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married un lord inglese? Yes, of course I knew,
but I did not remember her name. “Lady
G——,” said La Bella Margherita proudly. I
just remembered in time to drink her health,
but after that I did not remember anything
except that the sky overhead was blue like a
sapphire, that the parroco’s wine was red like a
ruby, that La Bella Margherita sat by my side
with golden hair and smiling lips.
“San Michele!” suddenly rang through my
ears. “San Michele!” echoed deep down in
my heart!
“Addio, Bella Margherita!” “Addio e presto
ritorno!” Alas for the presto ritorno!
I walked back through the empty lanes steering
as straight as I could for my goal. It was the
sacred hour of the siesta, the whole little village
was asleep. The piazza, all ablaze with sun, was
deserted. The church was closed, only from the
half-open door of the municipal school the
stentorian voice of the Rev. Canonico Don Natale
trumpeted in sleepy monotony through the
silence: “Io mi ammazzo, tu ti amazzi, egli si
ammazza, noi ci ammazziamo, voi vi ammazzate,
loro si ammazzano,” repeated in rhythmic chorus
by a dozen barelegged boys, in a circle on the
floor at the feet of their school master.
Further down the lane stood a stately Roman
matron. It was Annarella herself, beckoning
me with a friendly waving of the hand to come
in. Why had I gone to La Bella Margherita
instead of to her? Did I not know that her
cacciacavallo was the best cheese in all the
village? And as for the wine, everybody knew
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