, said that his only defect was to be planted like a
pillar on those huge feet which looked like cactus blades.
But in nasty weather feet shaped like cactus blades are
better than tight little boots for holding the deck of an
ironclad, so they took 'Ntoni without even saying: "Do
you mind?" When the conscripts were marched to the
10 GIOVANNI VERGA

barracks at Catania, L a Longa trotted breathlessly to

keep up with her son's long strides, and kept advising
him always to wear the scapular of the Madonna on his
chest, and to send back the news when some acquaintance
from their parts returned to the village and they'd mail
him the money for writing paper.
His grandfather, being a man, didn't say a word, but
he had a lump in his throat too, and avoided looking
his daughter-in-law in the face, as though he were angry
with her. So they walked back to Trezza in silence, their
heads bowed. Bastianazzo had hastened to strip down the
Provvidenza so that he could go and wait for them at the
end of the road. But when he saw them appear like that,
so crestfallen, carrying their shoes in their hands, he
hadn't the heart to open his mouth all the way home.
La Longa immediately darted into the kitchen, as if she
were in a great hurry to be alone with her old pots and
pans, and then Master 'Ntoni said to his son: "Go and
talk to the poor woman; she's at the end of her rope."
The next day they all went to the station at Aci Cas-
tello to see the conscripts' convoy go by on its way to
Messina, and they waited for more than an hour, crushed
in the crowd behind the fence. At last the train arrived,
and they saw all those poor boys waving wildly, their
heads sticking out of the windows, like cattle being taken
to the fair. And what with the singing, the laughter and
the tumult, it was just like the feast day at Trecastagni,
and in the crush and noise you even forgot that ache you
had in your heart.
"Goodbye, 'Ntoni!" "Goodbye, Mother!" "Goodbye,
and remember what I said, remember!" Nearby, at the
side of the road, stood Comare Tudda's Sara, cutting
grass for the calf, but Venera Zuppidda went around
whispering that Sara was there to wave goodbye to Master
'Ntoni's 'Ntoni, with whom she was carrying on over the
garden wall, she'd seen them herself, with her own two
eyes, may the worms devour them! And the fact is that
'Ntoni waved to Sara, and she stood there, clutching her
sickle, watching the train until it left. To La Longa it
seemed that that wave had been stolen from her; and for
a long time afterwards, whenever she met Sara in the
piazza or at the wash shed, she would turn her back.
 T H E H O U S E BY THE MEDLAR T R E E 11

Then the train left, whistling and snorting so much that

it swallowed up the singing and the last farewells. And
after that the people who had come out of curiosity went
away, and the only ones left were a few housewives and
some poor devils who clung to the rails of the fence with-
out knowing why. Gradually, they too began to stray off,
and Master 'Ntoni, sensing that his daughter-in-law had
a bitter taste in her mouth, bought her two cents' worth
of lemon water.
To comfort La Longa, Comare Venera Zuppidda kept
telling her: "Now put your heart at rest, because for five
years you've got to act as if your son were dead, and just
forget about him."
But they never forgot about him for a moment in the
house by the medlar tree. First because every time La
Longa set the table she would find that extra soup bowl
in her hand. And then because of a certain double loop
which 'Ntoni knew how to tie better than anyone else to
hold the sail in place; or when they had to stretch a line
as taut as a violin string, or haul in the mooring, which
really called for a winch. His grandfather, panting as he
pulled, would cry: "Here's where 'Ntoni came in handy!"
Or: "Do you think I've got the wrist that boy has?"
His mother, when she shifted the comb in the loom—one!
two! three!—remembered the engine's boom-boom when
it had snatched away her son, and it had stuck in her
heart in that great moment of dismay and bewilderment
and still pounded in her breast—one! two! three!
His grandfather came out with peculiar arguments to
console himself and the others. "Anyway, do you want
to know what I say? A little soldiering will do that boy
some good; he enjoyed swinging his arms more on a Sun-
day stroll than using them to earn his bread." Then he'd
add: "After he's tasted the bitter bread they eat else-
where, he won't complain about the soup he gets at home."
At last 'Ntoni's first letter arrived from Naples and set
the whole neighborhood in an uproar. He said that the
women in those parts swept the streets with silk skirts,
and that on the quay there was a puppet show, and they
sold pizzas for two centesimi, just the kind the rich folk
ate, and that without money you couldn't live there; for
it wasn't like Trezza, where unless you went to Santuzza's
12 GIOVANNI VERGA

tavern, you wouldn't get to spend a penny. " S o we're to

send that glutton money to buy pizzas, eh?" Master
'Ntoni grumbled. "But it's not his fault, that's the way
he's made. L i k e the mullet, who gulp even at a rusty nail.
If I hadn't held him in these arms of mine at his christen-
ing, I'd say that D o n Giammaria put sugar in his mouth
instead of salt!"
When Comare Tudda's Sara was at the wash shed, the
Mangiacarrube girl always said: "Sure! the ladies dressed
in silk were all just waiting for Master 'Ntoni's 'Ntoni, so
they could grab him. They'd never seen a cucumber in
that part of the world b e f o r e ! " A n d the other girls laughed
so much their sides hurt, and from then on the girls who
were sour because he'd passed them up called 'Ntoni the
"cucumber."
'Ntoni had sent his photograph too, and all the girls at
the wash shed had seen it, for Comare Tudda's Sara
passed it around hidden under her apron while the M a n -
giacarrube girl was so jealous she could have choked.
H e looked like the Archangel Michael in the flesh, with
those feet planted on the carpet and that drapery above
his head, just like the drapery above the Madonna of
Ognina, so handsome, so licked and polished that even
his own mother wouldn't have recognized him; and poor
L a Longa couldn't stop gazing at the carpet and the
drapery and that squat pillar against which her boy stood
stiff as a ramrod, one hand tickling the back of a fine arm-
chair; and she thanked G o d and all the saints who had
put her son amid all those elegancies. She kept the picture
on the dresser beneath the glass bell together with the
G o o d Shepherd, so that she said her Hail Marys to it and,
so Venera Zuppidda went around saying, she figured that
she had a special treasure on her dresser, but Sister Mari-
angela L a Santuzza had another exactly like it, as every-
one could see, which Mariano Cinghialenta had given
her, and she kept it nailed up over the tavern counter,
behind the glasses.
But after a while 'Ntoni got hold of a comrade who
knew how to write, and he reeled off his complaints about
the miserable life aboard ship, and the discipline, and the
officers, and the soft rice and the hard shoes. " A letter
which wasn't worth the twenty centesimi to mail!" Master
 T H E H O U S E B Y THE MEDLAR TREE 13

'Ntoni growled. La Longa took it out on that scrawl on

the paper there, which looked like a mess of fishhooks,
and certainly couldn't be saying anything good. Basti-
anazzo shook his head to signify no, that's not the way to
act, and if it had been up to him he would always have put
cheerful things on that paper, to make everybody's heart
glad—and he pointed a finger thick as the pin of an oar-
lock at the letter—if for nothing else out of pity for La
Longa, poor woman, who never stopped worrying and
looked like a cat who's lost her kittens. Master 'Ntoni
went on the sly to have the letter read to him by the
pharmacist, and after that by Don Giammaria, who was
in the opposing camp, so he could hear it from both sides,
and when he was finally convinced that this was really
what was written there, he went home and said to Bas-
tianazzo and his wife:
"Haven't I always been telling you that that boy should
have been born rich, like Master Cipolla's son, so he
could sit there scratching his belly and not do a blessed
thing!"
Meanwhile it was a lean year, and now that Christians
had learned to eat meat on Friday too, like so many
Turks, the fish had to be practically given away as alms
for the souls of the dead. The men who had remained in
the house weren't enough to run the boat, and sometimes
they had to hire La Locca's son Menico by the day, or
somebody else. You see, that's what the King did—he
took the boys for service as soon as they were big enough
to earn their bread; but as long as they were a burden,
the family had to raise them so that they could make good
soldiers and sailors. Besides, they had to start thinking
about Mena, who'd just had her seventeenth birthday and
had begun making the young men turn and stare when she
went to Mass. "Man is fire and woman is straw," so the
saying goes, "and the devil comes and starts blowing."
So they had to work as hard as they could to keep the
boat of the house by the medlar tree running.
So Master 'Ntoni, trying to make ends meet, had put
through a deal with Uncle Crocifisso, nicknamed "Dumb-
bell," to buy some lupin beans on credit and sell them
at Riposto, where Compare Cinghialenta said there was
a ship from Trieste taking on cargo. To tell the truth, the
14 GIOVANNI VERGA

