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Read Ebook: The Patriot (Piccolo Mondo Antico) by Fogazzaro Antonio Agnetti Mary Prichard Translator
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Ebook has 1694 lines and 130654 words, and 34 pages
RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES 1
ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE 25
THE GREAT STEP 39
CARLIN'S LETTER 68
THE ROGUE AT WORK 85
THE OLD LADY OF MARBLE 109
FISHERMEN 117
THE MOONSHINE AND CLOUD SONATA 133
THE GLOVED HAND 169
THE HAND WITHIN THE GLOVE 180
THE SECRET OF THE WIND AND THE WALNUT TREES 201
THE TRUMP CARD APPEARS 214
THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP CARD 230
HOURS OF BITTERNESS 240
FOR BREAD, FOR ITALY, FOR GOD 285
SIGNORA LUISA, COME HOME! 305
SHADOWS AND DAWN 331
PHANTOMS 352
FLIGHT 366
THE SAGE SPEAKS 391
THE SUMMONS TO ARMS 411
Part First
RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES
The little black boat, with its red cushions, its red and white awning, its movable seat, used only on special occasions, fixed crosswise in its place, the oars lying ready amidship, was struggling, buffeted by the waves, between two coal barges, which hardly moved.
"Pin!" shouted Pasotti, growing more and more angry. "Pin!"
The only answer was the regular, constant thundering of the waves on the shore, and the bumping of one boat against another. At that moment one would have said there was not so much as a live dog in the whole of Casarico. Only a plaintive, old voice, like the husky falsetto of a ventriloquist, groaned from beneath the portico--
"Hadn't we better walk?"
At last Pin appeared in the direction of San Mamette.
"Hurry up, there!" shrieked Pasotti, raising his arms. The man began to run.
"Beast!" Pasotti roared. "It was with good reason they gave you the name of a dog!"
"Hadn't we better walk, Pasotti?" groaned the plaintive voice. "Let us walk!"
Pasotti continued to abuse the boatman, who was hastily unfastening the chain of his boat from a ring, fixed in the bank. Presently he turned towards the portico, with an authoritative air, and jerking his chin, motioned to some one to come forward.
"Let us walk, Pasotti!" the voice groaned once more.
He shrugged his shoulders, made a rough gesture of command with his hand, and started down towards the boat.
Then an old lady appeared under one of the arches of the portico, her lean person enveloped in an Indian shawl, below which a black silk skirt showed. Her head was surmounted by a fashionable bonnet, spindling, and lofty, trimmed with tiny yellow roses, and black lace. Two black curls framed the wrinkled face; the eyes were large and gentle, and the wide mouth was shaded by a faint moustache.
"Oh Pin!" she exclaimed, clasping her canary-coloured gloves, and pausing on the bank to gaze helplessly at the boatman. "Can we really venture out with the lake in this state?"
Her husband made a still more imperious gesture, and his face assumed a still sourer expression. The poor woman slipped down to the boat in silence, and was helped in, trembling violently.
"I commend myself to Our Lady of Caravino, my good Pin!" she said. "What a dreadful lake!"
The boatman shook his head, smiling.
"It is up at the house," Pin answered. "Shall I go for it? But perhaps the Signora here, might be frightened. Besides, here comes the rain!"
"Go and fetch it," said Pasotti.
The Signora, who was as deaf as a post, had not heard a word of this conversation, and, greatly amazed at seeing Pin run off, asked her husband where he was going.
"The sail!" Pasotti shouted into her face. She sat, bending forward, her mouth wide open, striving in vain, to catch, at least, the sound of his voice.
"The sail!" he repeated, still louder, his hands framing his mouth.
She began to think that she understood. Trembling with fright she drew a questioning hieroglyphic in the air with her finger. Pasotti answered by drawing an imaginary curve in the air, and blowing into it; then he silently nodded his head. His wife, convulsed with terror, started to leave the boat.
"I am going to get out!" said she in an agonised voice. "I am going to get out! I want to walk!"
Her husband seized her by the arm, and pulled her down into her seat, fixing two flaming eyes upon her.
Meanwhile the boatman had returned with the sail. The poor woman writhed and sighed; tears stood in her eyes, and she cast despairing glances at the shore, but she was silent. The mast was raised, the two lower ends of the sail were made fast, and the boat was about to put out, when a voice bellowed from the portico--
"Hallo! Hallo! The Signor Controllore!" and out popped a big, rubicund priest, with a glorious belly, a large, black straw hat, a cigar in his mouth, and an umbrella under his arm.
"Oh! Curatone!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! Are you invited to the dinner also? Are you coming to Cressogno with us?"
"If you will take me," the curate of Puria answered, going down towards the boat. "Well, I never! The Signora Barborin is here also."
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