Differential Diagnosis In Internal Medicine From

Symptom To Diagnosis 1st English Ed Walter

Siegenthaler Et Al download

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-internal-
medicine-from-symptom-to-diagnosis-1st-english-ed-walter-
siegenthaler-et-al-4100024

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Differential Diagnosis In Radiology 2nd Edition Sumeet Bhargava Satish

K Bhargava

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-radiology-2nd-
edition-sumeet-bhargava-satish-k-bhargava-46091026

Differential Diagnosis In Dermatology Richard Ashton Barbara Leppard

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-dermatology-
richard-ashton-barbara-leppard-48267586

Differential Diagnosis In Small Animal Medicine 2nd Alex Gough Kate

Murphy

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-small-animal-
medicine-2nd-alex-gough-kate-murphy-55735702

Differential Diagnosis In Adult Neuropsychological Assessment 1st

Edition Joseph H Ricker

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-adult-
neuropsychological-assessment-1st-edition-joseph-h-ricker-2201226
Differential Diagnosis In Magnetic Resonance Imaging Francis A
Burgener

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-magnetic-
resonance-imaging-francis-a-burgener-2321916

Differential Diagnosis In Neurology Biomedical And Health Research

Revised Second Edition 2nd Edition Robert Jay Schwartzman

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-neurology-
biomedical-and-health-research-revised-second-edition-2nd-edition-
robert-jay-schwartzman-23275570

Differential Diagnosis In Neurology Biomedical And Health Research 1st

Edition R J Schwartzman

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-neurology-
biomedical-and-health-research-1st-edition-r-j-schwartzman-2388054

Differential Diagnosis In Abdominal Ultrasound 2nd Edition 2nd Ed R A

L Bisset

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-abdominal-
ultrasound-2nd-edition-2nd-ed-r-a-l-bisset-2447170

