Henry Festing Jones

Castellinaria, and Other Sicilian Diversions


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Bevo alla salute del Signor Enrico. [62]

      (I had to drink each time, not muchmerely to acknowledge the complimentexcusing myself by saying I had not the energy to drink more.)

      Myself: My dear Buffo, when you have sufficiently got into the habit of being twenty-five to approach the age Gildo says he is, you will not have so much energy as you have now.

      Aless: Yes, I shall.

      Myself: No, Buffo mio.

      Aless: We will make a bet about it, but you will lose.

      Gildo (to Aless): By that time Enrico will not be here to pay if he does lose, so you will not win.

      Myself: Bravo, Gildo.

      Gildo (bowing his acknowledgments): Thank you very night—Why do you laugh? That is what you say. Why do you laugh?

      Papa (taking his revenge about the brindisi): Don’t talk so much, Gildo.

      Aless (taking his about the bet): You have been talking all the evening, Gildo. You are as bad as a conjurer in the piazza.

      (Gildo proclaimed a general silence and, as a guarantee of good faith, pretended to skewer his lips together with a tooth-pick.)

      Aless (whispering to me): Argantino is the Prince of the Devils and has commanded them to make the subterranean road from Paris to Montalbano—

      Papa: May I speak one word?

      Myself (graciously): Yes, Papa. You may even speak two words.

      Papa: I—

      Aless and Gildo (shouting): One!

      Papa:—have—

      Aless and Gildo: Two! There now, shut up. You’ve spoken your two words. Silence.

      Caro: Signor Enrico, last year you only stayed in Palermo four days; this year you will, of course, stay at least a month.

      Myself: I am sorry, my dear young lady, but it is impossible.

      Aless:—and they will all escape and—

      Myself: Please, Buffo, how many kilometres is it from Paris to Montalbano?

      Aless: I do not remember, but it is a long way.

      Caro: Why do you not stay a month?

      Carm: Yes, why are you going away?

      Myself: My dear young ladies, I must go to Calatafimi.

      Caro: But why do you go to Calatafimi?

      Carm: Yes, why do you not stay with us?

      (Nina did not speak. She merely gazed at me as though she could not mind her wheel, Mother.)

      Myself: I have friends at Calatafimi whom I have promised to go and see and I cannot—

      Aless:—and arrive in safety at Montalbano.

      Myself: I believe you told me once that Montalbano is Rinaldo’s castle in Gascony. Did the devils make a subterranean road right across France? It is a long way, you know.

      Aless: The devils must do as Argantino commands them.

      Myself: If he is the Prince of the Devils of course they must; but this seems rather a large order. Come to Ettorina. Why don’t you come to Ettorina?

      Aless: One moment, if you please; first you must know that—

      Caro: Signor Enrico, who are your friends at Calatafimi?

      Myself: I know a baritone singer and his father and mother, two or three landed proprietors and the custode of the Temple of Segesta who lives at Calatafimi and is great friend of mine. I also know another—

      Carm: It is not true. How many ladies do you know at Calatafimi?

      Myself: Well, let me see. I don’t think I can exactly—

      Caro: Tell us about the young ladies of Calatafimi, you like them better than you like us.

      (Here sobs were heard; Nina’s head and shoulders had fallen over the back of her chair, her hair had come down an she was weeping gently but inconsolably.)

      Myself: I shall be back in three days.

      (Whereupon Nina recovered herself and fixed her eyes on the ceiling with an expression of beatific joy such as is worn by S. Caterina da Siena when the ring is being put on her finger in the pictures. Nina’s hair had now to be done up and it is magnificent hair, lustrous, black, wavy thick and long—for a girl of fourteen, wonderful. Her two sisters did it up as though it usually came down about this time of the evening and she submitted in the same spirit. It was no concern of ours.)

      Papa: It is now one year since you were last in Palermo and it seems like yesterday—do I explain myself?

      Gildo (so that everyone could hear): I have kept all your post-cards in a secret place. No one suspects that I have received them.

      Aless: You must know that before Malagigi died he—

      Caro: Signor Enrico, why do you wear spectacles?

      Myself: In order that I may more clearly contemplate your beauty.

      Caro: I do not believe you.

      Carm: Signor Enrico, why do you wear your hair so short?

      Myself: In order that—

      Caro: Signor Enrico, why do you wear that little beard, that barbetta?

      Carm: Signor Enrico, why do you wear—?

      Aless: Why do you wear a coat and waistcoat?

      Gildo: Why do you wear boots?

      Papa: Why do you—?

      Nina: I can tell you why he does all these things. It is to make the young ladies of Calatafimi go mad for love of him as the daughter of Cladinoro went mad for love of Ruggiero Persiano.

      Myself: I have never heard of Ruggiero Persiano. Who was he, a paladin?

      Nina: Yes; a cavaliere errante.

      Myself: Then who was the daughter of Cladinoro?

      Nina: Ettorina.

      Myself: Do you mean to say that Ettorina went mad for love of Ruggiero Persiano?

      Nina: Yes.

      Myself (rising to go): Finalmente!

      Aless: Yes, but first you must know—

      Myself: All right, Buffo, never mind about that; at last I know who Ettorina was and why she went mad and that will do for the present. Thank you very much and good night.

      Gildo: That is what I said. Why did you laugh when I said that?

      Myself: Say it again, Gildo, and I won’t laugh this time.

      Gildo: Thank you very night and good much.

      Myself: Bravo. If you go on at this rate you will soon be speaking English like a native.

      I took leave of the young ladies, and Papa, Alessandro and Gildo accompanied me to the albergo, where they left me. As I approached my bedroom door I looked up over it half-expecting to see there the words which, years ago, I had seen written over the entrance to a Tuscan monastery:

      O beata Solitudo!

       O sola Beatitudo!

       MALAGIGI

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