The Italians

Frances Elliot

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• Publié par: erzyo
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 17
• Langue: English

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Frances Elliot
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Title: The Italians
Author: Frances Elliot
Release Date: May 19, 2004 [eBook #12385]
Language: English
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG
EBOOK THE ITALIANS***
E-text prepared by Curtis Weyant, Bill Hershey,
and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE ITALIANS:
A NovelBY FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF "ROMANCE OF OLD COURT LIFE
IN FRANCE," "THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN
IN ITALY," ETC., ETC.
1875
TO
THE REAL ENRICA,
WITH
THE AUTHOR'S LOVE.CONTENTS
PART I.
I. LUCCA II. THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA III.
THE THREE WITCHES IV. THE MARCHESA
GUINIGI V. ENRICA VI. MARCHESA GUINIGI AT
HOME VII. COUNT MARESCOTTI VIII. THE
CABINET COUNCIL IX. THE COUNTESS
ORSETTI'S BALL
PART II.
I. CALUMNY II. CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO III.
THE GUINIGI TOWER IV. COUNT NOBILI V.
NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL VI.
A NEW PHILOSOPHY VII. THE MARCHESA'S
PASSION VIII. ENRICA'S TRIAL IX. WHAT CAME
OF IT
PART III.
I. A LONELY TOWN II. WHAT SILVESTRO SAYS
III. WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE
MARCHESA'S PAPERS IV. WHAT A PRIEST
SHOULD BE V. "SAY NOT TOO MUCH" VI. THE
CONTRACT VII. THE CLUB AT LUCCA VIII.
COUNT NOBILI'S THOUGHTS IX. NERAPART IV.
I. WAITING AND LONGING II. A STORM AT THE
VILLA III. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IV. FRA
PACIFICO AND THE MARCHESA V. TO BE, OR
NOT TO BE? VI. THE CHURCH AND THE LAW
VII. THE HOUR STRIKES VIII. FOR THE HONOR
OF A NAME IX. HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE X.
THE LAWYER BAFFLED XI. FACE TO FACE XII.
OH BELLO!
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
LUCCA.We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870
—the anniversary of the festival of the Volto Santo
—a notable day, both in city, suburb, and province.
Lucca dearly loves its festivals—no city more; and
of all the festivals of the year that of the Volto
Santo best. Now the Volto Santo (Anglicè, Holy
Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix, which
hangs, as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous
chapel—more like a pagoda than a chapel, and
more like a glorified bird-cage than either—built
expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in
the nave of the cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-
wood, very black, and very ugly, and it was carved
by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodox Catholic
entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot
tell, nor why, nor how, the Holy Countenance
reached the snug little city of Lucca, except by
flying through the air like the Loretto house, or
springing out of the earth like the Madonna of
Feltri. But here it is, and here it has been for many
a long year; and here it will remain as a miraculous
relic, bringing with it blessings and immunities
innumerable to the grateful city.
What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without
a cloud. Now there is a golden haze hanging over
the plain, and glints as of living flame on the flanks
of the mountains. From all sides crowds are
pressing toward Lucca. Before six o'clock every
high-road is alive. Down from the highest
mountain-top of Pizzorna, overlooking Florence
and its vine-garlanded campagna, comes the
hermit, brown-draped, in hood and mantle; staff in
hand, he trudges along the dusty road. And down,too, from his native lair among the pigs and the
poultry, comes the black-eyed, black-skinned,
matted-haired urchin, who makes mud pies under
the tufted ilex-trees at Ponte a Moriano, and
swears at the hermit.
They come! they come! From mountain-sides
bordering the broad road along the Serchio—
mountains dotted with bright homesteads, each
gleaming out of its own cypress-grove, olive-patch,
canebrake, and vine-arbor, under which the
children play—they come from solitary hovels,
hung up, as it were, in mid-air, over gloomy
ravines, scored and furrowed with red earth, down
which dark torrents dash and spray.
They come! they come! these Tuscan peasants, a
trifle too fond of holiday-keeping, like their betters
—but what would you have? The land is fertile, and
corn and wine and oil and rosy flowering almonds
grow almost as of themselves. They come—tens