Differential Diagnosis In Otolaryngology Head And Neck Surgery 1st

Michael Stewart

https://ebookbell.com/product/differential-diagnosis-in-
otolaryngology-head-and-neck-surgery-1st-michael-stewart-2501246
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
Ave Maria and another, since Master Filippo had left off keeping his
wine in their cellar. He said that the customers were thinning off like
flies at Saint Andrew’s Day, now they no longer found Master
Filippo’s wine, which they had drunk ever since they were babies.
Uncle Santoro kept on saying to his daughter: “What do you want
with that great useless ’Ntoni Malavoglia always about the place?
Don’t you see that he is eating you out of house and home, to no
purpose? You fatten him like a pig, and then he goes off and makes
eyes at Vespa or the Mangiacarubbe, now that they are rich;” or he
said, “Your customers are leaving you because you always have
’Ntoni after you, so that nobody has a chance to laugh or talk with
you or, He’s so dirty and ragged that he is a shame to be seen; the
place looks like a stable, and people don’t want to drink out of the
glasses after him. Don Michele looked well at the door, with his cap
with the gold braid. People like to drink their wine in peace when
they have paid for it, and they like to see a man with a sabre at the
door, and everybody took off their caps to him, and nobody was
likely to deny a debt to you while he was about. Now that he doesn’t
come, Master Filippo doesn’t come either. The other day he was
passing, and I wanted him to come in, but he said it was of no use
now, for he couldn’t get anything in contraband any longer, now you
had quarrelled with Don Michele—which is neither good for the soul
nor for the body. People are beginning to murmur already, and to
say that the charity you give to ’Ntoni is not blameless, and if it goes
on the vicar may hear of it, and you may lose your medal.”
At first Santuzza held out, for, as she said, she was determined to
be mistress in her own house; but afterwards she began to see
things in another light, and no longer treated ’Ntoni as she used to
do. If there was anything left at meals she did not give it to him, and
she left the glasses dirty, and gave him no wine; so that at last he
began to look cross, and then she told him that she didn’t want any
idle fellows about the place, and that she and her father earned their
bread, and that he ought to do the same. Couldn’t he help a bit
about the house, chopping wood or blowing up the fire, instead of
always shouting and screaming about, or sleeping with his head on
his arms, or else spitting about everywhere so that one didn’t know
where to set one’s foot? ’Ntoni for a while did chop the wood, or
blew the fire, which he preferred, as it was easier work. But he
found it hard to work like a dog, worse than he did at home, and be
treated like a dog into the bargain, with hard words and cross looks
—and all for the sake of the dirty plates they gave him to lick.
At last, one day when Santuzza had just come back from
confession, he made a scene, complaining that Don Michele had
begun to hover about the house again, and that he had waited for
her in the piazza when she came home from church, and that Uncle
Santoro had called to him when he heard his voice as he was
passing, and had followed him as far as Vanni Pizzuti’s shop, feeling
the walls with his stick. Santuzza flew into a passion, and said that
he had come on purpose to bring her into sin again, and make her
lose her communion.
“If you are not pleased you can go,” she said. “Did I say anything
when I saw you running after Vespa and the Mangiacarubbe, now
that they have got themselves married?”
But ’Ntoni swore there wasn’t a word of truth in it, that he didn’t
go running after any women, and that she might spit in his face if
she saw him speaking to either of them.
“No, you won’t get rid of him that way,” said Uncle Santoro. “Don’t
you see that he won’t leave you because he lives at your expense?
You won’t get him out unless you kick him out. Master Filippo has
told me that he can’t keep his new wine any longer in the barrels,
and that he won’t let you have it unless you make it up with Don
Michele, and help him to smuggle it in as he used to do.” And he
went off after Master Filippo to Vanni Pizzuti’s shop, feeling his way
along the walls with his stick.
His daughter put on haughty airs, protesting that she never would
forgive Don Michele after the ugly trick he had played her.
“Let me manage it,” said Uncle Santoro. “I assure you I can be
discreet enough about it. Don’t believe I will ever let you go back
and lick Don Michele’s boots. Am I your father, or not?”
’Ntoni, since Santuzza had begun to be rude to him, was obliged
to look somewhere else for his dinner, for he was ashamed to go
home—where all the time his people were thinking of him with every
mouthful they ate, feeling almost as if he were dead too; and they
did not even spread the cloth any more, but sat scattered about the
room with the plates on their knees.
“This is the last blow for me, in my old age,” said his grandfather,
and those who saw him pass, bent down with the nets on his
shoulders, on his way to his day’s work, said to each other:
“This is Padron ’Ntoni’s last winter. It will not be long before those
orphans are left quite alone in the world.”
And Lia, when Mena told her to stay in the house when Don
Michele passed by, answered, with a pout: “Yes, it is worth while
staying in the house, for such precious persons as we are! You
needn’t be afraid anybody ‘ll want to steal us.”
“Oh, if your mother were here you wouldn’t talk in that way,”
murmured Mena.
“If my mother were here I shouldn’t be an orphan, and shouldn’t
have to take care of myself. Nor would ’Ntoni go wandering about
the streets, until it is a shame to hear one’s self called his sister. And
not a soul would think of taking ’Ntoni Malavoglia’s sister for a wife.”
’Ntoni, now that he was in bad luck, was not ashamed to show
himself everywhere with Rocco Spatu, and with Cinghialenta, on the
downs and by the Rotolo, and was seen whispering to them
mysteriously, like a lot of wolves. Don Michele came back to Mena,
saying, “Your brother will play you an ugly trick some day, Cousin
Mena.” Mena was driven to going out to look for her brother on the
downs, or towards the Rotolo, or at the door of the tavern, sobbing
and crying, and pulling him by the sleeve. But he replied:
“No, it is all Don Michele; he is determined to ruin me, I tell you.
He is always plotting against me with Uncle Santoro. I have heard
them myself in Pizzuti’s shop; and that spy said to him, ‘And if I
come back to your daughter, what kind of a figure shall I cut?’ And
Uncle Santoro answered, ‘But when I tell you that the whole place
will by that time be dying of envy of you?’”
“But what do you mean to do?” asked Mena, with her pale face.
“Think of our mother, ’Ntoni, and of us who have no one left in the
world!”
“Nothing! I mean to put Santuzza to shame, and him too, as they
go to the mass, before all the world. I mean to tell them what I
think of them, and make them a laughing-stock for everybody. I fear
nobody in the world. And the druggist himself shall hear me.”
In short, it was useless for Mena to weep or to beg. He went on
saying that he had nothing to lose, and the others should look after
themselves and not blame him; that he was tired of that life, and
meant to end it, as Don Franco said. And since he was not kindly
received at the tavern, he took to lounging about the piazza,
especially on Sundays, and sat on the church-steps to see what sort
of a face those shameless wretches would wear, trying to deceive
not only the world, but Our Lord and the Madonna under their very
eyes.
Santuzza, not wishing to meet ’Ntoni, went to Aci Castello to mass
early in the morning, not to be led into temptation. ’Ntoni watched
