NEITHER the Malavoglia nor any one else in the town had any idea what Goosefoot and Uncle Cru-cifix were hatching together. On Easter Day Pa-clron ‘Ntoni took out the hundred lire which were amassed in the bureau drawer, and put on his Sun-day jacket to carry them to Uncle Crucifix.

“What, is it all here?” said he.

“It can’t yet be all, Uncle Crucifix; you know how much it costs us to get together a hundred lire. But ‘better half a loaf than no bread,’ and ‘paying on account is no bad pay.’ Now the summer is coming, and with God’s help we’ll pay off the whole.”

“Why do you bring it to me? You know I have nothing more to do with it; it is Cousin Goosefoot’s affair.”

“It is all the same; it seems always to me as if I owed it to you, whenever I see you. Cousin Tino won’t say no, if you ask him to wait until the Ma-donna delFOgnino.”

“This won’t even pay the expenses,” said old Dumb-bell, passing the money through his fingers. “Go to him yourself and ask him if he’ll wait for you; I have nothing more to do with it.”

Goosefoot began to swear, and to fling his cap on the ground after his usual fashion, vowing that he had not bread to eat, and that he could not wait even until Ascension-tide.

“Listen, Cousin Tino!” said Padron ‘Ntoni, with clasped hands, as if he were praying to our Lord God, “ if you don’t give me at least until Saint Gio-vanni, now that I have to marry my granddaughter, it would be better that you should stab me with a knife and be done with it.”

“By the holy devil!” cried Uncle Tino, “ you make me do more than I can manage. Cursed be the day and the hour in which I mixed myself up in this confounded business.” And he went off, tearing at his old cap.

Padron ‘Ntoni went home, still pale from the encounter, and said to his daughter-inlaw, “ I’ve got off this time, but I had to beg him as if I had been praying to God,” and the poor old fellow still trem-bled. But he was glad that nothing had come to Padron Cipolla’s ears, and that the marriage was not likely to be broken off.

On the evening of the Ascension, while the boys were still dancing around the post with the bonfire, the gossips were collected around the Malavoglia’s balcony, and Cousin Venera Zuppidda was with them to listen to what was said, and to give her opinion like the rest. Now, as Padron ‘Ntoni was marrying his granddaughter, and the Provvidenza was on her legs once more, everybody was ready to put a good face on it with the Malavoglia for nobody knew anything of what Goosefoot had in his head to do, not even Cousin Grace, his wife, who went on talking with Cousin Maruzza just as if her husband had nothing on his mind. ‘Ntoni went every evening to have a chat with Barbara, and had confided to her that his grandfather had said, “First we must marry Mena.” “ And I come next,” concluded ‘Ntoni. After this Barbara had given to Mena the pot of basil, all adorned with carnations, and tied up with a fine red ribbon, which was the sign of particular friendship between girls; and ev-erybody made a great deal of Sant’Agata even her. mother had taken off her black kerchief, because it is unlucky to wear mourning in the house where there is a bride, and had written to Luca to give him notice that Mena was going to be married. She alone, poor girl, seemed anything but gay, and everything looked black to her, though the fields were covered with stars of silver and of gold, and the girls wove garlands for Ascension, and she herself went up and down the stairs helping her moth-er to hang the garlands over the door and the win-dows.

While all the doors were hung with flowers, only that of Cousin Alfio, black and twisted awry, was always shut, and no one came to hang the flowers there for the Ascension.

“That coquette Sant’Agata,” Vespa went about saying in her furious way, “she’s managed at last to send that poor Alfio Mosca out of the place.” Meanwhile they had made a new gown for Sant’- Agata, and were only waiting until Saint John’s Day to take the silver dagger out of her braids of hair, and part it over her forehead, before she went to church, so that every one who saw her pass said, “Lucky girl!”

Padron Cipolla at this time sat for whole evenings together with Padron ‘Ntoni, on the church steps, talking of the wondrous doings of the Prov-videnza. Brasi was always hanging about the street near the Malavoglia, with his new clothes on; and soon after it was known all over the place that on that Sunday coming Cousin Grace Goosefoot was going herself to part the girl’s hair, and to take out the silver dagger from her braids because Brasi Cipolla had lost his mother and the Malavoglia had asked Cousin Grace on purpose to please her husband, and they had asked also Uncle Crucifix and all the neighborhood, and all their relations and friends without exception.

