Then we are settled.
I cannot tell why I hate the village magistrate. He looks like a family
portrait by a Flemish artist, he himself weighing down the front of the
picture with his portliness and his long brown beard, whilst the faces
of his family are arranged in two groups for the background. I think he
is angry at our intrusion. He is very republican and self-important. But
we eclipse him easily, with the aid of a large black velvet hat, and
black furs, and our Sunday clothes.
Downstairs the villagers are crowding, drifting like a heavy current.
The women are seated, by church instinct, all together on the left, with
perhaps an odd man at the end of a row, beside his wife. On the right,
sprawling in the benches, are several groups of bersaglieri, in grey
uniforms and slanting cock's-feather hats; then peasants, fishermen, and
an odd couple or so of brazen girls taking their places on the
men's side.
At the back, lounging against the pillars or standing very dark and
sombre, are the more reckless spirits of the village. Their black felt
hats are pulled down, their cloaks are thrown over their mouths, they
stand very dark and isolated in their moments of stillness, they shout
and wave to each other when anything occurs.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100