the Mangia-carubbe, with her face wrapped in her mantle, not
looking to the right or to the left, now she had caught a husband.
Vespa, all over flounces, and with a very big rosary, went to besiege
Heaven that she might be delivered from her scourge of a husband,
and ’Ntoni snarled after them: “Now that they have caught
husbands, they want nothing more. They’ve somebody to see that
they have plenty to eat.” Uncle Crucifix had lost even his devotional
habits since he had got Vespa on his shoulders; he kept away from
church, to be free from her presence at least for so long a time, to
the great peril of his soul.
 “This is my last year!” he whined. And now he was always running
after Padron ’Ntoni and the others who were badly off. “This year I
shall have hail in my vineyard, you’ll see; I shall not have a drop of
wine!”
“You know, Uncle Crucifix,” replied Padron ’Ntoni, “as soon as you
like, I am ready to go to the notary for that affair of the house, and I
have the money here.”
That one cared for nothing but his house, and other people’s
affairs were nothing to him.
“Don’t talk to me of the notary, Padron ’Ntoni. If I hear any one
speak of a notary I am reminded of the day when I let Vespa drag
me before one. Cursed be that day!”
But Cousin Goosefoot, who smelled a bargain, said to him, “That
witch of a Wasp, after your death, may be capable of selling the
house by the medlar for next to nothing; isn’t it better that you
should finish up your own affairs while you can?” And Uncle Crucifix
would reply: “Yes, yes, I’ll go to the notary; but you must let me
make some profit on the affair. Look how many losses I have had!”
And Goosefoot, feigning to agree with him, would add, “That witch
of a wife of yours must not know that you have the money, or she
might twist your neck for the sake of spending it in necklaces and
new gowns.” And he went on: “At least the Mangiacarubbe does not
throw her money away, now she has caught a husband. Look how
she comes to church in a cotton gown!”
“I don’t care for the Mangiacarubbe; but I know she and all the
other women ought to be burned alive. They are only put in the
world for our damnation. Do you believe that she doesn’t spend the
money? That’s all put on to take in Padron Fortunato, who goes
about declaring that he’d rather marry a girl himself out of the street
than let his money go to that beggar, who has stolen his son from
him. I’d give him Vespa, for my part, if he wanted her! They’re all
alike! And woe to whoever gets one for his misfortune! The Lord
help him! Look at Don Michele, who goes up and down the black
street after Donna Rosolina! What does he need more, that one?
Respected, well paid, fat, and comfortable! Well, he goes running
after a woman, looking for trouble with a lantern, for the sake of the
vicar’s few soldi after his death!”
“No, he doesn’t go for Donna Rosolina, no,” said Goosefoot,
winking mysteriously. “Donna Rosolina may take root on her terrace
among her tomatoes, with her eyes like a dead fish’s. Don Michele
doesn’t care for the vicar’s money. I know what he goes to the black
street for.”
“Then, what will you take for the house?” asked Padron ’Ntoni,
returning to the subject.
“We’ll see, we’ll see when we go to the notary,” replied old
Crucifix. “Now let me listen to the blessed mass;” and so he sent
him off for that time.
“Don Michele has something else in his head,” repeated
Goosefoot, running his tongue out behind Padron ’Ntoni’s back, and
making a sign towards his grandson, who was leaning against the
wall, with a ragged jacket over one shoulder, and casting furious
looks at Uncle Santoro, who had taken to coming to mass to hold
out his hand to the faithful in the intervals of muttered Glorias and
Ave Marias, knowing them all very well as they passed him on their
way out, saying to one, “The Lord bless you;” to another, “God give
you health;” and as Don Michele passed, he said to him, “Go to her,
she is waiting for you in the garden. Holy Mary, pray for us! Lord be
merciful to me a sinner!” When Don Michele began to go back to the
tavern people said: “Look if the cat and dog haven’t made friends!
There must have been some reason for their quarrelling. And Master
Filippo has gone back too. He seems to have been fonder of Don
Michele than of Santuzza! Some people wouldn’t care to be alone,
even in Paradise.”
Then ’Ntoni Malavoglia was furious, finding himself hustled out of
the tavern worse than a mangy dog, without even a penny in his
pocket to pay to go and drink in spite of Don Michele and his
mustaches, and sit there all day long for the sake of plaguing them,
with his elbows on the table. Instead of which he was obliged to
spend the day in the street, like a dog with his tail between his legs
and his nose to the ground, muttering, “Blood of Judas! one day
there’ll be an upsetting there, that there will.”
Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta, who always had more or less
money, laughed in his face from the door of the tavern, pointing
their fingers at him, or came out to talk to him in low tones, pulling
him by the arm in the direction of the downs, or whispering in his
ear. He hesitated always about giving them an answer, like a fool as
he was. Then they would come down upon him both at once. “You
deserve to die of hunger, there in sight of the door, and to have us
sneering at you worse than Don Michele does, you faint-hearted
wretch, you!”
“Blood of Judas! don’t talk like that,” cried ’Ntoni, shaking his fist
in the air; “or else some day something new will happen, that there
will!”
But the others went sneering off and left him, until at last they
succeeded in putting him into such a fury that he came straight into
the middle of the tavern among them all, pale as a corpse, with his
hand on his hip, and on his shoulder his old worn jacket, which he
wore as proudly as if it had been a velvet coat, turning his blazing
eyes about the room, looking out for somebody. Don Michele, out of
respect for his own uniform, pretended not to see him, and made as
if he would go away; but ’Ntoni, seeing that Don Michele was not in
the humor for fighting, became outrageously insolent, sneering at
him and at Santuzza, and spitting out the wine which he drank,
swearing that it was poison, and baptized besides, for Santuzza had
mixed it with water, and they were simply fools to go into such a
place as that to throw away their money; and that was the reason
why he had left off coming there. Santuzza, touched in her weakest
point, could no longer command her temper, and flew out at him,
saying that he didn’t come because they wouldn’t have him, that
they were tired of keeping him for charity, and they had had to use
the broom-handle to him before he’d go, a great hungry dog! And
’Ntoni began to rage and storm, roaring and flinging the glasses
about, which, he said, they had put out to catch that other great
codfish in uniform, but he would bring his wine out at his nose for
him; he wasn’t afraid of anybody.
Don Michele, white with rage, with his cap on one side,
stammered, “This will end badly, will end badly!” while Santuzza
rained flasks and glasses upon both of them. At last they flew at
each other with their fists, until they both rolled on the floor like two
dogs, and the others went at them with kicks and thumps trying to
part them, which at last Peppi Naso, the butcher, succeeded in doing
by dint of lashing them with the leather strap which he took off his
trousers, which took the skin off wherever it touched.
Don Michele brushed off his uniform, picked up his sabre, which
he had lost in the scuffle, and went out, only muttering something
between his teeth, for his uniform’s sake. But ’Ntoni Malavoglia, with
the blood streaming from his nose, called out a lot of bad names
after him—rubbing his nose with his sleeve meanwhile, and swearing
that he would soon give him the rest of it.
 XIV.

