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.
Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Second book - VIII. A Jettatore
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>
Below is the raw OCR text
from the above scanned image.
Do you see an error? Proofread the page now!
Här nedan syns maskintolkade texten från faksimilbilden ovan.
Ser du något fel? Korrekturläs sidan nu!
This page has been proofread at least once.
(diff)
(history)
Denna sida har korrekturlästs minst en gång.
(skillnad)
(historik)
266 THE MIRACLES OF ANTICHRIST ’
had been one day in the hotel, I saw the landlord in
despair, and all the guests leaving. What had
happened? I asked. ’ One of our servants has been
taken with small-pox.’ Ah, what a wretched
business!
“ Well, Donna Micaela, I shut myself in and drew
back from all intercourse with people. When a
year had passed I had found peace. I asked myself
why I was shut in so. * You are a harmless man,’ I
said; 4 you wish to hurt no one. Why do you live
as miserably as a criminal ?’ I had just meant to go
back to life again, when I met Fra Felice in one of
the passages. ’Fra Felice, where is the cat ?’ —’ The
cat, signor ?’ —’ Yes, the monastery cat, that used to
come and get milk from me; where is he now?’ —
’ He was caught in a rat-trap.’ — ’ What do you say,
Fra Felice?’ —4 He got his paw in a steel trap and
he could not get loose. He dragged himself to one
of the garrets and died of starvation.’ What do you
say to that, Donna Micaela?”
“Was it supposed to be your fault that the cat
died?”
“lama jettatore.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “ Ah, what folly!”
“When some time had passed, again the desire
to live awoke within me. Then Gandolfo knocked
on my door, and invited me to your festival. Why
should I not go? It is impossible to believe that
one brings misfortune only by showing one’s self.
It was a festival in itself, Donna Micaela, only to
get ready and to take out one’s black clothes, brush
them, and put them on. But when I came down to
the scene of the festival, it was deserted; the rain
streamed in torrents; your Venetian lanterns were
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>