and tens of miles away, from out the deep
shadows of primeval chestnut-woods, clothing the
flanks of rugged Apennines with emerald draperies.
They come—through parting rocks, bordering
nameless streams—cool, delicious waters, over
which bend fig, peach, and plum, delicate ferns
and unknown flowers. They come—from hamlets
and little burghs, gathered beside lush pastures,
where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and
fragrant herbs, lulling the ear with softest echoes.
They come—dark-eyed mothers and smiling
daughters, decked with gold pins, flapping Leghornhats, lace veils or snowy handkerchiefs gathered
about their heads, coral beads, and golden crosses
as big as shields, upon their necks—escorted by
lover, husband, or father—a flower behind his ear,
a slouch hat on his head, a jacket thrown over one
arm, every man shouldering a red umbrella,
although to doubt the weather to-day is absolute
sacrilege!
Carts clatter by every moment, drawn by swift
Maremma nags, gay with brass harness, tinkling
bells, and tassels of crimson on reins and frontlet.
The carts are laden with peasants (nine, perhaps,
ranged three abreast)—treason to the gallant
animal that, tossing its little head, bravely struggles
with the cruel load. A priest is stuck in bodkin
among his flock—a priest who leers and jests
between pinches of snuff, and who, save for his
seedy black coat, knee-breeches, worsted
stockings, shoe-buckles, clerical hat, and
smoothly-shaven chin, is rougher than a peasant
himself.
Riders on Elba ponies, with heavy cloaks (for the
early morning, spite of its glories, is chill), spur by,
adding to the dust raised by the carts.
Genteel flies and hired carriages with two horses,
and hood and foot-board—pass, repass, and out-
race each other. These flies and carriages are
crammed with bailiffs from the neighboring villas,
shopkeepers, farmers, and small proprietors.
Donkeys, too, there are in plenty, carrying menbigger than themselves (under protest, be it
observed, for here, as in all countries, your
donkey, though marked for persecution, suffers
neither willingly nor in silence). Begging friars,
tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy
(thank Heaven! not many now, for "New Italy" has
sacked most of the convent rookeries and
dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their
shoulders, to carry back such plunder as can be
secured, to far-off convents and lonely churches,
folded up tightly in forest fastnesses.
All are hurrying onward with what haste they may,
to reach the city of Lucca, while broad shadows
from the tall mountains on either hand still fall
athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes
up from the rushing Serchio.
The Serchio—a noble river, yet willful as a
mountain-torrent—flows round the embattled walls
of Lucca, and falls into the Mediterranean below
Pisa. It is calm now, on this day of the great
festival, sweeping serenely by rocky capes, and
rounding into fragrant bays, where overarching
boughs droop and feather. But there is a sullen
look about its current, that tells how wicked it can
be, this Serchio, lashed into madness by winter
storms, and the overflowing of the water-gates
above, among the high Apennines—at the
Abbetone at San Marcello, or at windy, ice-bound
Pracchia.
How fair are thy banks, O mountain-bordered
Serchio! How verdant with near wood andneighboring forest! How gay with cottage groups—
open-galleried and garlanded with bunches of
golden maize and vine-branches—all laughing in
the sun! The wine-shops, too, along the road, how
tempting, with snowy table-cloths spread upon
dressers under shady arbors of lemon—trees;
pleasant odors from the fry cooking in the stove,
mixing with the perfume of the waxy flowers! Dear
to the nostrils of the passers-by are these odors.
They snuff them up—onions, fat, and macaroni,
with delight. They can scarcely resist stopping once
for all here, instead of waiting for their journey's
end to eat at Lucca.
But the butterflies—and they are many—are wiser
in their generation. The butterflies have a festival of
their own to-day. They do not wait for any city.
They are fixed to no spot. They can hold their
festival anywhere under the blue sky, in the broad
sunshine.
See how they dance among the flowers! Be it
spikes of wild-lavender, or yellow down within the
Canterbury bell, or horn of purple cyclamens, or
calyx of snowy myrtle, the soft bosom of tall lilies
or glowing petals of red cloves—nothing comes
amiss to the butterflies. They are citizens of the
world, and can feast wherever fancy leads them.
Meanwhile, on comes the cr