N
toni Malavoglia did meet Don Michele, and “gave him his
change,” and a very ugly business it was. It was by night,
when it rained in torrents, and so dark that even a cat could
have seen nothing at the turn on the down which leads to the
Rotolo, whence those boats put out so quietly, making believe to be
fishing for cod at midnight, and where ’Ntoni and Rocco Spatu, and
Cinghialenta and other good-for-nothing fellows well known to the
coast-guard, used to hang about with pipes in their mouths—the
guards knew those pipes well, and could distinguish them perfectly
one from another as they moved about among the rocks where they
lay hidden with their guns in their hands.
“Cousin Mena,” said Don Michele, passing once more down the
black street—“Cousin Mena, tell your brother not to go to the Rotolo
of nights with Cinghialenta and Rocco Spatu.”
But ’Ntoni would not listen, for “the empty stomach has no ears”;
and he no longer feared Don Michele since he had rolled over with
him hand to hand on the floor of the tavern, and he had sworn, too,
to “give him the rest of it,” and he would give him the rest of it
whenever he met him; and he wasn’t going to pass for a coward in
the eyes of Santuzza and the rest who had been present when he
threatened him. “I said I’d give him the rest when I met him next,
and so I will; and if he chooses to meet me at the Rotolo, I’ll meet
him at the Rotolo!” he repeated to his companions, who had also
brought with them the son of La Locca. They had passed the
evening at the tavern drinking and roaring, for a tavern is like a free
port, and no one can be sent out of it as long as they have money to
pay their score and to rattle in their pockets. Don Michele had gone
by on his rounds, but Rocco Spatu, who knew the law, said, spitting
and leaning against the wall the better to balance himself, that as
long as the lamp at the door was lighted they could not turn them
out. “We have a right to stay so long!” he repeated. ’Ntoni
Malavoglia also enjoyed keeping Santuzza from going to bed, as she
sat behind her glasses yawning and dozing. In the mean time Uncle
Santoro, feeling his way about with his hands, had put the lamp out
and shut the door.
“Now be off!” said Santuzza, “I don’t choose to be fined, for your
sake, for keeping my door open at this hour.”
“Who’ll fine you? That spy Don Michele? Let him come here, and
I’ll pay him his fine! Tell him he’ll find ’Ntoni Malavoglia here, by Our
Lady’s blood.”
Meanwhile the Santuzza had taken him by the shoulders and put
him out of the door: “Go and tell him yourself, and get into scrapes
somewhere else. I don’t mean to get into trouble with the police for
love of your bright eyes.”
’Ntoni, finding himself in the street in this unceremonious fashion,
pulled out a long knife, and swore that he would stab both Santuzza
and Don Michele. Cinghialenta was the only one who had his senses,
and he pulled him by the coat, saying: “Leave them alone now! Have
you forgotten what we have to do to-night?”
La Locca’s son felt greatly inclined to cry.
“He’s drunk,” observed Spatu, standing under the rain-pipe. “Bring
him here under the pipe; it will do him good.”
’Ntoni, quieted a little by the drenching he got from the rain-pipe,
let himself be drawn along by Cinghialenta, scolding all the while,
swearing that as sure as he met Don Michele he’d give him what he
had promised him. All of a sudden he found himself face to face with
Don Michele who was also prowling in the vicinity, with his pistols at
his belt and his trousers thrust into his boots. ’Ntoni became quite
calm all of a sudden, and they all stole off silently in the direction of
Vanni Pizzuti’s shop. When they reached the door, now that Don
Michele was no longer near them, ’Ntoni insisted that they should
stop and listen to what he had to say.
 “Did you see where Don Michele was going? and Santuzza said
she was sleepy!”
“Leave Don Michele alone, can’t you?” said Cin-ghialenta; “that
way he won’t interfere with us.”
“You’re all a lot of cowards,” said ’Ntoni.
“You’re afraid of Don Michele.”
“To-night you’re drunk,” said Cinghialenta, “but I’ll show you
whether I’m afraid of Don Michele. Now that I’ve told my uncle, I
don’t mean to have anybody coming bothering after me, finding out
how I earn my bread.”
Then they began to talk under their breath, drawn up against the
wall, while the noise of the rain drowned their voices. Suddenly the
clock struck, and they all stood silent, counting the strokes.
“Let’s go into Cousin Pizzuti’s,” said Cinghialenta. “He can keep his
door open as late as he likes, and doesn’t need to have a light.”
“It’s dark, I can’t see,” said La Locca’s son.
“We ought to take something to drink,” said Rocco Spatu, “or we
shall break our noses on the rocks.”
Cinghialenta growled: “As if we were just out for our pleasure!
Now you’ll be wanting Master Vanni to give you a lemonade.”
“I have no need of lemonade,” said ’Ntoni. “You’ll see when I get
to work if I can’t manage as well as any of you.”
Cousin Pizzuti didn’t want to open the door at that hour, and
replied that he had gone to bed; but as they wouldn’t leave off
knocking, and threatened to wake up the whole place and bring the
guards into the affair, he consented to get up, and opened the door,
in his drawers.
“Are you mad, to knock in that way?” he exclaimed. “I saw Don
Michele pass just now.”
“Yes; we saw him too.”
 “Do you know where he came from?” asked Pizzuti, looking
sharply at him.
’Ntoni shrugged his shoulders; and Vanni, as he stood out of the
