LUCA, poor fellow, was neither better off nor worse. He did his duty abroad, as he had done it at home, and was content. He did not often write, certainly the stamps cost twenty centimes each nor had he sent his portrait, because from his boy-hood he had been teased about his great ass’s ears; instead, he every now and then sent a five-franc note, which he made out to earn by doing odd jobs for the officers. The grandfather had said, “ Mena must be married first.” It was not yet spoken of, but thought of always, and now that the money was accumulating in the drawer, he considered that the anchovies would cover the debt to Goosefoot, and the house remain free for the dowry of the girl. Wherefore he was seen sometimes talking quietly with Padron Fortunato on the beach while waiting for the bark, or sitting in the sun on the church steps when no one else was there.

Padron Fortunato had no wish to go back from his word if the girl had her dowry, the more that his son always was causing him anxiety by running after a lot of penniless girls, like a stupid as he was. “ The man has his word, and the bull has his horns,” he took to repeating again. Mena had often a heavy heart as she sat at the loom, for girls have quick senses. And now that her grandfather was always with Padron Fortunato, and she so often heard the name Cipolla mentioned in the house, it seemed as if she had the same sight forever before her, as if that blessed Christian Cousin Alfio were nailed to the beams of the loom like the pictures of the saints. One evening she waited until it was quite late to see Cousin Alfio come back with his donkey-cart, holding her hands under her apron, for it was cold and all the doors were shut, and not a soul was to be seen in the little street; so she said good-evening to him from the door.

“Will you go down to Biccocca at the first of the month?” she asked him, finally.

“Not yet; there are still a hundred loads of wine for Santuzza. Afterwards, God will provide.”

She knew not what to say while Cousin Alfio came and went in the little court, unharnessing the donkey and hanging the harness on the knobs, car-rying the lantern to and fro.

“If you go to Biccocca we shall not see each other any more,” said Mena, whose voice was quite faint.

“But why? Are you going away too?”

The poor child could not speak at all at first, though it was dark and no one could see her face.

From time to time the neighbors could be heard speaking behind the closed doors, or children crying, or the noise of the platters in some house where supper was late; so that no one could hear them talking.

“Now we have half the money we want for old Goosefoot, and at the salting of the anchovies we can pay the other half.”

Alfio, at this, left the donkey in the court and came out into the street. “ Then you will be mar-ried after Easter ?”

Mena did not reply.

“I told you so,” continued Alfio. “ I saw Padron ‘Ntoni talking with Padron Cipolla.”

“It will be as God wills,” said Mena. “ I don’t care to be married if I might only stay on here.”

“What a fine thing it is for Cipolla,” went on Mosca, “ to be rich enough to marry whenever he pleases, and take the wife he prefers, and live where he likes!”

“Good-night, Cousin Alfio,” said Mena, after stop-ping a while to gaze at the lantern hanging on the wicket, and the donkey cropping the nettles on the wall. Cousin Alfio also said good-night, and went back to put the donkey in his stall.

Among those who were looking after Barbara was Vanni Pizzuti, when he used to go to the house to shave Master Bastiano, who had the sciatica; and also Don Michele, who found it a bore to do nothing but march around with the pistols in his belt’ when he wasn’t behind Santuzza’s counter, and went ogling the pretty girls to pass away the time. Barbara at first returned his glances, but afterwards, when her mother told her that those fellows were only loafing around to no purpose a lot of spies all foreigners were only fit to be flogged she slammed the window in his face mustache, gold-bordered cap and all; and Don Michele was furious, and for spite took to walking up and down the street, twisting his mustache, with his cap over his ear. On Sunday, however, he put on his plumed hat, and went into Vanni Pizzuti’s shop to make eyes at her as she went by to mass with her mother. Don Silvestro also took to going to be shaved among those who waited for the mass, and to warming himself at the brazier for the hot water, exchanging saucy speeches with the rest. “That Barbara begins to hang on ‘Ntoni Malavoglia’s hands,” he said. “What will you bet he doesn’t marry her after all? There he stands, waiting, with his hands in his pockets, waiting for her to come to him.”

At last, one day, Don Michele said:

“If it were not for the cap with the border, I’d make that ugly scamp ‘Ntoni Malavoglia hold the candle for me that I would.”

Don Silvestro lost no time in telling ‘Ntoni every-thing, and how Don Michele, the brigadier, who was not the man to let the flies perch on his nose, had a grudge against him.

Goosefoot, when he went to be shaved and heard that Don Michele would have given him something to get rid of ‘Ntoni Malavoglia, ruffled himself up like a turkey-cock because he was so much thought of in the place. Vanni Pizzuti went on, saying: “Don Michele would give anything to have the Malavoglia in his hands as you have. Oh, why did you let that row with ‘Ntoni pass off so easily?”