lupins were a bit spoiled; but they were the only ones you
could get at Trezza, and that foxy old Dumbbell also
knew that sun and water were uselessly eating up the
Provvidenza, tied up below the wash shed, completely
idle; so that's why he kept on pretending that he was a
little dense. "What's that?" he said. "You think it's too
much? Don't take them! But I can't do it for a cent less,
on my conscience, because I have a soul that must meet
its Maker!"—and he swayed his head, which really
looked like a bell without a clapper.
All this was said in front of the church door at Ognina,
on the first Sunday in September, which was the feast
day of the Holy Virgin and had brought a great throng
of people from all the nearby villages; and Compare
Piedipapera was there too, and with his joshing got them
to agree on two onze and ten a salma, to be paid at so
much per month. That's how it always ended, Uncle
Crocifisso said—they'd talk and talk until he gave in,
because he had the accursed weakness of not being able
to say no. "Sure, you can't say no, especially when there's
something in it for you," Compare Piedipapera jeered.
"You're like the whores, that's how you are."
When La Longa heard about the lupin deal, after din-
ner, while they were chatting with their elbows on the
table, she was dumbfounded, as if that huge sum of forty
onze had hit her in the stomach. But women are too
fearful and Master 'Ntoni had to explain to her that if the
deal went well there'd be bread for the whole winter, and
earrings for Mena, and Bastianazzo would be able to get
to Riposto and back in a week, together with La Locca's
son Menico. Meanwhile Bastianazzo snuffed the candles
without saying a word. So that was the way the lupin deal
and the voyage of the Provvidenza was settled. She was
the oldest boat in the village, but the name she bore was
a good omen. Maruzza still felt her heart sink, but didn't
open her mouth, because it wasn't her business, and si-
lently set about preparing the boat for the voyage, storing
the fur-lined coat, the fresh bread, the jar full of olive oil,
and the onions under the footboards and in the locker.
But all that day the men had to wrangle with that
usurer, Uncle Crocifisso, who had sold them a pig in a
poke, because the lupins were rotten. Dumbbell said that
 T H E H O U S E BY THE MEDLAR T R E E 15
he hadn't known about it, as true as there's a God above!
"A fair bargain is not a trick," he cried, and went on to
say that he didn't dare break it, because his soul was
meant for heaven, not for the pigs; and Compare Piedi-
papera was raving and cursing like a man possessed to
get them all to agree, swearing up and down that he had
never seen the like in all of his natural life. Then he
would thrust his hands into the pile of lupins and show
them to God and the Holy Virgin, calling on them as his
witnesses. Finally, red in the face, panting, beside him-
self, he made a last desperate proposal, which he flung
right at Uncle Crocifisso, standing there like a fool, and
the Malavoglia, who were holding their bags in their
hands. "Here! What about this? Instead of paying so
much a month, pay up at Christmas, and so you'll save
a tari for every salma! Will that make you stop, holy
devil!" And he started filling the bags. "In the name of
God," he cried, "there's one bag that's filled."
The Provvidenza left on Saturday, towards evening,
and it must have been after vespers, although the bell
hadn't been rung because Mastro Cirino, the sexton, had
gone to deliver a pair of new shoes to Don Silvestro, the
town clerk. At that hour the girls were fluttering like a
flock of sparrows around the fountain, and the evening
star was already shining bright and beautiful, looking like
a lantern hanging on the Provvidenza's boom. Maruzza,
with Lia clinging to her neck, stood on the shore without
saying a word, while her husband loosed the sail, and the
Provvidenza bobbed like a duckling on the waves that
were breaking against the Fariglioni rocks. "When north
is dark and south is clear, you can put to sea without
fear," Master 'Ntoni chanted from the shore, as he looked
towards Mount Etna, completely black with clouds.
Locca's Menico, who was on the Provvidenza with Bas-
tianazzo, shouted something which was swallowed by the
rush of the sea. "He says that you can give the money to
his mother, La Locca, because his brother isn't working,"
added Bastianazzo, and those were the last words of his
they heard.
 CHAPTER TWO

A l l through the village they were talking about the

lupin deal, and when L a Longa returned home with Lia
in her arms all the women came to their doors to watch
her go by.
" Y o u couldn't make a better deal!" Piedipapera bel-
lowed, hobbling quickly on his twisted leg after Master
'Ntoni, who had gone to sit on the church steps, next to
Master Fortunato Cipolla and Menico della Locca's
brother, who were enjoying the cool evening breeze.
"Uncle Crocifisso screamed as though we were ripping
out his quill feathers; but don't mind that—the old boy
has plenty of feathers! Oh, we had our work cut out for
u s — y o u can say that too, can't you, Master 'Ntoni?"
Yet for Master 'Ntoni's sake, Piedipapera went on, he
would have thrown himself off the Fariglioni rocks, as
true as there's a God! A n d Uncle Crocifisso listened to
him, because he was the ladle that stirred the p o t — a big
pot in which more than two hundred onze a year were on
the boil! Why, Dumbbell wasn't even able to blow his
nose without his help!
Locca's son, hearing them talk of the wealth of Uncle
Crocifisso, who was actually his uncle since he was L a
Locca's brother, felt his breast swell with a great tender-
ness for his kin.
"We're relations," he said. "When I hire out by the day
16
 T H E H O U S E BY THE MEDLAR T R E E 17
he gives jne half pay, without wine, because we're rela-
tions."
Piedipapera sneered: "He does it for your own good,
so you won't get drunk and so he can leave you more
money when he croaks."
Piedipapera enjoyed gossiping about everybody, as it
popped into his head, just like that, straight from the
heart and without malice, so that nobody could really take
offense. "Massaro Filippo has already walked past the
tavern twice," he said, "waiting for La Santuzza to give
him the sign to join her in the stable, so they can say a
rosary together."
Then he said to La Locca's son: "Your Uncle Croci-
fisso is trying to steal the plot of land from your cousin
La Vespa. He wants to pay her half of what it's worth,
making her believe that he'll marry her. But if La Vespa
can get the old man to steal something else from her, then
you can spit out your hope for an inheritance, and besides
you'll lose the wages he didn't pay you and the wine you
didn't drink."
At this they started to argue, for Master 'Ntoni claimed
that after all Uncle Crocifisso was a Christian and wouldn't
throw his good sense to the dogs by marrying his brother's
daughter.
"What has Christian got to do with it, or Turk either?"
Piedipapera retorted. "He's crazy, you should say! He's
as rich as a pig, while La Vespa only owns that plot of
land no bigger than a nose-rag."
"You're telling me, I have a vineyard right at the edge
of it," Master Cipolla said, swelling like a turkey.
"You call those four cactus plants a vineyard?" Piedi-
papera hooted.
"Among all those cactus plants there are plenty of
vines, and if Saint Francis sends us a good rain, then
you'll see what wine it will yield. Today the sun went
down in a sack, which means rain or wind."
"When the sun goes down in a sack, you can expect a
west wind," added Master 'Ntoni.
Piedipapera couldn't stand the high and mighty way
that Master Cipolla delivered his opinions. Just because
he was rich he thought that he knew everything, and that
he could make poor people lap up any sort of nonsense.
18 GIOVANNI VERGA

"Some want it hot and some want it cold," Piedipapera

concluded. "Master Cipolla wants rain for his vineyard,
and you want the west wind behind the Provvidenza's
sails. You know the proverb: 'White caps at sea, a fresh
wind there'll be.' Tonight the stars are shining, and at
midnight the wind will change. Can't you feel the gusts?"
They could hear carts going by slowly on the road.
"Whether it's night or day, there are always people
traveling about the world," Master Cipolla remarked.
Now one couldn't see either the sea or the countryside,
it seemed that there was nothing in the world but Trezza,
and each man was thinking about where those carts could
be going at this time of the night.
"Before midnight the Provvidenza will have passed the
Capo dei Mulini," Master 'Ntoni said, "and by then the
fresh wind won't bother her."
Master 'Ntoni couldn't think of anything but the Prov-
videnza, and when he wasn't talking about his own affairs
he kept quiet; so he took as much part in the conversation
as a broomstick.
That's why Piedipapera finally told him: "You ought
to join the people at the pharmacy, who are discussing the
King and the Pope. You'd make out fine there, too. Don't
you hear them yelling?"
"That's Don Giammaria," La Locca's son said. "He's
arguing with the pharmacist."
The pharmacist was holding the usual palaver at the
door of his shop in the cool of the evening, with the parish
priest and a few other people. Since Don Franco was an
educated person he read the newspaper and made the
others read it too; and he also had the History of the
French Revolution, which he kept handy under the glass
mortar, and so, to kill time, he quarreled all day long
with Don Giammaria, the parish priest, and they both
made themselves sick with bile, but they couldn't have
lived through a day without seeing each other. Then on
Saturday, when the newspaper arrived, Don Franco went
so far as to burn a candle for half an hour or even a whole
hour, at the risk of being bawled out by his wife, and he did
it so that he could reel off his ideas, and not go to bed like
a brute, as Uncle Cipolla and old Malavoglia did. Besides,
in the summer he didn't even need a candle, for he could
 T H E HOUSE BY THE MEDLAR T R E E 19

sit at the doorway under the street lamp, when Mastro

Cirino lit it, and sometimes Don Michele, the sergeant of
the customs guard, joined them; and also Don Silvestro,
the town clerk, coming back from his vineyard, stopped
by for a while.
At such times Don Franco rubbed his hands and de-
clared that they looked just like a small parliament, and
then he posted himself behind the counter, combing his
big beard with his fingers, with a certain sly grin on his
face, as if he intended to eat somebody for breakfast;
and sometimes he would rear up on his short legs and let
slip one or two significant little words under his breath,
right out in the open; and it was obvious that he thought
he knew more than everybody else. Until Don Giammaria
could no longer bear him and, dying of rage, spat a string
of big Latin words in his face. As for Don Silvestro, he
was greatly amused, watching them poison their blood,
trying to square the circle, and without even making a
cent out of it. He at least wasn't as rabid as they were,
and that's why, people in the village said, he owned the
most beautiful plots in Trezza—where he'd arrived, Piedi-
papera would always throw in, without shoes on his feet.
In any case, the town clerk egged them both on and then
laughed till he nearly split his sides—with a loud cackle
that made him sound just like a hen.
"There it goes. Don Silvestro's laying an egg," L a
Locca's son said.
"Don Silvestro lays eggs of gold, down at the Town
Hall," Piedipapera replied.
" H m m ! " Master Fortunato Cipolla spat out. "Stuff for
beggars! Venera Zuppidda refused to give him her daugh-
ter."
"Which means that Mastro Turi Zuppiddo prefers the
eggs of his own hens," Master 'Ntoni replied.
And Master Cipolla nodded his head in agreement.
" 'Bone, bone, bone, stick to your o w n , ' " old Malavo-
glia said.
Then Piedipapera retorted that if Don Silvestro had
been content to stick to his own, he'd still be wielding a
hoe and not a pen.
"Now, tell me, would you give him your granddaughter
M e n a ? " asked Cipolla, turning to Master 'Ntoni.
20 GIOVANNI VERGA

