Nature and Culture in the Peasant World

Abstract

The traveler who passed by Lake Biviere di Lentini, which lay there like a piece of dead sea, and by the parched stubble of the Plain of Catania, and the evergreen orange trees of Francofonte, and the gray corks of Resecone, and the deserted grazing lands of Passaneto and Passinatello, if he asked, “Whose is all this?” to dispel the boredom of the long dusty road, under the sky, hazy from the heat, at the hour when the bells of the cart sound sadly in the immense countryside, and the mules let their heads and tails dangle, and the carter sings his sad song in order not to let himself be overcome by the sleep of malaria, would hear the answer: “Mazzarò’s.” And passing near a farm the size of a village, with grain stores that seem to be churches, and hens in flocks crouched in the shadow of the well, and women who put their hands over their eyes to see who was passing by: “And here?” “Mazzarò’s.” And he walked and walked, while the malaria weighed on his eyes, and he was suddenly shaken by the barking of a dog, passing through an endless vineyard, which widened on the hill and on the plain, still, as if the dust weighed on it, and the keeper of the vineyard lying face down on a gun, near the valley, lifted his sleepy head, and opened an eye to see who it was: “Mazzarò’s.” Then came an olive grove thick as a forest, where the grass never appeared and the harvest lasted until March. They were Mazzarò’s olive trees.