Goosefoot shrugged his shoulders, and went on warming his hands over the brazier. Don Silves-tro began to laugh, and answered for him:

“Master Vanni would like to pull the chestnuts out of the fire with Goosefoot’s paws. We know already that Gossip Venera will have nothing to say to foreigners or to gold-bordered caps, so if ‘Ntoni Malavoglia were out of the way he would be the only one left for the girl.”

Vanni Pizzuti said nothing, but he lay awake the whole night thinking of it. “ It wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he thought to himself; “every-thing depends upon getting hold of Goosefoot some day when he is in the right sort of humor.”

It came that day, once when Rocco Spatu was nowhere to be seen. Goosefoot had come in two or three times^ rather late, to look for him, with a pale face and starting eyes, too; and the customs guard had been seen rushing here and there, full of business, smelling about like hunting-dogs with noses to the ground, and Don Michele along with them, with pistols in belt and trousers thrust into his boots.

“You might do a good service to Don Michele if you would take ‘Ntoni Malavoglia out of his way,” said Vanni to Papa Tino, as he stood in the darkest corner of the shop buying a cigar. “ You’d do him a famous service, and make a friend of him for life.”

“I dare say,” sighed Goosefoot. He had no breath that evening, and said nothing more.

In the night were heard shots over towards the cliffs called the Rotolo and along all the beach, as if some one were hunting quail. “ Quail, indeed!” murmured the fisher-folk as they started up in bed to listen. “ Two-legged quail, those are; quail that bring sugar and coffee and silk handkerchiefs that pay no duty. That’s why Don Michele had his boots in his trousers and his pistols in his belt.”

Goosefoot went as usual to the barber’s shop for his morning glass before the lantern over the door had been put out, but that next morning he had the face of a dog that has upset the kettle. He made none of his usual jokes, and asked this one and that one why there had been such a devil of a row in the night, and what had become of Roc-co Spatu and Cinghialenta, and doffed his cap to Don Michele, and insisted on paying for his morning draught. Goosefoot said to him: “ Take a glass of spirits, Don Michele; it will do your stomach good after your wakeful night. Blood of Judas!” exclaimed Goosefoot, striking his fist on the coun-ter and feigning to fly into a real rage, “ it isn’t to Rome that I’ll send that young ruffian ‘Ntoni to do penance.”

“Bravo!” assented Vanni. “ I wouldn’t have passed it over, I assure you; nor you, Don Michele, I’ll swear.”

Don Michele approved with a growl.

“I’ll take care that ‘Ntoni and all his relations are put in their places,” Goosefoot went on threat-ening. “ I’m not going to have the whole place laughing at me. You may rest assured of that much, Don Michele.” And off he went, limping and blaspheming, as if he were in a fearful rage, while all the time he was saying to himself, “ One must keep friends with all these spies,” and rumi-nating on how he was to make a friend of Santuz-za as well, going to the inn, where he heard from Uncle Santoro that neither Rocco Spatu nor Cin-ghialenta had been there; then went on to Cousin Anna’s, who, poor thing, hadn’t slept a wink, and stood at her door looking out, pale as a ghost. There he met the Wasp, who had come to see if Cousin Anna had by chance a little leaven.

“To-day I must speak with your uncle Dumb-bell about the affair you know of,” said Goosefoot. Dumb-bell was willing enough to speak of that af-fair which never came to an end, and “ When things grow too long they turn into snakes.” Padron ‘Ntoni was always preaching that the Malavoglia were honest people, and that he would pay him, but he (Dumb-bell) would like to know where the money was to come from. In the place, everybody knew to a centime what everybody owned, and those honest people, the Malavoglia, even if they sold their souls to the Turks, couldn’t manage to pay even so much as the half by Easter; and to get possession of the house one must have stamped paper and all sorts of expenses; that he knew very well.

And all this time Padron ‘Ntoni was talking of marrying his granddaughter. He’d seen him with Padron Cipolla, and Uncle Santoro had seen him, and Goosefoot had seen him too; and he, too, went on doing the go-between for Vespa and that lazy hound Alfio Mosca, that wanted to get hold of her field.

“But I tell you that I do nothing of the sort!” shouted Goosefoot in his ear. “ Your niece is over head and ears in love with him, and is always at his heels. I can’t shut the door in her face, out ‘oi respect for you, when she comes to have a chat with my wife; for, after all, she is your niece and your own blood.”

“Respect! Pretty sort of respect! “You’ll chouse me out of the field with your respect.”

“Among them they’ll chouse you out of it.............