" 'Each man minds his own business, and the wolf tends
the sheep,' " said Master 'Ntoni.
Cipolla continued to nod his head, all the more since
between him and Master 'Ntoni there had been some talk
of marrying Mena to his son Brasi, and if the lupin deal
went well, Mena's dowry would be paid in cash and that
deal would also be quickly settled.
"The girl is as she has been brought up, and the
hemp is as it has been spun," Master 'Ntoni finally said;
and Master Cipolla agreed that everyone in the village
knew that La Longa had brought up her daughter just
right, and all who passed through their lane at that time
of night, hearing the beat of Saint Agatha's loom, said
that Comare Maruzza didn't waste her candle wax.
After she had come home, La Longa had lit the lamp
and had sat down with her winder on the landing, to fill
the bobbins she needed for the week's warp.
"You can't see Mena, but you can hear her. She sits at
the loom night and day, like Saint Agatha," the neighbors
said.
"These are the habits a girl should get, instead of sit-
ting at the window," Comare Maruzza replied. "You
know the saying: 'A girl who at the window stays should
never get praise.' "
"But some girls just by sitting at the window manage to
hook a husband, out of all the men who pass by," said
Cousin Anna, from the door across the way.
Cousin Anna knew what she was talking about, because
that lout of a son of hers, Rocco, had let himself be
hauled in by the skirts of the Mangiacarrube girl, one of
those girls who sit at the window, as brazen as they come.
Comare Grazia Piedipapera, hearing the talk in the
street, came to the door too, her apron bulging with the
broad beans she was shelling, and started cursing the
mice that had riddled her bean sack like a colander.
From the way she talked you'd think that they'd done
it on purpose, as if the mice had the cunning of Chris-
tians. Then they all began talking about it, because those
excommunicated little beasts had done as much damage
to Maruzza's house. And Cousin Anna's house was full
of them, ever since her cat had died—a creature worth
his weight in gold, and he had died from a kick Compare
 T H E H O U S E BY THE MEDLAR T R E E 21

Tino had given him. "Gray cats are best for catching
mice; they'd creep into a needle's eye to snatch them."
But you shouldn't open the door at night for cats, be-
cause that's how an old woman at Aci Sant'Antonio got
murdered. Thieves had stolen her cat three days before,
and then they brought him back half dead of hunger to
meow at her door; and the poor woman, not having the
heart to leave the creature on the street at that hour, had
opened it, and so the thieves had slipped into her house.
Nowadays the thieves think up all sorts of tricks to do
their dirty work; and you saw faces at Trezza which had
never been seen before, out on the rocks along the sea,
people who pretend they're going to fish and then, if they
get the chance, grab the laundry laid out to dry. That's
how they'd stolen a brand-new bedsheet from poor Nun-
ziata. The poor girl! to steal from her who had to give
bread to all those little brothers left on her hands when
her father deserted her to seek his fortune in Alexandria,
Egypt!—Nunziata was just like Cousin Anna, whose hus-
band had died and left her with that houseful of children,
and at that time Rocco, the eldest, hadn't even reached to
her knee. And now, after all the trouble of bringing him
up, the lazy lout, she had to watch the Mangiacarrube
girl steal him from under her very eyes.
In the midst of all this gossiping, La Zuppidda, the
wife of Mastro Turi, the caulker, suddenly popped up.
She lived at the end of the dirt road and always appeared
unexpectedly, to speak her piece like the devil in the
litany, because nobody could ever tell what hole she'd
sprung from.
"Anyway," she started to grumble, "your son Rocco
never helped you either. Because whenever he gets hold
of some money, he immediately rushes to the tavern to
drink it up."
Venera Zuppidda knew everything that happened in the
village, and that's why, they said, she went roving about
all day m her bare feet, spying on people, pretending she
was working her spindle, which she held high in the au-
to keep from twirling it against the stones. She always
spoke the truth, like the Gospel, that was her vice, and
so people who didn't like to have the truth flung in their
faces accused her of having a tongue out of hell—the
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ore. Quando scesero a terra, essa disse:
— «Domani andiamo in città.» —
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E così si divisero.

CAPITOLO IV.

Ilderim ritornò al dovar il giorno appresso circa all'ora terza. Quando

smontò, un uomo della sua tribù lo accostò e gli disse: — «O
sceicco, mi fu consegnato questo plico con l'ordine di recarlo a te,
affinchè tu lo legga immediatamente. Se c'è risposta, devo attendere
la tua buona grazia.» —
Ilderim aprì subito il pacco, il sigillo del quale era già stato rotto.
L'indirizzo diceva: A Valerio Grato, Cesarea.
— «Abaddon lo pigli!» — mormorò lo sceicco, scorgendo che la
lettera era in latino.
Se l'Epistola fosse stata in Greco o in Arabo, egli non avrebbe avuto
difficoltà nel leggerla. Così potè tutto al più decifrare la firma, scritta
in grandi caratteri Romani — MESSALA, — che lesse strizzando
l'occhio.
— «Dov'è il giovine Ebreo?» — egli chiese.
— «Al campo coi cavalli» — rispose un domestico.
Lo sceicco ripose i papiri nella loro busta, e nascondendo il pacco
nella cintura, rimontò a cavallo. In quel momento un forestiero,
proveniente, all'apparenza, dalla città si presentò davanti a lui.
— «Cerco lo sceicco Ilderim, chiamato il Generoso» — disse il
forestiero.
La sua lingua e le sue vesti lo rivelavano Romano.
Se Ilderim non sapeva leggere il latino, lo sapeva però parlare.
Il vecchio Arabo rispose con dignità: — «Io sono lo sceicco
Ilderim.» —
Gli occhi dell'uomo si abbassarono; li rialzò e con compostezza
forzata disse:
— «Ho inteso che siete in cerca di un auriga per i giuochi.» —
Il labbro di Ilderim si contrasse sdegnosamente sotto i bianchi baffi.
— «Va per la tua strada» — egli disse. — «Ho già trovato un
auriga.» —
Si voltò, in atto di partire, ma l'uomo indugiando riprese a parlare:
— «Sceicco, io amo i cavalli, e dicono che i vostri siano i più belli del
mondo.» —
Il vecchio era tocco; arrestò il cavallo, e stava quasi per cedere
davanti all'adulazione, poi rispose: — «No, non oggi, non oggi. Te li
mostrerò un'altra volta. Ora sono troppo occupato.» —
Mise il cavallo al trotto, mentre lo straniero riprese lentamente il
cammino della città, sorridendo come un uomo contento di sè. Aveva
eseguito la sua commissione.
Ed ogni giorno, fino alla grande giornata dei giuochi, un uomo,
qualche volta due o tre — venivano dallo sceicco nell'Orto delle
Palme, sotto il pretesto di cercare un'impiego come auriga.
In questo modo Messala vigilava sopra Ben Hur.

