The humour of Italy; . are being let off onEaster Day. A miserable hen, which sat motionless, notdaring to attract attention to itself, and a cat which seemedto have nothing more to wish for in this life, having nowreached the very utmost degree of leanness, and lay curledup, with half-closed eyes, on the dead ashes of the hearth,were the only creatures not audibly complaining in themelancholy darkness of the hut, which covered so muchmisery. It seemed as though they were meditating on the DOCTOR PHOEBUS. 211 infinite vanity of things. But not so Phoebuss wife, norVittorino, his little son ; f
The humour of Italy; . are being let off onEaster Day. A miserable hen, which sat motionless, notdaring to attract attention to itself, and a cat which seemedto have nothing more to wish for in this life, having nowreached the very utmost degree of leanness, and lay curledup, with half-closed eyes, on the dead ashes of the hearth,were the only creatures not audibly complaining in themelancholy darkness of the hut, which covered so muchmisery. It seemed as though they were meditating on the DOCTOR PHOEBUS. 211 infinite vanity of things. But not so Phoebuss wife, norVittorino, his little son ; for the one, by continual whimper-ing, and the other with her reproaches, added notes ofsickening despair to the symphony of those sonorous,expansive, and well-nourished yawns of the blind man. Yetthe wife had not the slightest reason for envying the cat;she was dry and thin as though she had nothing left forhunger and grief to gnaw at;—she was near her confine-ment, poor soul, and, with her face the colour of sodden. dead leaves, and her black eyes, greedy, feverishly bright, and sunken in their sockets, she was a very different person from the comely young Rosalinda whom Phoebus had married when he returned from serving in the Bersaglieri. That was six months before the accident at the quarries ; and now she was more like one of the thirsty, dropsical wretches in Dantes Malebolge. Go to Sor Vincenzino, said Phoebus. His wife did not reply. Go to the doctor. Dont you know that a hundred poor sinners might diebefore either of them would stir a finger ? Dont you know 212 ITALIAN HUMOUR. that the doctor keeps on asking me for a franc for that toothhe pulled out last year ? Phoebus moved his jaws for a little while, like an animalchewing the cud; then he gave seven or eight more yawns,and rubbed his hands as if he had just concluded a goodstroke of business. Go to Nannone—go to the chaplain, to the archdeacon,to Lisetta—only go to some one ! I went to Nannone this morning—h
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwerneral, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookyear1892