way to let them pass, winked to Rocco and Cinghialenta. “He’s been
at the Malavoglia’s,” he whispered. “I saw him come out.”
“Much good may it do him!” answered Cinghialenta; “but ’Ntoni
ought to tell his sister to keep him when we have anything to do.”
“What do you want of me?” said ’Ntoni, thickly.
“Nothing to-night. Never mind. To-night we can do nothing.”
“If we can do nothing to-night, why did you bring me away from
the tavern?” said Rocco Spatu. “I’m wet through.”
“It was something else that we were speaking of;” and Vanni
continued: “Yes, the man has come from town, and he says the
goods are there, but it will be no joke trying to land them in such
weather as this.”
“So much the better; no one will be looking out for us.”
“Yes, but the guards have sharp ears, and mind you, it seems to
me that I heard some one prowling about just now, and trying to
look into the shop.”
A moment’s silence ensued, and Vanni, to put an end to it,
brought out three glasses and filled them with bitters.
“I don’t care about the guard!” cried Rocco Spatu, after he had
drunk. “So much the worse for them if they meddle in my business.
I’ve got a little knife here that is better than all their pistols, and
makes no noise, either.”
“We earn our bread the best way we can,” said Cinghialenta, “and
don’t want to do anybody harm. Isn’t one to get one’s goods on
shore where one likes?”
“They go swaggering about, a lot of thieves, making us pay
double for every handkerchief that we want to land, and nobody
shoots them,” added ’Ntoni Malavoglia. “Do you know what Don
Giammaria said? That to rob thieves was not stealing. And the worst
of thieves are those fellows in uniform, who eat us up alive.”
“I’ll mash them into pulp!” concluded Rocco Spatu, with his eyes
shining like a cat’s.
But this conversation did not please La Locca’s son at all, and he
set his glass down again without drinking, white as a corpse.
“Are you drunk already?” asked Cinghialenta.
“No,” he replied, “I did not drink.”
“Come into the open air; it will do us all good. Good-night.”
“One moment,” cried Pizzuti, with the door in his hand. “I don’t
mean for the money for the bitters; that I have given you freely,
because you are my friends; but listen, between ourselves, eh? If
you are successful, mind, I am here, and my house. You know I’ve a
room at the back, big enough to hold a ship-load of goods, and
nobody likely to think of it, for Don Michele and his guards are hand-
and-glove with me. I don’t trust Cousin Goosefoot; the last time he
threw me over, and put everything into Don Silvestro’s house. Don
Silvestro is never contented with a reasonable profit, but asks an
awful price, on the ground that he risks his place; but I have no such
motive, and I ask no more than is reasonable. And I never refused
Goosefoot his percentage, either, and give him his drinks free, and
shave him for nothing. But, the devil take him! if he plays me such a
trick again I’ll show him that I am not to be fooled in that way. I’ll go
to Don Michele and blow the whole business.”
“How it rains!” said Spatu. “Isn’t it going to leave off to-night?”
“With this weather there’ll be no one at the Rotolo,” said La
Locca’s son. “Wouldn’t it be better to go home?”
’Ntoni, Rocco, and Cinghialenta, who stood on the door-step
listening in silence to the rain, which hissed like fish in the frying-
pan, stopped a moment, looking into the darkness.
 “Be still, you fool!” cried Cinghialenta, and Vanni Pizzuti closed the
door softly, after adding, in an undertone:
“Listen. If anything happens, you did not see me this evening. The
bitters I gave you out of good-will, but you haven’t been in my
house. Don’t betray me; I am alone in the world.”
The others went off surlily, close to the wall, in the rain. “And that
one, too!” muttered Cinghialenta. “And he’s to get off because he
has nobody in the world, and abuses Goosefoot. At least Goosefoot
has a wife. And I have a wife, too. But the balls are good enough for
me.”
Just then they passed, very softly, before Cousin Anna’s closed
door, and Rocco Spatu murmured that he had his mother, too, who
was at that moment fast asleep, luckily for her. “Whoever can stay
between the sheets in this weather isn’t likely to be about, certainly,”
concluded Cousin Cinghialenta.
’Ntoni signed to them to be quiet, and to turn down by the alley,
so as not to pass before his own door, where Mena or his
grandfather might be watching for him, and might hear them.
Mena was, in truth, watching for her brother behind the door, with
her rosary in her hand; and Lia, too, without saying why she was
there, but pale as the dead. And better would it have been for them
all if ’Ntoni had passed by the black street, instead of going round by
the alley. Don Michele had really been there a little after sunset, and
had knocked at the door.
“Who comes at this hour?” said Lia, who was hemming on the sly
a certain silk kerchief which Don Michele had at last succeeded in
inducing her to accept.
“It is I, Don Michele. Open the door; I must speak to you; it is
most important.”
“I can’t open the door. They are all in bed but my sister, who is
watching for my brother ’Ntoni.”
 “If your sister does hear you open the door it is no matter. It is
precisely of ’Ntoni I wish to speak, and it is most important. I don’t
want your brother to go to the galleys. But open the door; if they
see me here I shall lose my place.”
“O blessed Virgin!” cried the girl. “O blessed Virgin Mary!”