CAPITOLO V.
Lo sceicco aspettò, ben soddisfatto, finchè Ben Hur, ebbe terminate
le esercitazioni del mattino.
— «Questo pomeriggio, o sceicco, potrai riprenderti Sirio» — disse
Ben Hur, accarezzando il collo del vecchio cavallo. — «Lo puoi
riprendere, e darmi il cocchio.» —
— «Così presto?» — chiese Ilderim.
— «Con cavalli come i tuoi basta una giornata. Non hanno paura;
hanno l'intelligenza di un uomo, ed amano l'esercizio. Questo, egli
scosse le redini sul dorso al più giovine dei quattro, — tu lo
chiamasti Aldebran, credo, — è il più veloce. In un giro di stadio
avanzerebbe gli altri di tre lunghezze.» —
Ilderim si lisciò la barba, con gli occhi scintillanti.
— «Aldebran è il più veloce» — disse. — «E il più tardo?» —
— «Eccolo.» — Ben Hur scosse le redini sopra Antares. — «Ma egli
vincerà, perchè, vedi, sceicco, egli correrà tutto il giorno, e in sul
calar del sole potrà raggiungere la sua massima velocità.» —
— «Hai nuovamente ragione» — disse Ilderim.
— «Io ho un solo dubbio, o sceicco.» —
Lo sceicco si fece serio.
— «Nella sua avidità di trionfare, un Romano transige anche con
l'onore. Nei loro giuochi, — in tutti i loro giuochi, praticano una
infinità di tranelli e di frodi; nelle gare dei cocchi, la loro furfanteria
non risparmia nè i cavalli, nè l'auriga, nè il padrone. Quindi, buon
sceicco, bada bene a quanto tu fai. Finchè la gara non sia terminata,
non lasciare che nessun estraneo si avvicini ai cavalli. Per esser più
sicuri, fa di più: — metti una guardia armata che li invigili notte e
giorno. Allora non avrò paura per l'esito.» —
Alla porta della tenda smontarono.
— «Ciò che tu dici sarà fatto. Per lo splendore di Dio, nessuna mano
dovrà avvicinarsi a loro tranne quella dei fedeli. Stanotte medesima
porrò le sentinelle. Ma guarda, figlio di Arrio,» — Ilderim estrasse il
plico dalla cintura e lo svolse lentamente, sedendo sopra il divano, —
guarda, figlio di Arrio, e aiutami col tuo latino.» —
Egli consegnò il dispaccio a Ben Hur.
— «Ecco; leggi, leggi ad alta voce, traducendo le parole nella lingua
de' tuoi padri. Il latino è un abbominio.» —
Ben Hur era di buon umore e intraprese la lettura con leggerezza.
Messala a Grato! Si arrestò. Ebbe come un presentimento e il cuore
gli cominciò a palpitare fortemente. Ilderim osservò la sua
agitazione.
— «Dunque? Aspetto.» —
Ben Hur domandò scusa e ricominciò la lettura del papiro, che il
lettore avrà già indovinato essere una copia della lettera con tanta
cura spedita da Messala a Grato, la mattina dopo l'orgia nel palazzo.
I primi paragrafi erano solo notevoli in quanto che rivelavano che lo
scrittore non aveva perduto quelle qualità di scherno e d'ironia che
adornavano il suo dire giovanile. Ma quando il lettore arrivò ai passi
intesi a rammentare a Grato la famiglia dei Hur, la sua voce tremò, e
due volte dovette arrestarsi, per riprendere padronanza di sè. Con
uno sforzo continuò. — «Richiamerò anche le disposizioni che
prendesti riguardo ai membri della famiglia Hur» — qui la voce del
lettore fu rotta come da un singhiozzo — «affinchè il silenzio della
tomba ci assicurasse il tranquillo godimento dei nostri guadagni, e
allo stesso tempo il rimorso di aver versato sangue non ci
macchiasse la coscienza.» —
Ben Hur non potè continuare. Il papiro scivolò dalle sue mani ed egli
si coprì il volto.
— «Sono morte — morte. Io sono solo!» —
Lo sceicco era stato muto ma commosso spettatore del dolore del
giovine.
Egli si alzò e disse: — «Figlio di Arrio, io devo chiederti perdono.
Leggi la lettera da solo. Quando ti sarai riavuto abbastanza per
comunicarmi il resto del contenuto, mandami a chiamare.» —
Egli uscì dalla tenda. Il pensiero delicato era degno di lui.
Ben Hur si gettò sul divano e si abbandonò alla foga della sua
passione.
Quando si fu rimesso alquanto, si ricordò che parte della lettera non
gli era ancora conosciuta, e ne riprese la lettura. — «Ti ricorderai di
ciò che hai fatto della madre e della figlia del malfattore, e se ora
cedo alla curiosità di sapere se vivano o siano morte....» — Ben Hur
trasalì, rilesse il passo: — «Egli non sa se siano morte; egli non sa!»
— esclamò. — «Benedetto sia il nome del Signore! C'è ancora un po'
di speranza.» — Sorretto da questo pensiero continuò la lettura fino
al fondo.
— «Non sono morte» — egli disse, dopo breve riflessione: — «Non
sono morte; altrimenti egli lo saprebbe.» —
Una seconda lettura, più attenta della prima, lo confermò in questa
opinione. Allora mandò a chiamare lo sceicco.
— «Quando venni la prima volta alla tua tenda ospitale, o sceicco»
— egli incominciò con calma, quando l'arabo ebbe preso posto sul
divano, e furono soli, — «io non aveva l'intenzione di parlarti della
mia vita, tranne che di quella parte necessaria per provarti la mia
destrezza ed esperienza nel guidare i cavalli. Non volli comunicarti la
mia storia. Ma il caso che ha fatto pervenire questa lettera nelle mie
mani, è così strano, che io sento il dovere di rivelarti ogni cosa. Mi
conforta in questo proposito il fatto che siamo entrambi minacciati
dal medesimo nemico, contro il quale è necessario che procediamo
d'accordo. Io ti leggerò la lettera e ti darò la spiegazione, dopo la
quale comprenderai facilmente il motivo della mia emozione. Se la
considerasti debolezza o sentimentalità infantile, saprai ricrederti o
scusarmi.» —
Lo sceicco ascoltò in assoluto silenzio finchè Ben Hur arrivò al
paragrafo in cui si faceva speciale menzione della sua persona. —
«Io incontrai ieri l'Ebreo nel boschetto di Dafne» — diceva la lettera
— «e se egli non vi è, tuttavia dimora certamente nelle vicinanze,
cosicchè ti sarà facile tenerlo d'occhio. Anzi, se tu mi chiedessi dove
sia in questo momento, io giuocherei che egli si trova nell'Orto delle
Palme.» —
— «Ah!» — esclamò Ilderim, afferrandosi la barba.
— «Nell'Orto delle Palme,» — ripetè Ben Hur, — «sotto la tenda di
quel canuto traditore, lo sceicco Ilderim....» —
— «Traditore! Io?» — gridò il vecchio con voce fattasi acuta, mentre
il labbro e la barba tremavano d'ira, e le vene della fronte e del collo
si gonfiavano come per scoppiare.
— «Un momento, sceicco» — fece Ben Hur. — «Tale è l'opinione di
Messala, ascolta la sua minaccia»:.... sotto la tenda di quel canuto
traditore, lo sceicco Ilderim, il quale non sfuggirà a lungo alle nostre
mani. Non ti sorprenda se Massenzio, come passo preliminare faccia
imbarcare l'Arabo sulla prima galera di ritorno, e lo mandi a
Roma.» —
— «A Roma! Me — Ilderim, — sceicco di diecimila cavalieri con
lancie — me a Roma!» — Balzò in piedi, le mani tese, le dita che si
aprivano e si stringevano con moto convulso, gli occhi scintillanti
come quelli di un serpente.
— «O Dio! — no, per tutti gli Dei, tranne per quelli di Roma! —
quando finirà questa insolenza? Un uomo libero son io; libero è il
mio popolo. Dobbiamo morire schiavi, o, peggio, dovrò io condurre
la vita di un cane che striscia ai piedi del suo padrone? Devo leccare
la sua mano perchè non mi batta? Ciò che è mio non è più mio, per
l'aria che respiro devo dipendere da Roma. Oh, se fossi giovine
un'altra volta! Oh se potessi scrollare dalle mie spalle venti anni, — o
dieci, — o cinque!» —
Strinse i denti, ed agitò le braccia sopra il capo; poi, sotto l'impulso
di una nuova idea, fece due passi verso Ben Hur e gli afferrò con
veemenza il braccio.
— «Se io fossi come te, figlio di Arrio — giovine, forte, destro nelle
armi; se avessi un torto come il tuo che mi spronasse alla vendetta,
un torto tale da santificare l'odio — giù le maschere! Figlio di Hur,
figlio di Hur, io dico!» —
A quel nome il sangue di Ben Hur quasi si arrestò nelle vene;
stupito, confuso, egli fissò gli occhi in quelli dell'Arabo, ora vicini ai
suoi, e animati da una fiamma selvaggia.
— «Figlio di Hur, io dico, se io fossi, come te, coi tuoi torti, coi tuoi
ricordi, io non avrei, non potrei aver pace. Alle mie sofferenze
aggiungerei quelle del mondo, e mi dedicherei alla vendetta. Per
mare e per terra, in ogni paese, predicherei la rivolta contro il
Romano. Ogni guerra di indipendenza mi troverebbe fra i
combattenti, in ogni battaglia contro Roma brillerebbe la mia spada.
Diventerei Parto, in mancanza di meglio. Che se anche gli uomini mi
venissero meno, non interromperei i miei sforzi, no. Per lo splendore
di Dio! Andrei fra i lupi, le tigri e i leoni nella speranza di aizzarli
contro il comune nemico. Ogni arma sarebbe lecita, ogni eccidio
giustificato, purchè le vittime fossero Romane. Alle fiamme tutto ciò
che è Romano! Di notte pregherei gli Dei, i buoni e i cattivi
egualmente, che mi prestassero i loro terrori, le loro tempeste, le
carestie, il freddo, il caldo, e tutti gli innominabili veleni che essi
lasciano liberi nell'aria, e tutto, tutto scaraventerei sul capo ai
Romani. Oh, io non potrei dormire! Io, io....» —
Lo sceicco si fermò per mancanza di respiro, e rimase muto,
ansando, pallido, coi pugni serrati.
Di tutto questo appassionato scoppio d'ira Ben Hur non ritenne che
una vaga impressione di occhi fiammeggianti, di una voce stridula, di
una collera troppo intensa per essere espressa con coerenza, a
parole. Per la prima volta in otto anni il misero giovane era stato
chiamato col suo vero nome. Un uomo almeno lo conosceva e lo
riconosceva senza chiedere prove, e questi era un Arabo del deserto!
Come era egli venuto a questa cognizione? La lettera? No. Essa
parlava delle crudeltà inflitte alla sua famiglia, narrava la storia delle
proprie sofferenze, ma non diceva che egli era la vittima
provvidenzialmente sfuggita all'ira Romana. Questo anzi egli avrebbe
voluto spiegare allo sceicco dopo terminata la lettura. La gioia e la
speranza gli fiorirono in cuore, e con calma forzata domandò:
— «Buon sceicco, dimmi, come venisti in possesso di questa
lettera?» —
— «La mia gente custodisce le strade fra le città» — rispose Ilderim
bruscamente. — «La tolsero ad un corriere.» —
— «Sanno che quella gente è tua?» —
— «No. Davanti al mondo figurano come predoni, che è mio dovere
di prendere ed impiccare.» —
— «Un'altra domanda, sceicco. Tu mi chiamasti figlio di Hur — il
nome di mio padre. Io mi credeva sconosciuto da tutti. Come
apprendesti il mio nome?» —
Ilderim esitò; poi, rinfrancandosi rispose. — «Io ti conosco, ma non
sono libero di dirti altro.» —
— «Qualcheduno ti tiene sotto padronanza?» —
Lo sceicco tacque e fece per andarsene; ma osservando la
disillusione di Ben Hur, ritornò indietro, e disse: — «Non parliamone
più per ora. Io vado in città; quando ritorno ti parlerò liberamente.
Dammi la lettera.» — Ilderim ripiegò con cura i papiri e li rimise
subito nella loro busta.
— «Che cosa dici» — egli chiese con energìa — «della mia proposta?
Io ti esposi ciò che farei ne' tuoi panni, e tu non mi hai ancora
risposto.» —
— «Io voleva risponderti, sceicco, e ti risponderò.» — Il volto di Ben
Hur si contrasse come sotto lo sforzo di un imperiosa volontà. —
«Tutto ciò che tu hai detto, io farò, — almeno tutto quanto
umanamente è possibile. Io ho dedicata la mia vita alla vendetta. Per
cinque anni questa fu il mio unico pensiero. Senza tregua, senza
riposo, sprezzando gli allettamenti di Roma e le tentazioni della
gioventù, ho impiegato tutte le forze dell'animo mio a questo unico
scopo. La mia educazione ebbe per meta ultima la vendetta. Praticai
i più famosi maestri — non quelli di rettorica e di filosofia — ahimè!
Non aveva tempo per questi. Le arti essenziali all'uomo d'armi erano
la mia occupazione; vissi con gladiatori e con vincitori dell'arena; con
centurioni nei campi Romani. E tutti furono orgogliosi di avermi a
scolaro. O sceicco, io sono un soldato; ma per attuare i sogni ch'io
nutrivo, avevo bisogno di essere un generale. Con questo intento mi
sono arruolato nella guerra contro i Parti; quando essa sarà
terminata, allora, se il Signore mi darà vita e forza, — allora» — egli
alzò i pugni stretti, e parlò con veemenza — «allora, quando sarò un
nemico perfezionato alla scuola di Roma, Roma dovrà pagarmi tutti i
miei torti col sangue de' suoi figli. Questa è la mia risposta,
sceicco.» —
Ilderim gli gettò le braccia al collo e lo baciò, dicendo con voce
bassa, quasi strozzata dall'emozione: — «Se il tuo Dio non ti aiuterà
in questo, figlio di Hur, egli sarà morto. Senti ciò che ti prometto, che
ti giuro, se vuoi: Tu avrai me stesso, e tutto ciò che io posseggo —
uomini, cavalli, cammelli, — e il deserto per preparare i tuoi piani. Io
lo giuro! E per ora basta. Mi vedrai, o udrai di me, prima di sera.» —
Voltandosi bruscamente, lo sceicco uscì dalla tenda, e di lì a poco si
trovò sulla via verso la città.