Cousin Venera la Zuppidda made no end of a row because she hadn’t been asked to dress the bride’s hair she, who was going to be a connection of the Malavoglia and her girl had a sweet-basil friendship with Mena, so much so that she had made up a new jacket for Barbara in a hurry, not expecting such an affront. ‘Ntoni prayed and beg-ged in vain that they would not take it up like that, but pass it over. Cousin Venera, with her hair ready dressed, but with her hands covered with flour, for she had begun to make the bread, so that she didn’t mean to go to the party at the Mala-voglia, replied:

“You wanted Goosefoot’s wife, keep her! Or her or me; we can’t stay together. The Mala-voglia know very well that they have chosen Mad-am Grace only because of the money they owe her husband. Now they are hand and glove with old Tino since Padron Cipolla made him make it up with Padron ‘Ntoni’s ‘Ntoni after that affair of the fight. They would lick his boots because they owe him that money on the house,” she went on scolding. “They owe my husband fifty lire too, for the Prov-videnza. To-morrow I mean to make them pay it.”

“Do let them alone, mother,” supplicated Bar-bara. But she was in the pouts too, because she couldn’t wear her new jacket, and she was almost sorry she had spent the money for the basil-plant for Mena; and ‘Ntoni, who had come to take her home with him, had to go off alone, quite chap-fallen, looking as if his new coat were too big for him. Mother and daughter stood looking out of the court, where they were putting the bread in the oven, listening to the noise going on at the house by the medlar, for the talking and laughing could be heard quite plainly where they were, putting them in a greater rage than ever.

The house was full of people, just as it had been at the time of Bastianazzo’s death, and Mena, with-out her dagger, and with her hair parted in the middle, looked quite differently; so that the gos-sips all crowded around her and made such a chat-tering that you couldn’t have heard a cannonade. Goosefoot went on talking nonsense to the women, and made them laugh as if he had been tickling them; while all the time the lawyer was getting ready the papers, although Uncle Crucifix had said that there was time enough yet to send the sum-mons. Even Padron Cipolla permitted himself a joke or two, at which no one laughed but his son Brasi; and everybody spoke at once; while the boys struggled on the floor for beans and chestnuts. Even La Longa, poor woman, had forgotten her troubles for the moment, so pleased was she; and

Padron ‘Ntoni sat on the low wall, nodding his head in assent to everybody and smiling to himself.

“Take care that this time you don’t give your drink to your trousers, which are not thirsty,” said Padron Cipolla to his son.

“The party is given for Cousin Mena,” said Nunziata, “ but she doesn’t seem to enjoy it as the others do.”

At which Cousin Anna made as if she had drop-ped the flask which she had in her hand, in which there was still nearly a half-pint of wine, and called out: “ Here’s luck, here’s luck! ‘Where there are shards there is feasting,’ and ‘Spilled wine is of good omen.’”

“A little more and I should have had it on my new trousers this time too,” growled Brasi, who, since his misfortune to his new clothes, had become very cautious.

Goosefoot sat astride of the wall, with the glass between his legs (it seemed to him as if he were already the master, because of that summons he meant to send), and called out, “To-day there’s nobody at the tavern, not even Rocco Spatu; today all the fun’s here, the same as if we were at Santuzza’s.”

From the wall where he sat Goosefoot could see a group of people who stood talking together by

f the fountain, with faces as serious as if the world were coming to an end. At the druggist’s shop

there were the usual idlers with the journal, talking and shaking their fists in each other’s faces, as if they were coming to blows the next minute; while Don Giammaria laughed, and took snuff with a sat-isfaction visible even at that distance.

“Why didn’t Don Silvestro and the vicar come?” asked Goosefoot.

“I told them to, but they appear to have some-thing particular to do,” answered Padron ‘Ntoni.

“They’re over there at the shop, and there’s a fuss as if the man with the numbers of the lottery had come. What the deuce can have happened?”

An old woman rushed across the piazza, screaming and tearing her hair as if at some dreadful news; and before Pizzuti’s shop there was a crowd as thick as if an ass had tumbled under his load there; and even the children stood outside listening, open-mouthed, not daring to go nearer.

“For my part I shall go and see what it is,” said Goosefoot, coming slowly down off the wall.

In the group, instead of a fallen ass, there were two soldiers of the marine corps, with sacks on their shoulders and their heads bound up, going home on leave, who had stopped on their way at the barber’s to get a glass of bitters. They were telling how there had been a great battle at sea, and how ships as big as all Aci Trezza, full as they could hold of soldiers, had gone down just as they were; so that their tales sounded like those of the men who go about recounting the adventures of Orlando and the Paladins of France on the marina at Catania, and the people stood as thick as flies in the sun to listen to them.

