Little Novels of Italy

Maurice Henry Hewlett

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• Publié par: chewyer
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 33
• Langue: English

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Project Gutenberg's Little Novels of Italy, by Maurice Henry Hewlett This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Little Novels of Italy Madonna Of The Peach-Tree, Ippolita In The Hills, The Duchess Of Nona, Messer Cino And The Live Coal, The Judgment Of Borso Author: Maurice Henry Hewlett Release Date: March 29, 2007 [EBook #20929] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY *** Produced by Thierry Alberto, Juliet Sutherland, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents has been extended to include links to chapters. LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY BY MAURICE HEWLETT AUTHOR OF "THE FOREST LOVERS," "PAN AND THE YOUNG SHEPHERD," "EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY ETC. ," New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1899 All rights reserved COPYRIGHT, 1899, By MAURICE HEWLETT. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. To HIS FRIEND AND ITALY'S MAJOR-GENERAL JOSEPH BONUS, R.E. THE AUTHOR DEDICATES HIS BOOK CONTENTS MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE I VANNA IS BID FOR II TERTIUM QUID III THE SEED OF DISCORD IV THE HARVEST OF LITTLE EASE V THE MIRACLE OF THE PEACH-TREE VI THE VISITATION OF THE GOLDEN FISH VII LAST CONSIDERATIONS OF CAN GRANDE II VIII THE REPROACHES IX THE CROWNING PROOF IPPOLITA IN THE HILLS I THE GLORIOUS IPPOLITA II MESSER ALESSANDRO THINKS TO CUT HIS NAILS III THE JEW IN THE VIA DELLA GATTA IV IPPOLITA LIFTS UP HER EYES TO THE HILLS V ANNINA AS DEMIURGE VI SILVESTRO VII CASTRACANE VIII RESURRECTION OF THE JEW IX PYLADES FINDS HIS ORESTES X CYMON FINDS HIS IPHIGENIA THE DUCHESS OF NONA I BOCCA BACIATA II AMILCARE: COMMERCE AND THE AFFECTIONS III MARKET COVERT IV MARKET OVERT V GRIFONE—AMATEUR OF SENSE VI GRIFONE ENTERS THE MARKET VII A PEDLAR'S ROUND VIII PRIVATE TREATY IX THE LAST BIDDING X WITH ALL FAULTS XI FROM AN AMATEUR'S CABINET MESSER CINO AND THE LIVE COAL I II III IV THE JUDGMENT OF BORSO I THE ADVENTURERS II ARMS AND THE MANNIKIN III THOW THEY CAME TO FERRARA IV "WHY COME YE NAT TO COURTE?" V FORTUNE WITH THE DOUBLE BLADE VI ENDS AND MEANS VII THE CAPTAIN'S TREADINGS VIII FIRST MIDNIGHT CONVERSATION IX SECOND MIDNIGHT CONVERSATION X ORDEAL BY ROPE LITTLE NOVELS OF ITALY MADONNA OF THE PEACH-TREE I VANNA IS BID FOR [Pg 1] Not easily would you have found a girl more winning in a tender sort than Giovanna Scarpa of Verona at one and twenty, fair-haired and flushed, delicately shaped, tall and pliant, as she then was. She had to suffer her hours of ill report, but passes for near a saint now, in consequence of certain miracles and theophanies done on her account, which it is my business to declare; before those she was considered (if at all) as a girl who would certainly have been married three years ago if dowries had not been of moment in the matter. In a city of maids as pretty as they are modest—which no one will deny Verona to be—there may have been some whose charms in either kind were equal to hers, while their estate was better in accord; but the speculation is idle. Giovanna, flower in the face as she was, fit to be nosegay on any hearth, posy for any man's breast, sprang in a very lowly soil. Like a blossoming reed she shot up to her inches by Adige, and one forgot the muddy bed wondering at the slim grace of the shaft with its crown of yellow atop. Her hair waved about her [Pg 2] like a flag; she should have been planted in a castle; instead, Giovanna the stately calm, with her billowing line, staid lips, and candid grey eyes, was to be seen on her knees by the green water most days of the week. Bare-armed, splashed to the neck, bare-headed, out-at-heels, she rinsed and pommelled, wrung and dipped again, laughed, chattered, flung her hair to the wind, her sweat to the water, in line with a dozen other women below the Ponte Navi; and if no one thought any the worse of her, none, unhappily, thought any the better—at least in the way of marriage. It is probable that no one thought of her at all. Giovanna was a beauty and a very good girl; but she was a washerwoman for all that, whose toil fed seven mouths. Her father was Don Urbano, curate of Santa Toscana across the water. This may very easily sound worse than it is. In Don Urbano's day, though a priest might not marry, he might have a wife—a faithful, diligent companion, that is—to seethe his polenta, air his linen, and rear his children. The Church winked at her, and so continued until the Jesuits came to teach that winking was unbecoming. But when Can Grande II. lorded in Verona the Jesuits did not, and Don Urbano, good, easy man, cared not who winked at his wife. She gave him six children before she died of the seventh, of whom the eldest was Giovanna, and the others, in an orderly chain diminishing punctually by a year, ran down to Ferrantino, a tattered, shock-headed rascal of more inches than grace. Last of all the good drudge, who had borne these and many other burdens for her master, died also. Don Urbano was never tired of saying how providential it was that she had held off her [Pg 3] demise until Giovanna was old enough to take her place. The curate was fat and lazy, very much interested in himself; his stipend barely paid his shot at the "Fiore del Marinajo," under whose green bush he was mostly to be seen. Vanna had to roll up her sleeves, bend her straight young back, and knee the board by the Ponte Navi. I have no doubt it did her good; the work is healthy, the air, the sun, the waterspray kissed her beauty ripe; but she got no husband because she could save no dowry. Everything went to stay the seven crying mouths. Then, on a day when half her twenty-first year had run after the others, old Baldassare Dardicozzo stayed on the bridge to rest from the burden of his pack—on a breezy March morning when the dust filled his eyes and the wind emptied him of breath. Baldassare had little enough to spare as it was. So he dropped his load