CAPITOLO VI.

La lettera intercettata era per più ragioni importante per Ben Hur.
Era una confessione che l'autore di essa era stato complice nella
soppressione della famiglia; che egli aveva sanzionato il piano
proposto da Valerio Grato a questo scopo; che egli aveva ricevuto
parte dei beni confiscati e che godeva ancora in quel momento; che
egli temeva la improvvisa comparsa di quegli ch'egli chiamava il
principale malfattore; nella quale vedeva una minaccia per la
sicurezza propria e quella di Grato; infine che egli era pronto ad
eseguire qualunque disegno che il fertile cervello del procuratore di
Giudea avrebbe saputo escogitare, per togliere di mezzo il comune
nemico.
Specialmente quest'ultima considerazione, l'avviso di un pericolo
vicino, diede molto a pensare a Ben Hur, rimasto solo nella tenda
dopo la partenza di Ilderim. I suoi avversari erano personaggi
potenti ed astuti. Se essi lo temevano, egli aveva maggior ragione di
temerli. Cercò di chiarirsi bene la situazione e di riflettere sul modo
in cui l'odio di essi avrebbe potuto esplicarsi, ma i suoi pensieri
venivano costantemente turbati dalla visione della madre e della
sorella. Poco importava se il fondamento di questa sua persuasione
era debole, riposando essa interamente sul fatto che Messala non
aveva appreso la loro morte; la gioia che egli provava, soffocava
ogni dubbio. Finalmente aveva trovato una persona la quale sapeva
dove esse erano celate, e, nella esaltazione del momento, la loro
scoperta gli sembrava già vicina, un evento di prossima attuazione.
Con tutti questi pensieri e sentimenti pensava con una specie di
mistica certezza che Iddio stava per presceglierlo al compimento di
una grande missione.
Di tanto in tanto, richiamando le parole di Ilderim, egli si
meravigliava donde l'arabo avesse tratte le informazioni sul suo
conto; non da Malluch certamente; non da Simonide, l'interesse del
quale stava al contrario nel celare ogni cosa. Messala? L'idea era
ridicola. Ogni congettura approdava al medesimo risultato negativo.
— «Meno male» — egli pensava consolandosi che da qualunque
fonte lo sceicco avesse appreso il suo nome e i particolari della sua
vita, non poteva essere che da un amico, il quale, come tale, si
sarebbe a suo tempo dichiarato. — «Un po' di pazienza, un po' di
attesa» — forse la gita dello sceicco in città aveva relazione con
l'affare; possibilmente la lettera favorirebbe una completa
rivelazione.
E paziente egli sarebbe stato se solamente egli avesse potuto
accertarsi che Tirzah e sua madre lo attendevano in circostanze tali
da permettere anche ad esse le medesime speranze che egli nutriva;
se, in altre parole, la coscienza non lo pungesse con mille accuse per
la sua inazione.
Per isfuggire a questi rimorsi, egli si diede a passeggiare sotto gli
alberi dell'Orto, ora fermandosi a osservare i raccoglitori di datteri,
ora a seguire i voli degli uccelli che andavano a nascondersi nel
fogliame delle palme, ora le corse dello sciame delle api, che
ronzando circondavano i cespugli fioriti e carichi di bacche.
Più a lungo indugiò lungo le sponde del lago. Quelle limpide acque,
appena increspate dal vento, che venivano con mormorìo sommesso
a lambire voluttuosamente le rive, gli richiamavano l'immagine
dell'Egiziana e la sua meravigliosa bellezza, e il ricordo di quella sera
allietata dalle parole e dal canto di lei, gli riempiva il cuore di una
grande dolcezza. Ripensava al fascino dei suoi modi, all'armonìa del
suo riso, alle sue lusinghe e alle sue blandizie, al tepore molle di
quella manina che stringeva la sua sopra il pomo del timone. Da lei il
suo pensiero correva a Balthasar, e alla sua miracolosa narrazione; e
da lui al Re dei Giudei, che il santo uomo con tanta profondità di
convinzione diceva vivo e annunziava vicino. E qui la sua mente si
arrestò, indagando il mistero di quello strano personaggio, e traendo
da quelle riflessioni la soddisfazione di cui andava in cerca. Nulla è
più facile della confutazione di un pensiero contrario ai nostri
desideri, e Ben Hur rifiutò energicamente la definizione data da
Balthasar del regno che doveva venire. Il concetto di un regno
spirituale, se non era intollerabile alle dottrine Sadducee di cui era
imbevuto, gli sembrava una deduzione tratta dalle profondità di una
fede troppo astratta e sognatrice. Un regno della Giudea, ah sì,
quello era più comprensibile; un tale regno era già esistito e per la
stessa ragione potrebbe ritornare! E accarezzava il suo orgoglio il
pensare un regno nuovo, più vasto nei suoi dominii, più ricco e più
splendido dell'antico; un Re sotto il quale egli troverebbe e servizio e
vendetta. In questa condizione d'animo egli ritornò al dovar.
Terminata la colazione, per occupare il pomeriggio, Ben Hur fece
condurre davanti alla tenda il cocchio che egli sottopose ad un
attento esame. Questa parola non rende che poveramente lo studio
e la cura ch'egli pose nell'osservare ogni minimo particolare del
veicolo. Con una soddisfazione che apparirà più comprensibile in
seguito, vide che il modello era Greco, a suo avviso preferibile a
quello Romano. Era più ampio nello spazio fra ruota e ruota, più
basso di sala e più pesante; ma lo svantaggio del peso maggiore
sarebbe più che compensato dalla resistenza dei suoi Arabi. In
generale i costruttori di cocchi in Roma fabbricavano solamente
veicoli da corsa, sacrificando la sicurezza alla leggerezza, e la
resistenza alla grazia; mentre i carri di Achille e del Re degli uomini
designati per la guerra e i suoi pericoli erano ancora i tipi preferiti
nelle gare Istmiche e d'Olimpia.
Poi attaccò i cavalli e li guidò sul campo delle esercitazioni, dove per
parecchie ore li tenne sotto il giogo, obbligandoli ad ogni genere di
evoluzioni. Quando ritornò al padiglione sul far della sera, il suo
animo si era calmato e aveva deciso di sospendere ogni passo
riguardo a Messala fin dopo la giornata delle corse. Il piacere di
misurarsi col suo nemico al cospetto di tutto l'Oriente era una voluttà
di cui egli non sapeva privarsi. La sua fiducia nella propria abilità e
nel risultato finale era assoluta. Quanto ai cavalli, essi sarebbero
stati i suoi compagni nella gloriosa impresa.
— «Ch'egli stìa all'erta! Ch'egli badi! Nevvero, Antares, Aldebran?
Nevvero Rigel, buon cavallo? E tu Altair, Re dei corsieri, non dovrà
egli temerci? Buoni, buoni!» —
Così parlava ai cavalli negli intervalli di riposo, andando dall'uno
all'altro, e accarezzando loro le guancie e i colli.
Sul far della notte Ben Hur sedeva davanti alla porta della tenda,
aspettando Ilderim, non ancora ritornato dalla città. Non provava
impazienza, nè dubbio, nè timore. Lo sceicco almeno avrebbe
parlato. Anzi, fosse la soddisfazione dell'ottimo lavoro prestato dai
cavalli, o la dolce stanchezza che succede a una giornata di tanta
fatica, o la cena a cui aveva fatto largo onore, o la reazione, che, per
una provvida legge di natura tien sempre dietro al momento di
depressione e di tristezza, il giovane si trovava di ottimo umore, e
quasi felice. Gli sembrava che la Provvidenza lo avesse preso sotto la
sua speciale protezione.
Finalmente si udì lo scalpitare di un cavallo, e Malluch smontò
davanti alla tenda.
Ben Hur non fece domande, ma entrò nel recinto dove pascolavano i
cavalli. Aldebran gli si avvicinò, come profferendo i suoi servigi. Egli
lo accarezzò affettuosamente, ma passò a scegliere un altro cavallo,
non uno dei quattro: questi erano sacri alla gara. In breve tempo i
due cavalieri percorrevano rapidamente e in silenzio la via della città.
Prima d'arrivare al Ponte Seleucio, essi attraversarono il fiume su di
una barca, e penetrarono nella città dal lato occidentale. Il cammino
era più lungo, ma Ben Hur lo accettò senza far parola, pensando che
fosse una precauzione necessaria.
Passarono il molo di Simonide, e, davanti alla porta del grande
magazzeno, Malluch fermò il suo cavallo.
— «Siamo giunti» — egli disse — «smonta.» —
Ben Hur riconobbe la località.
— «Dov'è lo sceicco?» —
— «Vieni con me. Te lo mostrerò.» —
Un custode prese i cavalli, e quasi prima che Ben Hur si rendesse
chiaramente conto di quanto avveniva, egli si trovò di nuovo davanti
alla porta della casa sopra il terrazzo, e intese una voce: — «In
nome di Dio, entrate.» —

CAPITOLO VII.

