So we had our drink at last.
The landlord was anxious for us to see Giovanni, his son. There was a
village band performing up the street, in front of the house of a
colonel who had come home wounded from Tripoli. Everybody in the village
was wildly proud about the colonel and about the brass band, the music
of which was execrable.
We just looked into the street. The band of uncouth fellows was playing
the same tune over and over again before a desolate, newish house. A
crowd of desolate, forgotten villagers stood round in the cold upper
air. It seemed altogether that the place was forgotten by God and man.
But the landlord, burly, courteous, handsome, pointed out with a
flourish the Giovanni, standing in the band playing a cornet. The band
itself consisted only of five men, rather like beggars in the street.
But Giovanni was the strangest! He was tall and thin and somewhat
German-looking, wearing shabby American clothes and a very high double
collar and a small American crush hat. He looked entirely like a
ne'er-do-well who plays a violin in the street, dressed in the most
down-at-heel, sordid respectability.
Pages:
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196