“Maruzza la Longa’s son was also on board the Re d” Italia” observed Don Silvestro, who had also drawn near to listen with the rest.

“Now I’ll go and tell that to my wife,” cried Master Cola Zuppiddu, “ then she’ll be sure to go to Cousin Maruzza. I don’t like coolnesses between friends and neighbors.”

But meanwhile the poor Longa knew nothing about it, and was laughing and amusing herself among her relations and friends.

The soldier seemed never tired of talking, and gesticulated with his arms like a preacher.

“Yes, there were Sicilians there were men from every place you can think of. But, mind you, when the calls pipe to the batteries, one minds neither north nor south, and the guns all talk the same language. Brave fellows all, and with strong hearts under their shirts. I can tell you, when one has seen what I have seen with these eyes, how those boys stood up to their duty, by Our Lady! one feels that one has a right to cock one’s hat.”

The youth’s eyes were wet, but he said it was only because the bitters were so strong.

“It seems to me those fellows are all mad,” said Padron Cipolla, blowing his nose with great delib-eration. “ Would you go and get yourself killed just because the King said to you, ‘Go and be killed for my sake?’ ”

All the evening there was talking and laughing and drinking in the Malavoglia’s court in the bright moonlight, and when nearly everybody was tired, and they sat chewing roasted beans, with their backs against the wall, some of them singing softly among themselves, they began talking about the story that the two soldiers on leave had been telling. Padron Fortunato had gone away early, taking with him his son in his new clothes. “ Those poor Malavoglia,” said he, meeting Dumb-bell in the piazza; “ God have mercy on them! It seems as if they were bewitched. They have nothing but ill luck.”

Uncle Crucifix scratched his head in silence. It was no affair of his any more. Goosefoot had taken charge of it, but he was sorry for them really he was, in earnest.

The day after the rumor began to spread that there had been a great battle at sea, over towards Trieste, between our ships and those of the enemy. Nobody knew how many there were, and many people had been killed. Some told the story in one way, some in another in pieces, as it were, and broken phrases. The neighbors came with hands under their aprons to ask Cousin Maruzza whether that were not where Luca was, and looked sadly at her as they did so. The poor woman began to stand at the door as they do when a misfortune happens, turning her head this way and that, or looking down the road towards the turn, as if she expected her father-inlaw and the boys back from the sea before the usual time. Then the neighbors would ask her if she had had a letter from Luca lately, or how long it had been since he had written. In truth she had not thought about the letter, but now she could not sleep nor close her eyes the whole night, thinking always of the sea over tow-ards Trieste, where that dreadful thing had hap-pened; and she saw her son always before her, pale, immovable, with sad, shining eyes, and it seemed as if he nodded his head at her as he had clone when he left her to go for a soldier. And thinking of him, she felt as if she had a burning thirst herself, and a burning heat inside that was past description. Among all the stories that were always going in the village she remembered one of some sailors that had been picked up after many hours, just in time to save them from being devoured by the sharks, and how in the midst of all that water they were dying of thirst. And as she thought of how they were dying of thirst in the midst of all that water, she could not help getting up to drink out of the pitcher, and lay in the dark with wide-open eyes, seeing always that mournful vision.

As days went on, however, there was no more talk of what had happened, but as La Longa had no letter, she began to be unable either to work or to stay still; and she was always wandering from house to house as if so she hoped to hear of some-thing to ease her mind. “ Did you ever see any-thing so like a cat who has lost her kitten?” asked the neighbors of each other. And Padron ‘Ntoni did not go to sea, and followed his daughter-inlaw about as if he had been a dog. Some one said to him, “ Go to Catania, that is a big place; they’ll be able to tell you something there.”

In that big place the poor old man felt more lost than he ever did out at sea by night when he didn’t know which way to point his rudder. At last some one was charitable enough to tell him to go to the captain of the port, who would be certain to know all about it. There, after sending them from Pilate to Herod and back again, he began to turn over certain big books and run down the lists of the dead with his finger. When lie came to one name, La Longa, who had scarcely heard what went on, so loudly did her ears ring, and was listening as white as the sheet of paper, slipped silently down on the floor as if she had been dead.

“It was more than forty days ago,” said the clerk, shutting up the list. “ It was at Lissa. Had not you heard of it yet?”

They brought La Longa home in a cart, and she was ill for several days. Henceforward she was given to a great devotion to the Mother of Sorrows, who is on the altar of the little chapel; and it seemed to her as if the long corpse stretched on the mother’s knees, with blue ribs and bleeding side, was her Luca’s own portrait, and in her own heart she felt the points of the Madonna’s seven sharp swords. Every evening the devotees, when they came to church for the benediction, and Don Cirino, when he went about shaking his keys before shutting up for the night, found her there in the same place, with her face bent down upon her knees, and they called her, too, the Mother of Sor-rows.