Malluch si fermò alla porta; Ben Hur entrò da solo.

La stanza era quella medesima in cui aveva per la prima volta veduto
Simonide, e nulla era mutato della sua apparenza, tranne che,
presso alla poltrona del vecchio, era stato posto un grande
candelabro di bronzo con molte braccia da cui pendevano numerose
lampade d'argento, tutte accese. La luce era chiara e illuminava i
tavolati delle pareti, la cornice dorata, e la volta di mica viola.
Fatti due passi Ben Hur si arrestò.
Tre persone erano presenti e lo guardavano. — Simonide, Ilderim ed
Ester. Egli girò gli occhi dall'uno all'altro come per trovar risposta alla
domanda mezzo formulata dal suo cervello: — «Che cosa vogliono
da me questi tre?» — A questa tenne subito dietro un'altra: —
«Sono amici o nemici?» —
Finalmente i suoi sguardi si fermarono su Ester. I due uomini gli
avevano risposto con espressione bonaria, ma ciò ch'egli lesse nel
volto della fanciulla era qualche cosa di più spirituale, che,
quantunque sfuggisse ad ogni definizione, penetrò profondamente
nell'animo suo. Ebbe per un istante la visione di un altro viso, quella
dell'Egiziana, ma si dileguò subito.
— «Figlio di Hur.» —
Egli si voltò verso Simonide.
— «Figlio di Hur» — ripetè il negoziante, sillabando con enfasi
solenne le parole, come per imprimergli bene in mente tutto il
significato dell'apostrofe — «La pace del Signore Iddio, dei nostri
padri sia con te. Prendila da parte mia e dei miei.» —
Il vecchio sedeva nella sua poltrona. Era la stessa testa regale, il
volto pallido, l'aria imperiosa, sotto l'influenza della quale i visitatori
dimenticavano le sue membra deformi. I bianchi occhi neri brillavano
sopra le bianche sopracciglia. Un momento rimase così, poi incrociò
le braccia sul petto.
L'atto, messo in rapporto col saluto, non poteva essere frainteso, e
non lo fu.
— «Simonide» — rispose Ben Hur, commosso — «la pace che tu
offri, io l'accetto. Come figlio a padre te la ritorno: soltanto
intendiamoci chiaramente fra di noi.» —
Così, delicatamente, egli cercò di eludere la sottomissione del
negoziante, ed invece della relazione fra padrone e schiavo, volle
sostituire un vincolo più elevato e più santo.
Simonide lasciò cadere le mani, e volgendosi ad Ester disse:
— «Una sedia per il padrone, o figlia.» —
Essa si affrettò a portargli una sedia, e rimase in piedi, con le gote
coperte di rossore, guardando ora all'uno, ora all'altro, da Ben Hur a
Simonide, da Simonide a Ben Hur. Dopo una breve pausa Ben Hur
prese la sedia dalle sue mani e l'avvicinò alla poltrona del
negoziante.
— «Io siederò qui,» — egli disse.
I suoi occhi incontrarono quelli di lei, per un istante solo, ma egli ed
Ester si sentirono migliori per quello sguardo.
Simonide si inchinò e disse con un sospiro di sollievo:
— «Ester, mia figlia, portami le carte.» —
Essa andò ad un tavolato nella parete, lo aperse e ne estrasse un
rotolo di papiri che porse al padre.
— «Tu dicesti bene, figlio di Hur» — cominciò Simonide, spiegando i
fogli — «intendiamoci chiaramente. In anticipazione della richiesta —
che io avrei offerto spontaneamente se tu l'avessi rifiutata io ho
preparato alcune note che lumeggiano la situazione. Due sono i
punti che hanno bisogno di essere spiegati — la proprietà dapprima,
e poi i nostri rapporti. L'esposizione è chiara riguardo ad entrambi.
Vuoi leggerla?» —
Ben Hur prese le carte, ma diede uno sguardo ad Ilderim.
— «No» — disse Simonide — «la presenza dello sceicco non ti
impedisca di leggere; il conto che troverai ha bisogno di un
testimonio. In calce di esso tu troverai il nome di Ilderim. Egli è al
corrente di tutto ed è tuo amico. Tutto quanto egli è stato per me,
sarà anche per te.» —
Simonide guardò l'arabo con un sorriso che questi gli rese con un
grave cenno del capo, dicendo: — «Tu l'hai detto.» —
Ben Hur rispose: — «Io ho avuto già altre prove della sua amicizia e
toccherebbe a me di mostrarmene degno.» — poi soggiunse: — «Più
tardi, o Simonide, leggerò con attenzione le carte; per ora,
riprendile, e, se ciò non ti stanca, esponi brevemente il loro
contenuto.» —
Simonide riprese il rotolo.
— «Qui, Ester, vicino a me, e prendi le pagine man mano che te le
porgo.» —
Essa si pose presso alla sua poltrona, appoggiando la mano destra
leggermente sulla spalla del vecchio. Formavano così un gruppo
solo, e, quando egli parlava, sembrava che il rendiconto procedesse
da entrambi.
— «Questo» — disse Simonide, spiegando la prima pagina —
«contiene l'esposizione delle somme che io ebbi da tuo padre, e che
salvai dalla confisca Romana. Non v'erano beni, soltanto danaro, e
anche questo i predoni avrebbero preso, se non fosse stato che,
secondo consuetudini Ebraiche, esso si trovava sotto la forma di
cambiali tratte sui mercati di Roma, Alessandria, Damasco, Cartagine
e Valenza ed altre città minori. La somma così salvata ammontava a
centoventi talenti Ebraici.» —
Egli diede il foglio ad Ester e prese il secondo.
— «Di questo importo io m'incaricai. Ora ascolta i miei crediti. Vedrai
che in questa parola io intendo significar i guadagni ricavati da
quella somma.» —
Da vari fogli lesse le seguenti cifre, che rendiamo, omettendo le
frazioni:

Crediti:
Navi 60 talenti
Merci nei magazzeni 110 »
 Carichi di transito 35 »
Cammelli, cavalli, ecc. 20 »
Magazzini 10 »
Cambiali 54 »
Contanti 254 »
——
Totale 553 talenti

— «Aggiungi a questi, e ai cinquecento cinquantatre talenti

guadagnati, il capitale originale ricevuto da tuo padre, tu hai
SEICENTO SETTANTATRE TALENTI! — tutti tuoi, che ti fanno, o figlio
di Hur, il suddito più ricco della terra.» —
Egli prese i papiri dalle mani di Ester, tranne uno, e li porse a Ben
Hur.
L'orgoglio che traspariva da quel gesto, non offendeva; poteva
derivare dal sentimento del proprio dovere ben compiuto, o
riguardare unicamente Ben Hur.
— «Ed ora non v'è nulla» — egli aggiunse, abbassando la voce, ma
non gli occhi — «ora non v'è nulla che tu non possa fare.» —
Il momento era solenne. Simonide tornò ad incrociare le braccia sul
petto. Ester era ansiosa. Ilderim si lisciava la barba nervosamente.
Una fortuna che giunga improvvisa è la prova di fuoco del carattere
umano.
Prendendo il rotolo, Ben Hur si alzò, lottando con la sua emozione.
— «Tutto ciò è come una luce del cielo, mandata a dissipare le
tenebre di una notte che io credeva dovesse durare eterna, tanto era
lunga e priva d'ogni speranza» — egli disse con voce rauca. — «Io
ringrazio il Signore, che non mi ha abbandonato, e poi te o
Simonide; la tua fedeltà compensa la crudeltà di altri, e rivendica la
natura umana. — «Non v'è nulla ch'io non possa fare:» — Sia così.
Tu mi sei testimonio, sceicco Ilderim. Ascolta bene le mie parole, e
ricordale; e tu pure, Ester, ottimo angelo di questo buon uomo,
ascoltami.» —
Egli tese la mano col rotolo a Simonide.
— «Tutto ciò che queste carte contengono, navi, case, mercanzie,
cammelli, cavalli, denaro, tutto io ti restituisco, o Simonide,
confermandolo a te ed ai tuoi per sempre.» —
Ester sorrise fra le sue lagrime; Ilderim afferrò con ambe le mani la
sua barba, mentre gli occhi gli luccicavano come carboni. Simonide
soltanto rimase calmo.
— «Confermandole a te ed ai tuoi per sempre» — continuò Ben Hur
— «con una eccezione e ad un patto.» —
I suoi ascoltatori trattennero il respiro per ascoltarlo meglio.
— «Tu dovrai restituirmi i centoventi talenti che appartenevano a
mio padre.» —
Il volto di Ilderim si rasserenò.
— «E tu dovrai aiutarmi con tutte le tue forze e con tutti i tuoi beni
nella ricerca di mia madre e di mia sorella.» —
Simonide era commosso. Porgendogli la mano, egli disse: —
«Riconosco l'animo tuo, o figlio di Hur, e sono riconoscente al
Signore d'avermi mandato un uomo come te. Come io ho servito tuo
padre, così continuerò a servirti; ma non posso accettar le tue
proposte generose.» —
Spiegando l'ultimo foglio continuò:
— «Tu non hai veduto tutto. Prendi questo e leggi — leggi ad alta
voce.» —
Ben Hur prese il foglio e lesse.
Nota degli schiavi di Hur, tenuta da Simonide suo amministratore.

