The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Italians, by 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 Novel

BY 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. NERA

PART 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 Leghorn hats, 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 men bigger 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