Note: Translator Pauline Bancroft Flach died in 1966, less than 70 years ago. Therefore, this work is protected by copyright, restricting your legal rights to reproduce it. However, you are welcome to view it on screen, as you do now. Read more about copyright.
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DON fERR ANTE
<67
he laid down his baton for a while and took the
advocate’s arm, and walked forward and back with
him on the flat stones by the Roman gate and the
Palazzo Geraci, every one could see that he could
well measure himself against the handsome Favara.
Donna Elisa sat on the stone bench by the
cathedral, in company with the wife of the syndic. And
Signora Voltaro had said quite suddenly, after
sitting for a while, watching Don Ferrante: “Donna
Elisa, your brother is still a young man. He may
still be married, in spite of his fifty years.”
And she, Donna Elisa, had answered that she
prayed heaven for it every day.
But she had hardly said it, when a lady dressed
in mourning came into the square. Never had
anything so black been seen before. It was not enough
that dress and hat and gloves were black; her veil
was so thick that it was impossible to believe that
there was a face behind it. Santissimo Dio! it
looked as if she had hung a pall over herself. And
she had walked slowly, and with a stoop. People
had almost feared, believing that it was a ghost.
Alas, alas! the whole market-place had been so
full of gayety! The peasants, who were at home
over Sunday, had stood there in great crowds in
holiday dress, with red shawls wound round their
necks. The peasant women on their way to the
cathedral had glided by, dressed in green skirts and
yellow neckerchiefs. A couple of travellers had
stood by the balustrade and looked at Etna; they
had been dressed in white. And all the musicians
in uniform, who had been almost as fine as Don
Ferrante, and the shining instruments, and the
carved cathedral faqade / And the sunlight, and
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