1. Amrah, Egiziana, custode del palazzo in Gerusalemme.

2. Simonide, Agente in Antiochia.
3. Ester figlia di Simonide.
Ora, in tutte le sue riflessioni intorno a Simonide, Ben Hur non aveva
mai lontanamente pensato che, per legge, i figli seguono la
condizione dei genitori. In tutte le sue visioni la soave persona di
Ester figurava come una rivale dell'Egiziana, oggetto del suo affetto
e forse del suo amore. Egli rabbrividì alla rivelazione così
bruscamente presentatagli, e vedendo la fanciulla arrossire e chinare
gli occhi mentre egli avvoltolava di nuovo il papiro nelle sue mani,
egli disse:
— «Un uomo con seicento talenti è ricco in verità, e può fare ciò che
gli piace; ma più preziosi del denaro, più preziosi dei beni, sono
l'intelligenza che ha saputo ammassare quella ricchezza, e il cuore
che, in mezzo a quella ricchezza, non s'è lasciato corrompere.
O Simonide, e tu Ester, non temete. Lo sceicco Ilderim attesterà che
da questo momento io vi dichiaro liberi e affrancati, e questo
confermerò con una scrittura. Vi basta?» —
— «Figlio di Hur» — disse Simonide — «tu rendi dolce anche la
servitù. Ma sappi che io ebbi torto: vi sono cose che tu non puoi
fare, nemmeno con le tue ricchezze. Tu non puoi liberarci. Io sono
tuo schiavo, perchè spontaneamente mi lasciai forare l'orecchio con
la lesina per mano di tuo padre, e i segni rimangono ancora.» —
— «E mio padre fece questo?» —
— «Non biasimarlo,» — si affrettò a dire Simonide. — «Egli mi
accettò quale schiavo di questa categoria, perchè io lo supplicai di
fatto. Non mi sono mai pentito. Fu questo il prezzo che pagai per
Rachele, la madre di mia figlia; perchè Rachele non volle diventare
mia moglie, se io non fossi diventato ciò che essa era.» —
— «Essa era schiava in perpetuo?» —
— «Sì.» —
Ben Hur misurò la stanza con passi concitati.
— «Io era già ricco» — disse, arrestandosi di un colpo — «ricco pei
doni del generoso duumviro; ora mi capita questa fortuna colossale
e la mente che l'ha saputa ammassare. Non v'è il dito di Dio in tutto
ciò? Consigliami, o Simonide! Aiutami a scoprire il vero. Fa che io
diventi degno del mio nome, e se tu sei schiavo nella legge, io sarò
tuo servo di fatto. Tu comanda.» —
Il viso di Simonide era raggiante.
— «O figlio del mio morto padrone! Io farò più che aiutarti; io
metterò al tuo servizio tutta la forza della mia mente e del mio
cuore. Il mio corpo però non giova alla tua causa, ma col cuore e
con la mente ti servirò. Lo giuro, per l'altare del nostro Dio! Soltanto
creami con nomina formale ciò che fin'ora ho finto di essere.» —
— «Che cosa?» — chiese Ben Hur con sollecitudine.
— «Amministratore dei tuoi beni.» —
— «Lo sei da questo istante, o vuoi lo faccia in iscritto?» —
— «La tua parola basta. Così fece tuo padre. Ed ora siamo intesi.» —
Simonide tacque.
— «Lo siamo» — disse Ben Hur.
— «E tu, figlia di Rachele, parla!» — continuò Simonide, sollevando il
braccio di lei dalla sua spalla.
Ester, lasciata così sola, rimase confusa un istante; poi andò da Ben
Hur, e con tutta la grazia della sua femminilità, disse:
— «Io non sono diversa da mia madre; e poichè essa è morta,
lascia, padrone, che io prenda cura di mio padre.» —
Ben Hur prese la sua mano e la condusse presso la poltrona. — «Sei
una buona figliuola» — disse. — «Sia fatta la tua volontà.» —
Essa cinse di nuovo il collo di suo padre e per qualche tempo regnò il
silenzio nella stanza.

CAPITOLO VIII.

Simonide alzò il capo.

