Dear Marianna,
The only news we’re getting here is bad news, and all we see are frightened faces. The cholera is rampant in Catania. There’s general terror and desolation.
Otherwise, were it not for these faces, and these fears, what more blessed life could there be than the one we live here? Papa goes hunting, or accompanies me on long walks when I might be afraid of getting lost in the woods. My little brother Gigi runs about, yelling and shouting, and climbs trees, and is always tearing his clothes, and mama … (Marianna, if you only knew how difficult it is for me to call my stepmother by this sweet name! It’s as though I’m wronging the memory of my poor mother … And yet this is what I must call her!) … mama scolds him, and gives him sweets and kisses and smacks, and mends his clothes and cleans them, umpteen times a day. She does nothing but sew and cosset her children – lucky things! And often while she’s keeping an eye on the cooking, or on the maid who prepares the meal, she reproaches me for being useless, and not even able to cook … Unfortunately, it’s true. She’s right. I do nothing but go running through the fields, picking wild flowers, and listening to the birds singing … at my age! Do you know, I’m nearly twenty? It makes me feel ashamed of myself. But my dear papa doesn’t have the heart to get cross with me – he can only kiss me and say, ‘Poor child! Let her enjoy these few days of freedom!’
Tears come to my eyes whenever I think of my poor mama resting in the churchyard in Catania. But I think of her more often here, because I feel a stranger in my father’s house. It’s nobody’s fault. They’re not used to seeing me and having me under their feet – that’s all. Anyway, if my stepmother tells me off for being useless, she has her reasons; it’s for my own good, and after all I am at fault.
Not being a madcap like me, my sister’s not very effusive, but she loves me and doesn’t complain about the inconvenience I cause her by occupying this small room where my trestle-bed has been squeezed in – before, she used it as a dressing-room, and now all her boxes and clothing are cluttering up her bedroom.
Gigi is still the sweet little boy that you knew, as happy and boisterous as ever. He flings his arms round my neck twenty times a day, and consoles me with a kiss when his mother shouts at me on account of his torn clothes. But is it my fault I wasn’t taught at the convent how to mend things? It really should be my job. Giuditta’s a young lady, and anyway she’s far too busy all day long with her wardrobe and arranging her hair, and she’s right to spend so much time on them because pretty dresses and ribbons suit her so well, you’d think they were meant for her … And besides, she has a rich dowry from her mother – as you know, my papa is only a very humble clerk. So what else should she be thinking of at her age? While she was trying on a new dress, the day before yesterday, she looked so beautiful that I asked if I could kiss her! She quite rightly said no, so as not to get the material creased. What a silly goose I am, Marianna! As though her dress were like my dowdy twill tunic that’s never in any danger of creasing!
Oh, what a blessing it is to have a family! In the evening, when papa locks the door, I feel an indescribable contentment, as though the ties binding me to my loved ones in the intimacy of home life were drawn tighter. Yet what a gloomy sense of sadness all we poor recluses used to feel – do you remember? – at the rattling of the porter’s bunch of keys and the grating of the locks! Then with a wringing of my heart, my thoughts would fly to the poor wretches in prison. I’ve confessed to this a hundred times, and done a hundred penances for it, but I just can’t help it. Here, in the morning, when I’m wakened by the twittering of the little birds fighting over the breadcrumbs I leave out for them on the windowsill, before I open my eyes my very first thought is of the happiness of being with my family, close to my father, my little brother, and Giuditta, who will kiss me and wish me good morning; knowing that I shan’t have any offices to recite, or contemplation to do, or silences to observe, and that as soon as I’ve jumped out of bed, I’ll open my window to let in that balmy air, that ray of sunshine, that rustling of leaves, and that bird-song; that I’ll be able to go out alone, whenever I want, to run and skip wherever I please, and that I won’t encounter any austere faces, or black robes, or dark corridors … Marianna, I’ve a terrible sin to confess to you! If only I could have a lovely coffee-coloured petticoat – not with a hoop, I don’t mean that! – but a petticoat that wasn’t black, in which I could run about and climb over walls, that didn’t keep reminding me, as this ugly tunic does, that, once the cholera has passed, the convent awaits me back in Catania …