“Lock him into the house to-night when he comes back. But don’t
tell him I told you to. Tell him he must not go out. He must not!”
“O Virgin Mary! O blessed Mary!” repeated Lia, with folded hands.
“He is at the tavern now, but he must pass this way. Wait for him
at the door, or it will be the worse for him.”
Lia wept silently, lest her sister should hear her, with her face
hidden in her hands, and Don Michele watched her, with his pistols
in his belt, and his trousers thrust into his boots.
“There is no one who weeps for me or watches for me this night,
Cousin Lia, but I, too, am in danger, like your brother; and if any
misfortune should happen to me, think how I came to-night to warn
you, and how I have risked my bread for you more than once.”
Then Lia lifted up her face, and looked at Don Michele with her
large tearful eyes. “God reward you for your charity, Don Michele!”
“I haven’t done it for reward, Cousin Lia; I have done it for you,
and for the love I bear to you.”
“Now go, for they are all asleep. Go, for the love of God, Don
Michele!”
And Don Michele went, and she stayed by the door, weeping and
praying that God would send her brother that way. But the Lord did
not send him that way. All four of them—’Ntoni, Cinghialenta, Rocco
Spatu, and the son of La Locca—went softly along the wall of the
alley; and when they came out upon the down they took off their
shoes and carried them in their hands, and stood still to listen.
“I hear nothing,” said Cinghialenta.
 The rain continued to fall, and from the top of the cliff nothing
could be heard save the moaning of the sea below.
“One can’t even see to swear,” said Rocco Spatu. “How will they
manage to climb the cliff in this darkness?”
“They all know the coast, foot by foot, with their eyes shut. They
are old hands,” replied Cinghialenta.
“But I hear nothing,” observed ’Ntoni.
“It’s a fact, we can hear nothing,” said Cinghialenta, “but they
must have been there below for some time.”
“Then we had better go home,” said the son of La Locca.
“Since you’ve eaten and drunk, you think of nothing but getting
home again, but if you don’t be quiet I’ll kick you into the sea,” said
Cinghialenta to him.
“The fact is,” said Rocco, “that I find it a bore to spend the night
here doing nothing. Now we will try if they are here or not.” And he
began to hoot like an owl.
“If Don Michele’s guard hears that they will be down on us
directly, for on these wet nights the owls don’t fly.”
“Then we had better go,” whined La Locca’s son, but nobody
answered him.
All four looked in each other’s faces though they could see
nothing, and thought of what Padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni had just said.
“What shall we do?” asked La Locca’s son.
“Let’s go down to the road; if they are not there we may be sure
they have not come,” suggested Cinghialenta.
’Ntoni, while they were climbing down, said, “Goosefoot is capable
of selling the lot of us for a glass of wine.”
“Now you haven’t the glass before you, you’re afraid,” said
Cinghialenta.
 “Come on! the devil take you! I’ll show whether I’m afraid.”
While they were feeling their way cautiously down, very slowly, for
fear of breaking their necks in the dark, Spatu observed:
“At this moment Vanni Pizzuti is safe in bed, and he complained of
Goosefoot for getting his percentage for nothing.”
“Well,” said Cinghialenta, “if you don’t want to risk your lives, stay
at home and go to bed.”
’Ntoni, reaching down with his hands to feel where he should set
his foot, could not help thinking that Master Cinghialenta would have
done better not to say that, because it brought to each the image of
his house, and his bed, and Mena dozing behind the door. That big
tipsy brute, Rocco Spatu, said at last, “Our lives are not worth a
copper.”
“Who goes there?” they heard some one call out, all at once,
behind the wall of the high-road. “Stop! stop! all of you!”
“Treachery! treachery!” they began to cry out, rushing off over the
cliffs without heeding where they went.
But ’Ntoni, who had already climbed over the wall, found himself
face to face with Don Michele, who had his pistol in his hand.
“Blood of Our Lady!” cried Malavoglia, pulling out his knife. “I’ll
show you whether I’m afraid of your pistol!”
Don Michele’s pistol went off in the air, but he himself fell like a
bull, stabbed in the chest. ’Ntoni tried to escape, leaping from rock
to rock like a goat, but the guards caught up with him, while the
balls rattled about like hail, and threw him on the ground.
“Now what will become of my mother?” whined La Locca’s son,
while they tied him up like a trussed chicken.
“Don’t pull so tight!” shouted ’Ntoni. “Don’t you see I can’t move?”
“Go on, go on, Malavoglia; your hash is settled once for all,” they
answered, driving him before them with the butts of their muskets.
 While they led him up to the barracks tied up like Our Lord
himself, and worse, and carried Don Michele too, on their shoulders,
he looked here and there for Rocco Spatu and Cinghialenta. “They
have got off!” he said to himself. “They have nothing more to dread,
but are as safe as Vanni Pizzuti and Goosefoot are, between their
sheets. Only at my house no one will sleep, now they have heard the
shots.”
In fact, those poor things did not sleep, but stood at the door and
watched in the rain, as if their hearts had told them what had
happened; while the neighbors, hearing the shots, turned sleepily
over in their beds and muttered, yawning, “We shall know to-
morrow what has happened.” Very late when the day was breaking,