— «Ester, egli disse dolcemente, la notte è inoltrata; portaci da bere,
affinchè ciò che ancora dobbiamo dire non ci affatichi.» —
Essa suonò il campanello. Un domestico entrò con vino e pane.
— «Qualche cosa rimane ancora da chiarirsi, mio buon padrone» —
disse Simonide. — «D'ora innanzi le nostre vite dovranno correre
insieme come due fiumi che hanno unite le loro acque e scorrono
verso la medesima foce. È meglio che ogni nube sia dissipata.
Quando tu partisti l'altro giorno dalla mia porta tu credesti che io ti
avessi negato quei tuoi diritti che ora conosco in tutta la loro
ampiezza. Ma non fu così, no, non fu così. Ester può attestare che io
ti riconobbi, e che non ti perdei di vista lo può dire Malluch, il
quale...» —
— «Malluch!» — esclamò Ben Hur.
— «Chi è inchiodato come me alla sua poltrona, deve servirsi di
molte mani se vuol muovere il mondo dal quale lo divide una così
crudele barriera.
Io ho molte di queste mani, e Malluch è una delle migliori. E qualche
volta,» — e rivolse uno sguardo riconoscente allo sceicco —
«qualche volta mi rivolgo ad altri cuori generosi, come Ilderim,
buono e coraggioso. Che egli ti dica se ti avevo ripudiato o
dimenticato.» —
Ben Hur guardò l'Arabo.
— «Questi è colui che ti parlò di me, buon Ilderim.» —
Ilderim accennò di sì col capo, e i suoi occhietti scintillarono.
— «Come si può conoscere senza una prova, o mio padrone» —
continuò Simonide, — «ciò che sia un uomo? Io ti ravvisai, per la
somiglianza con tuo padre; ma non conosceva la tua indole e i tuoi
costumi. V'è della gente per la quale le ricchezze sono una
maledizione. Eri tu uno di questi esseri?
Io mandai Malluch per accertarmene, e vidi coi suoi occhi, e ascoltai
con le sue orecchie. Non biasimarlo. Ciò che egli mi riferì era tutto in
tuo favore.» —
— «Io non lo biasimo» — disse Ben Hur, cordialmente. — «Io
approvo la tua saggezza.» —
— «Le tue parole mi sono gradite» — continuò il negoziante, —
«gradite assai. La mia paura di un malinteso è cessata. Ed ora i fiumi
scorrano per la loro via nella direzione che Dio indicherà!» —
Dopo una pausa egli riprese.
— «Come il tessitore seduto al telaio vede scorrere veloci le spole, e
la tela crescere sotto i suoi occhi e coprirsi di figure ed arabeschi,
mentre egli sogna fulgidi sogni nel frattempo; così, nelle mie mani, si
accumulava il denaro, ed io mi meravigliavo di questa prosperità e
spesso me ne chiedevo il perchè. Io vedeva una mano che non era
la mia guidare ogni impresa. Il Simun, che seppelliva le carovane
degli altri nel deserto, risparmiava le mie; le tempeste che
riempivano i mari di naufragi e gettavano i rottami sulle spiaggie,
acceleravano il corso delle mie navi. Più strano di tutto, io, così
dipendente dagli altri, immobile nella mia sedia come una cosa
morta, non ho mai patito una perdita da parte di un agente — mai.
Gli elementi sono aggiogati al mio servizio, e tutti i miei servitori mi
sono stati fedeli.» —
— «È strano veramente» — disse Ben Hur.
— «Così io mi diceva. Finalmente, o padrone, venni alla tua
conclusione: Iddio c'entrava — e come te mi chiesi: — «Quale sarà il
suo scopo?» — La mente di Dio non si muove se non con un intento.
E per tutti questi anni mi sono ripetuto questa domanda, aspettando
una risposta, che sapevo Dio avrebbe fatta a suo tempo. E io credo
che il momento sia venuto.» —
Ben Hur ascoltò con attenzione crescente.
— «Molti anni or sono, io sedeva con tua madre, o Ester, sulla strada
ad oriente di Gerusalemme, presso le tombe dei Re, quando tre
uomini mi passarono davanti sopra grandi cammelli bianchi, non mai
veduti nella Città Santa. Questi uomini erano stranieri, e venivano da
lontano. Il primo di essi si fermò e chiese: — «Dov'è colui che è nato
Re degli Ebrei?» —
E come per calmare la mia curiosità continuò: — «Noi abbiamo
veduto la sua stella in Oriente, e siamo venuti per adorarlo.» — Io
non sapeva che cosa rispondere, ma tenni loro dietro fino alla porta
di Gerusalemme, dove ripeterono la loro domanda alla guardia. Tutti
quelli che la intesero, rimasero stupiti e credettero che si trattasse
dell'atteso
Col tempo dimenticai queste circostanze, che ora mi sono state
nuovamente richiamate alla mente. Hai veduto Balthasar?
— «Sì, ed ho udito il suo racconto» — disse Ben Hur.
— «Un miracolo! Un vero miracolo!» — esclamò Simonide. —
«Quando egli me lo narrò, mi parve di ascoltare la risposta che da
tanti anni attendevo. Il pensiero di Dio mi balenò chiaro davanti agli
occhi. Il Re che verrà sarà povero, povero e senza amici; senza
seguito, senza esercito, senza flotte, senza città e piazze forti; c'era
un regno da formare e una Roma da essere abbattuta. Vedi, o
padrone, vedi! Tu pieno di forza, tu addestrato nelle armi, tu ricco;
quale opportunità ti offre il Signore! Non abbraccerai l'occasione e
non farai tuo questo compito? Quale gloria più perfetta potrebbe
desiderare un uomo?» —
Simonide aveva pronunciato questo appello con tutta l'anima sua.
— «Ma il regno, il regno!» — Ben Hur rispose. — «Balthasar dice che
sarà delle anime soltanto.» —
L'orgoglio ebraico era forte in Simonide e con un leggiero tono di
disprezzo egli replicò:
— «Balthasar è stato testimonio di cose meravigliose, o padrone; di
miracoli; e, quando egli ne parla, la mia fede si china dinanzi a lui,
perchè egli le ha vedute ed udite. Ma d'altra parte egli è un figlio di
Mizraim, pur non essendone un proselite. Non è dunque credibile
ch'egli possegga cognizioni tali da costringerci a credere ciecamente
tutto ciò che riguarda le intenzioni di Dio con Israele. I profeti
ricevevano la loro luce direttamente dal cielo, come la ebbe lui. Essi
sono molti, egli è solo. Io devo credere ai profeti: Ester, portami la
Torah.» —
Poi continuò senza attenderla:
— «Si può rigettare la testimonianza di tutto un popolo, o padrone?
Da Tiro al Nord, fino alla capitale di Edom all'estremo Sud, non trovai
un pastore o un mendicante che non ti dica che il regno del Re che
verrà, sarà come quello di Davide e di Salomone. Donde trassero la
loro fede, è ciò che vedremo.» —
In quella rientrò Ester, recando una quantità di rotoli entro astucci
ornati di arabeschi e con strane lettere d'oro.
Egli li prese e li ordinò sopra il tavolo. Spiegando ora l'uno ora l'altro
dei vecchi papiri, egli confortò le sue argomentazioni con copiose
citazioni, che noi, per brevità, risparmieremo al lettore. Dal Libro di
Enoch, ai salmi di Davide, dalle profezie di Ezra, di Geremia e di
Daniele, chiare come squilli di tromba uscivano le parole
annunziatrici del Regno del Re che doveva venire, la sua gloria, i suoi
trionfi.
Ben Hur piegò la fronte sopraffatto, convinto, ed esclamò:
— «Io credo, io credo!» —
— «E allora?» — chiese Simonide. — «Se il Re sarà povero, non lo
aiuterà il mio padrone con la ricchezza che possiede in
abbondanza?» —
— «Aiutarlo? Fino all'ultimo siclo e all'ultimo respiro! Ma perchè credi
che verrà povero?» —
— «Ascolta la parola del Signore, quale Zaccaria l'intese. Ecco come
il Re entrerà in Gerusalemme.» — E lesse: — «Rallegrati, o figliuolo
di Sion. Vedi il tuo Re che viene con la giustizia e con la salvezza;
umilmente a cavallo di un asino.» —
Ben Hur torse il capo e guardò altrove.
— «Che cosa vedi, o padrone!» —
— «Roma!» — rispose mestamente. — «Roma e le sue legioni. Io ho
vissuto con esse nei loro accampamenti, e le conosco.» —
— «Ah!» — disse Simonide. — «Tu guiderai le legioni del Re, sarai
alla testa di milioni di uomini.» —
— «Milioni di uomini!» — esclamò Ben Hur.
Simonide stette alquanto sopra pensiero.
— «La questione del numero non ti inquieti» — disse Simonide.
Ben Hur lo guardò.
— «Tu vedi da una parte il Re umile e dimesso, e dall'altra parte le
serrate legioni di Roma, e ti domandi: Che cosa può egli fare?» —
— «Questo era il mio pensiero.» —
— «O mio padrone!» — continuò Simonide — «Tu non conosci la
forza d'Israele. Tu te lo figuri come un vecchio cadente che piange
amare lacrime presso i fiumi di Babilonia. Ma va a Gerusalemme il
giorno di Pasqua, e fermati sullo Xisto o nella Via dei Barattieri, e
conta la gente che passa. La promessa che il Signore fece a nostro
padre Giacobbe si è avverata davvero; noi ci siamo moltiplicati
infinitamente, ad onta della schiavitù in Egitto, della cattività
Babilonese, della dominazione Romana. Ma non solo ai limiti della
razza devi badare; ma pensa allo sviluppo della nostra fede che
abbraccia tanti popoli nell'Asia, conta gli eserciti dei fedeli che
aspettano il vecchio grido d'allarme: Alle tue tende, Israele! A
centinaia e migliaia sono sparsi nella Persia, nell'Egitto, nell'Africa,
nei mercati d'occidente, nella Spagna ed a Londra, nella Grecia e
nelle isole, sul Ponto e qui in Antiochia, e nella stessa maledetta città
dei sette colli. È un corteo di nazioni, è una selva di spade che
attende l'avvento del Re.» —
Le parole furono profferite con fervore ed ispirazione. Sopra Ilderim
fecero l'effetto d'uno squillo di tromba. — «Oh se mi ritornasse la
mia gioventù!» — egli gridò balzando in piedi.
Ben Hur non si mosse. Egli comprendeva che questo discorso mirava
ad invitarlo a sacrificare tutta la sua vita e la sua fortuna al servizio
dell'Essere misterioso nel quale si concentravano le speranze di
Simonide come quelle dell'Egiziano. L'idea, come abbiamo veduto,
non era nuova, ma gli era venuta ripetutamente, dopo le parole di
Malluch, dopo la cena con Balthasar; ma aveva urtato contro
ostacoli, e non si era ancora mutata in una risoluzione certa. Ora non
più. Una mano maestra era venuta a raccogliere la vasta trama, ad
ordinarne le fila. Quelle parole alate ebbero sopra di lui l'effetto
come se una porta invisibile si fosse improvvisamente spalancata,
inondandolo di un fascio di luce, schiudendogli tutto un nuovo
splendente avvenire, in cui il sogno della sua vita, quel sogno
careggiato fra le catene e sul remo, e nelle palestre di Roma, trovava
il suo posto e prometteva di avverarsi. Un ultimo dubbio rimaneva.
— «Ammettiamo tutto quanto tu dici, o Simonide, che cioè il Re
verrà e il suo regno sarà come quello di Salomone. Supponiamo
anche che io sia pronto a mettere me stesso e le mie ricchezze al
suo servizio; di più, che le vicende della mia vita, e la vasta fortuna
da te accumulata siano state davvero ordinate da Dio a quello
scopo; dovremo noi forse lavorare alla cieca? Dobbiamo aspettare
l'arrivo del Re? Ch'egli mi chiami? Tu hai l'esperienza dell'età.
Rispondi.» —
Simonide rispose senza esitare.
— «Non abbiamo altra scelta, nessuna. Questa lettera» — così
parlando estrasse il messaggio di Messala — «è il segnale della lotta.
Noi non siamo abbastanza forti per resistere l'alleanza di Messala
con Grato; ci mancano l'influenza a Roma e la forza qui. Essi ti
uccideranno se aspetti. Vedi nella mia persona qual'è la loro
misericordia.» —
Un fremito lo scosse al ricordo dei tormenti.
— «O buon padrone» — egli continuò — «L'animo tuo è forte?» —
Ben Hur non lo comprese.
— «Io mi ricordo come bella mi sembrava la vita alla tua età» —
proseguì Simonide.
— «Nondimeno» — disse Ben Hur — «fosti capace di un grande
sacrificio.» —
— «Sì, per amore.» —
— «Non ha la vita altri motivi forti del pari.» —
Simonide scosse la testa.
— «C'è l'ambizione.» —
— «L'ambizione è vietata ai figli d'Israele.» —
— «La vendetta!» —
Era una scintilla cadente in un mare infiammabile. Gli occhi del
vecchio brillarono, le sue dita si strinsero, ed egli rispose con
veemenza:
— «La vendetta è un diritto dell'Ebreo. Così dice la legge.» —
— «Un cammello, fino un cane, ricorda l'offesa!» — gridò Ilderim.
Simonide ripigliò il filo del suo discorso.
— «Vi è un lavoro da compiersi prima dell'avvento del Re, un lavoro
di preparazione. La mano d'Israele sorgerà in sua difesa, non v'ha
dubbio, ma, ahimè, è una mano che la pace ha rattrappita, che la
guerra deve snodare. Fra i milioni non vi è disciplina, non vi sono
capitani. Io non parlo dei mercenari di Erode, che parteggerebbero
pei nostri nemici. Questa pace è cara al Romano, ed è frutto della
sua politica; ma un cambiamento è vicino, in cui il pastore butterà
via il suo bordone e brandirà la spada e la lancia, e gli armenti
pascolanti diverranno branchi di leoni. Qualcheduno, o mio figlio,
dovrà occupare il posto alla destra del Re. E a chi spetterà questo
onore se non a colui che avrà compiuto questo lavoro?» —
Il volto di Ben Hur si accese.
— «Io vedo. Ma parla chiaramente. Altro è dire: una cosa deve farsi;
altro è dire come deve farsi.» —
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