Let’s not think about that! I’m a reckless madcap! Forgive me, my dear Marianna, I was only joking. But I haven’t yet told you that I have a sweet little bird, a bright and lively pet sparrow that’s very fond of me and answers to my call. He comes flying to take titbits from my hands, nibbles my fingers and playfully ruffles my hair. Actually, he has a rather sad story, to begin with: papa brought him to me wrapped in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief was stained with blood. It was probably the first time that the poor little thing had tried to fly, and a gun-shot had injured his wing. Fortunately, it wasn’t a serious injury. What nasty, barbaric pastimes men have! At the sight of that blood, and the sound of that cheeping – the poor little thing must have been in great pain – I wept in sympathy, and I even began to blame my dear papa. Everyone was laughing at me, even Gigi. I bathed the wing, but I wasn’t hopeful that the poor little thing would survive. Yet here he is, hopping about now, making a great racket! Sometimes he’s still troubled by his injury, and comes and nestles in my lap, cheeping and dragging his wing, as though trying to share his pain with me. I comfort him with kisses, stroke him, and feed him breadcrumbs and grain, then he spryly goes off and settles on my windowsill, and turns to me, chirping, flapping his wings and stretching out his neck, with his mouth wide open.
The day before yesterday, a big ugly cat gave me a great scare. Carino (that’s what I call my sparrow) was on the table, playfully mixing up all the cards – he’s a great prankster! – getting them into a muddle, and twittering constantly. Then the little rascal would turn to look at me with his small, bright eyes, as though he enjoyed teasing me. All of a sudden, with a single bound, that big black cat was on the table, reaching out its paw to seize him. I screamed, and poor Carino screeched as well, and was very quick to take refuge with me. I don’t know how I managed to hide him in my hands, under my apron, but we were both trembling. The whole household came running at my cry. My stepmother scolded me for having needlessly frightened her, and told me that I was too old for such childishness, and that if the cat had caught Carino, it would only have been doing as it ought to. Giuditta was laughing, and that naughty little boy, Gigi, kept urging the cat to snatch the little bird out of my lap. I could feel him in my hands quivering from the great fright he’d been given, and his heart was beating furiously. I’d sooner have died than surrender him! Ever since that day, I never forget to lock the door of my room, where I leave Carino. I hate that cat!
On the other hand, I really love the steward’s dog, which is a great big farm-dog that’s completely black, and stands so high. At first he really terrified me with his snarling, but now he’s very affectionate towards me: he wags his tail and licks my hand, and rubs his sides against my tunic, telling me with those intelligent eyes of his that he loves me. In fact, he’s my guardian. He accompanies me on my walks, and always stays close to me. He runs on ahead to explore the ground, then comes bounding back, wagging his tail and barking happily. When I call him, he knows that it’s time for our walk (this happens twenty times a day), and you should see how he barks and jumps up and fawns on me!
I’ve told you all about my dog and my sparrow, about that horrible cat, and I still haven’t mentioned that we have country neighbours who often come to visit, and that we spend almost every evening playing games together, and that we go for lovely walks at sunset. They live in a house not far from us, at the bottom of the valley – you can see it from my window. Their name is Valentini – do you know them? Papa and mama say they’re very nice people. They have a daughter, Annetta, who’s almost my age, and she and I are good friends. Not like you and me, though! You needn’t be jealous, because I love you much more, and I want you to love me much more than all your other friends. When will you write back? Last time, you kept me waiting two whole weeks. See how quickly I reply, and what a long letter I’ve written. If you keep me waiting another fortnight to tell me that you return my love and the hundreds of kisses I send you, then I’ll love my new friend more than you. So, be warned!
P.S. I forgot to tell you that, apart from Annetta, the Valentini also have a son, a young man who has often come with his sister, and whose name is Antonio, but they call him Nino.