a crowd gathered in front of Vanni Pizzuti’s shop, where the light
was burning and there was a great chattering.
“They have caught the smuggled goods and the smugglers too,”
recounted Pizzuti, “and Don Michele has been stabbed.”
People looked at the Malavoglia’s door, and pointed with their
fingers. At last came their cousin Anna, with her hair loose, white as
a sheet, and knew not what to say. Padron ’Ntoni, as if he knew
what was coming, asked, “’Ntoni, where’s ’Ntoni?”
“He’s been caught smuggling; he was arrested last night with La
Locca’s son,” replied poor Cousin Anna, who had fairly lost her head.
“And they have killed Don Michele.”
“Holy Mother!” cried the old man, with his hands to his head; and
Lia, too, was tearing her hair. Padron ’Ntoni, holding his head with
both hands, went on repeating, “Ah, Mother! Ah, Mother, Mother!”
Later on Goosefoot came, with a face full of trouble, smiting his
forehead. “Oh, Padron ’Ntoni, have you heard? What a misfortune! I
felt like a wet rag when I heard it.”
Cousin Grace, his wife, really cried, poor woman, for her heart
ached to see how misfortunes rained upon those poor Malavoglia.
 “What are you doing here?” asked her husband, under his breath,
drawing her away from the window. “It is no business of yours. Now
it isn’t safe to come to this house; one might get mixed up in some
scrape with the police.”
For which reason nobody came near the Malavoglia’s door. Only
Nunziata, as soon as she heard of their trouble, had confided the
little ones to their eldest brother, and her house door to her next
neighbor, and went off to her friend Mena to weep with her; but
then she was still such a child! The others stood afar off in the street
staring, or went to the barracks, crowding like flies, to see how
Padron ’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni looked behind the grating, after having
stabbed Don Michele; or else they filled Pizzuti’s shop, where he sold
bitters, and was always shaving somebody, while he told the whole
story of the night before, word for word.
“The fools!” cried the druggist, “the fools, to let themselves be
taken.”
“It will be an ugly business for them,” added Don Silvestro; “the
razor itself couldn’t save them from the galleys.”
And Don Giammaria went up close to him and said under his
nose:
“Everybody that ought to be at the galleys doesn’t go there!”
“By no means everybody,” answered Don Silvestro, turning red
with fury.
“Nowadays,” said Padron Cipolla, yellow with bile, “the real thieves
rob one of one’s goods at noonday and in the middle of the piazza.
They thrust themselves into one’s house by force, but they break
open neither doors nor windows.”
“Just as ’Ntoni Malavoglia wanted to do in my house,” added La
Zuppidda, sitting down on the wall with her distaff to spin hemp.
“What I always said to you, peace of the angels!” said her
husband.
 “You hold your tongue, you know nothing about it! Just think what
a day this would have been for my daughter Barbara if I hadn’t
looked out for her!”
Her daughter Barbara stood at the window to see how Padron
’Ntoni’s ’Ntoni looked in the middle of the police when they carried
him to town.
“He’ll never get out,” they all said. “Do you know what there is
written on the prison at Palermo? ‘Do what you will, here you’ll come
at last,’ and ‘As you make your bed, you must lie down.’ Poor devils!”
“Good people don’t get into such scrapes,” screamed Vespa. “Evil
comes to those who go to seek it. Look at the people who take to
that trade—always some scamp like La Locca’s son or Malavoglia,
who won’t do any honest work.” And they all said yes, that if any
one had such a son as that it was better that the house should fall
on him. Only La Locca went in search of her son, and stood
screaming in front of the barracks of the guards, saying that she
would have him, and not listening to reason; and when she went off
to plague her brother Dumb-bell, and planted herself on the steps of
his house, for hours at a time, with her white hair streaming in the
wind, Uncle Crucifix only answered her: “I have the galleys at home
here! I wish I were in your son’s place! What do you come to me
for? And he didn’t give you bread to eat either.”
“La Locca will gain by it,” said Don Silvestro; “now that she has no
one to work for her, they will take her in at the poor-house, and she
will be well fed every day in the week. If not, she will be left to the
chanty of the commune.”
And as they wound up by saying, “Who sows the wind will reap
the whirlwind,” Padron Fortunato added: “And it is a good thing for
Padron ’Ntoni too. Do you think that good-for-nothing grandson of
his did not cost him a lot of money? I know what it is to have a son
like that. Now the King must maintain him.”
But Padron ’Ntoni, instead of thinking of saving those soldi, now
that his grandson was no longer likely to spend them for him, kept
on flinging them after him, with lawyers and notaries and the rest of
it—those soldi which had cost so much labor, and had been destined
for the house by the medlar-tree.
“Now we do not need the house nor anything else,” said he, with
a face as pale as ’Ntoni’s own when they had taken him away to
town, with his hands tied, and under his arm the little bundle of
shirts which Mena had brought to him with so many tears at night
when no one saw her. The whole town went to see him go in the
middle of the police. His grandfather had gone off to the advocate—
the one who talked so much—for since he had seen Don Michele,
