The Italians

Italians, The

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Title: The Italians
Author: Frances Elliot
Release Date: May 19, 2004 [eBook #12385]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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ITALIANS***
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THE ITALIANS:
A Novel
BY FRANCES ELLIOT

AUTHOR OF "ROMANCE OF OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE,"
"THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY," ETC., ETC.
1875

TO
THE REAL ENRICA,
WITH
THE AUTHOR'S LOVE.

CONTENTS

PART I.
I. LUCCA II. THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA III. THE THREE
WITCHES IV. THE MARCHESA GUINIGI V. ENRICA VI.
MARCHESA GUINIGI AT HOME VII. COUNT MARESCOTTI VIII.
THE CABINET COUNCIL IX. THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL

PART II.
I. CALUMNY II. CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO III. THE GUINIGI
TOWER IV. COUNT NOBILI V. NUMBER FOUR AT THE
UNIVERSO HOTEL VI. A NEW PHILOSOPHY VII. THE
MARCHESA'S PASSION VIII. ENRICA'S TRIAL IX. WHAT CAME
OF IT

PART III.
I. A LONELY TOWN II. WHAT SILVESTRO SAYS III. WHAT
CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS IV. WHAT A
PRIEST SHOULD BE V. "SAY NOT TOO MUCH" VI. THE
CONTRACT VII. THE CLUB AT LUCCA VIII. COUNT NOBILI'S
THOUGHTS IX. NERA

PART IV.
I. WAITING AND LONGING II. A STORM AT THE VILLA III.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IV. FRA PACIFICO AND THE
MARCHESA V. TO BE, OR NOT TO BE? VI. THE CHURCH AND
THE LAW VII. THE HOUR STRIKES VIII. FOR THE HONOR OF
A NAME IX. HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE X. THE LAWYER
BAFFLED XI. FACE TO FACE XII. OH BELLO!


PART I.

CHAPTER I.
LUCCA.
We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870--the anniversary of
the festival of the Volto Santo--a notable day, both in city, suburb, and
province. Lucca dearly loves its festivals--no city more; and of all the
festivals of the year that of the Volto Santo best. Now the Volto Santo
(_Anglicè_, Holy Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix, which hangs,
as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous chapel--more like a pagoda

than a chapel, and more like a glorified bird-cage than either--built
expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in the nave of the
cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-wood, very black, and very ugly, and
it was carved by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodox Catholic
entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot tell, nor why, nor
how, the Holy Countenance reached the snug little city of Lucca,
except by flying through the air like the Loretto house, or springing out
of the earth like the Madonna of Feltri. But here it is, and here it has
been for many a long year; and here it will remain as a miraculous relic,
bringing with it blessings and immunities innumerable to the grateful
city.
What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without a cloud. Now there
is a golden haze hanging over the plain, and glints as of living flame on
the flanks of the mountains. From all sides crowds are pressing toward
Lucca. Before six o'clock every high-road is alive. Down from the
highest mountain-top of Pizzorna, overlooking Florence and its
vine-garlanded campagna, comes the hermit, brown-draped, in hood
and mantle; staff in hand, he trudges along the dusty road. And down,
too, from his native lair among the pigs and the poultry, comes the
black-eyed, black-skinned, matted-haired urchin, who makes mud pies
under the tufted ilex-trees at Ponte a Moriano, and swears at the hermit.
They come! they come! From mountain-sides bordering the broad road
along the Serchio--mountains dotted with bright homesteads, each
gleaming out of its own cypress-grove, olive-patch, canebrake, and
vine-arbor, under which the children play--they come from solitary
hovels, hung up, as it were, in mid-air, over gloomy ravines, scored and
furrowed with red earth, down which dark torrents dash and spray.
They come! they come! these Tuscan peasants, a trifle too fond of
holiday-keeping, like their betters--but what would you have? The land
is fertile, and corn and wine and oil and rosy flowering almonds grow
almost as of themselves. They come--tens and tens of miles away, from
out the deep shadows of primeval chestnut-woods, clothing the flanks
of rugged Apennines with emerald draperies. They come--through
parting rocks, bordering nameless streams--cool, delicious waters, over

which bend fig, peach, and plum, delicate ferns and unknown flowers.
They come--from hamlets and little burghs, gathered beside lush
pastures, where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and