“She is right,” they said in the village. “ Luca would have been back before long, and there would have been the thirty sous a day more to the good for the family. ‘ To the sinking ship all winds blow contrary.’ ”

“Have you seen Padron ‘Ntoni?” added Goose-foot. “Since his grandson’s death he looks just like an old owl. The house by the medlar is full of cracks and leaks, and every one who wants to save his money had better look out for himself.”

La Ztippidda was always as cross as a fury, and went on muttering that now the whole family would be left on ‘Ntoni’s hands. This time any girl might think twice about marrying him.

“When Mena is married,” replied ‘Ntoni, “grand-papa will let us have the room up-stairs.”

“I’m not accustomed to live in a room up-stairs, like the pigeons,” snapped out Barbara, so savagely that her own father said to ‘Ntoni, looking about as he walked with him up the lane, “ Barbara is growing just like her mother; if you don’t get the better of her now, you’ll lead just such a life as I do.”

The end was that Goosefoot swore his usual oath by the big holy devil that this time he would be paid. Midsummer was come, and the Malavo-glia were once more talking of paying on account because they had not got together the whole sum, and hoped to pick it up at the olive harvest. He had taken those pence out of his own mouth, and hadn’t bread to eat before God he hadn’t. He couldn’t live upon air until the olive harvest.

“I’m sorry, Padron ‘Ntoni,” he said, “but what will you have? I must think of my own interest first. Even Saint Joseph shaved himself first, and then the rest.” “ It will soon be a year that it has been going on,” added Uncle Crucifix, when he was growling with Uncle Tino alone, “and not one centime of interest have I touched. Those two hundred lire will hardly cover the expenses. You’ll see that at the time of olives they’ll put you off till Christmas, and then till Easter again. That’s the way people are ruined. But I have made my money by the sweat of my brow. Now one of them is in Paradise, the other wants to marry La Zuppidda; they’ll never be able to get on with that patched-up old boat, and they are trying to marry the girl. They never think of anything but mar-rying, those people; they have a madness for it, like my niece Vespa. Now, when Mena is married you’ll see that Mosca’ll come back and carry her off, with her field.”

He wound up by scolding about the lawyer, who took such a time about the papers before he sent in the summons.

“Padron ‘Ntoni will have been there to tell him to wait,” suggested Goosefoot. “With an ounce of pitch one can buy ten such lawyers as that.”

This time he had quarrelled seriously with the Malavoglia, because La Zuppidda had taken his wife’s clothes out of the bottom of the tank and had put hers in their place. Such a mean thing as that he could not bear; La Zuppidda wouldn’t have thought of it if she hadn’t got that pumpkin-head of a ‘Ntoni Malavoglia behind her, a bully that he was. A good-for-nothing lot they were, the Malavoglia, and he didn’t want to see any more of them, swearing and blaspheming as his wont was.

The stamped paper began to rain in on them, and Goosefoot declared that the lawyer couldn’t have been content with the bribe Padron ‘Ntoni had given him to let them alone, and that proved what a miser he was; and how much he was to be trusted when he promised to pay what he owed people. Padron ‘Ntoni went back to the town-clerk and to the lawyer Scipione, but he laughed in his face and told him that he was a fool for his pains; that he should never have let his daughter-inlaw give in to it, and as he had made his bed so he must lie down.

“Woe to the fallen man who asks for help!” “Listen to me,” suggested Don Silvestro. “You’d better let them have the house; if not, they’ll take the Provvidenza and everything else, even to the hair off your head; and you lose all your time, besides, running backward and forward to the lawyer.”

“If you give up the house quietly,” said Goose-foot to the old man, “we’ll leave you the Provvi-denza^ and you’ll be able to earn your bread and will remain master of your ship, and not be troubled with any more stamped paper.”

After all, Cousin Tino wasn’t such a bad fellow. He went on talking to Padron ‘Ntoni as if it hadn’t been his affair at all, passing his arm over his shoulder and saying to him, “ Pardon me, brother, I am more sorry than you are; it goes to my heart to turn you out of your house, but what can I do? I’m only a poor devil; I’m not rich, like Uncle Crucifix. If those five hundred lire hadn’t come actually out of my very mouth, I would never have troubled you about them upon my word I wouldn’t.”

The poor old man hadn’t the courage to tell his daughter-inlaw that she must go “ quietly “ out of the house by the medlar-t............