also, pass by in the carriage on his way to the hospital, as yellow as
a guinea, and with his uniform unbuttoned, he was frightened, poor
old man, and did not stop to find fault with the lawyer’s chatter as
long as he would promise to untie his grandson’s hands and let him
come home again; for it seemed to him that after this earthquake
’Ntoni would come home again, and stay with them always, as he
had done when he was a child.
Don Silvestro had done him the kindness to go with him to the
lawyer, because, he said, that when such a misfortune as had
happened to the Malavoglia happened to any Christian, one should
aid one’s neighbor with hands, and feet too, even if it were a wretch
fit only for the galleys, and do one’s best to take him out of the
hands of justice, for that was why we were Christians, that we
should help our neighbors when they need it. The advocate, when
he had heard the story, and it had been explained to him by Don
Silvestro, said that it was a very good case, “a case for the galleys
certainly”—and he rubbed his hands—“if they hadn’t come to him.”
Padron ’Ntoni turned as white as a sheet when he heard of the
galleys, but the advocate clapped him on the shoulder and told him
not to be frightened, that he was no lawyer if he couldn’t get him off
with four or five years’ imprisonment.
“What did the advocate say?” asked Mena, as she saw her
grandfather return with that pale face, and began to cry before she
could hear the answer.
 The old man walked up and down the house like a madman,
saying, “Ah, why did we not all die first?” Lia, white as her smock,
looked from one to the other with wide dry eyes, unable to speak a
word.
A little while after came the summonses as witnesses to Barbara
Zuppidda and Grazia Goosefoot and Don Franco, the druggist, and
all those who were wont to stand chattering in his shop and in that
of Vanni Pizzuti, the barber; so that the whole place was upset by
them, and the people crowded the piazza with the stamped papers
in their hands, and swore that they knew nothing about it, as true as
God was in heaven, because they did not want to get mixed up with
the tribunals. Cursed be ’Ntoni and all the Malavoglia, who pulled
them by the hair into their scrapes. The Zuppidda screamed as if she
had been possessed. “I know nothing about it; at the Ave Maria I
shut myself into my house, and I am not like those who go
wandering about after such work as we know of, or who stand at the
doors to talk with spies.”
“Beware of the Government,” added Don Franco. “They know that
I am a republican, and they would be very glad to get a chance to
sweep me off the face of the earth.”
Everybody beat their brains to find out what the Zuppidda and
Cousin Grace and the rest of them could have to say as witnesses on
the trial, for they had seen nothing, and had only heard the shots
when they were in bed, between sleeping and waking. But Don
Silvestro rubbed his hands like the lawyer, and said that he knew
because he had pointed them out to the lawyer, and that it was
much better for the lawyer that he had. Every time that the lawyer
went to talk with ’Ntoni Malavoglia Don Silvestro went with him to
the prison if he had nothing else to do; and nobody went at that
time to the Council, and the olives were gathered. Padron ’Ntoni had
also tried to go two or three times, but whenever he got in front of
those barred windows and the soldiers who were on guard before
them, he turned sick and faint, and stayed waiting for them outside,
sitting on the pavement among the people who sold chestnuts and
Indian figs; it did not seem possible to him that his ’Ntoni could
really be there behind those grated windows, with the soldiers
guarding him. The lawyer came back from talking with ’Ntoni, fresh
as a rose, rubbing his hands, and saying that his grandson was quite
well, indeed that he was growing fat. Then it seemed to the poor old
man that his grandson was with the soldiers.
“Why don’t they let him go?” he asked over and over again, like a
parrot or like a child, and kept on asking, too, if his hands were
always tied.
“Leave him where he is,” said Doctor Scipione. “In these cases it is
better to let some time pass first. Meanwhile he wants for nothing,
as I told you, and is growing quite fat. Things are going very well.
Don Michele has nearly recovered from his wound, and that also is a
very good thing for us. Go back to your boat, I tell you; this is my
affair.”
“But I can’t go back to the boat, now ’Ntoni is in prison—I can’t go
back! Everybody looks at me when I pass, and besides, my head
isn’t right, with ’Ntoni in prison.”
And he went on repeating the same thing, while the money ran
away like water, and all his people stayed in the house as if they
were hiding, and never opened the door.
At last the day of trial arrived, and those who had been
summoned as witnesses had to go—on their own feet if they did not
wish to be carried by force by the carbineers. Even Don Franco
went, and changed his ugly hat, to appear before the majesty of
justice to better advantage, but he was as pale as ’Ntoni Malavoglia
himself, who stood inside the bars like a wild beast, with the
carbineers on each side of him. Don Franco had never before had
anything to do with the law, and he trembled all over at the idea of
going into the midst of all those judges and spies and policemen,
who would catch a man and put him in there behind the bars like
’Ntoni Malavoglia before he could wink.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com