Sisto turned inland and drove through the town, where people sat outside the café; some of these people were drinking Amarena, and Gian-Luca thought of Nerone. And now they were out on a white country road, a long straight road that sloped upwards; and down the road came the tinkling of bells and the sharp clip, clip of home-going mules, laden with loads of herbage. On their right lay a very ancient smithy where a youth was working the bellows; with each downward sweep of the rough, wooden pole, the fire glowed softly through the gathering dusk, and the blacksmith’s hammer clanged on the anvil in harmony with the mule-bells. They passed a pair of tall iron gates, above each gate was a crown.
“Guarda!” said Sisto, pointing with his whip; “the estate of my master, the Marchese.”
Gian-Luca could just glimpse a big, untidy garden from which came a mixture of sweet scents, and sweetest of all, the scent of hot earth, steaming a little under dew.
“He is rich, very rich,” Cousin Sisto was saying; “I will show you his villa, Maddalena. Just now he has gone to Milan on business, and it is I who must see to all things in his absence; I have very much to do at this time of the vendemmia, they are terrible robbers, our peasants.”
The road had begun to climb upwards in good earnest, and the mare was stumbling and straining. Her sides were going in and out like the bellows at the blacksmith’s down in the village.
“Ee-yup! Ee-yup!” commanded Cousin Sisto, in the voice of him who must be obeyed.
But the mare, unable for the moment to go farther, stood still, ignoring Cousin Sisto.
And now Gian-Luca forgot about the sunset, and could think of nothing but the mare. “We are much too heavy for her,” he protested, “she looks as though she would drop between the shafts; if you wait for a minute, I will get out and walk.”
“Neanche per sogno!” laughed Cousin Sisto, “she would never understand it; you will see, she can go very well when she wishes.”
“But her flanks are all dripping with sweat,” said Gian-Luca, “her flanks are quite grey with sweat!”
Then Sisto heaved a sympathetic sigh and glanced over his shoulder at Gian-Luca. “She is old, very old, poverina,” he said sadly, and proceeded to lash her with the whip.
“Stop!” shouted Gian-Luca, “my wife and I will walk. Come down, Maddalena, we will walk!” And he jumped out and held up his hand to Maddalena, where she sat beside Cousin Sisto.
Obedient as always, she climbed down from her seat and stood beside her husband in the road. Then Gian-Luca went to the back of the cart and tried to ease the wheels forward. Meanwhile Cousin Sisto stared round in amazement.
“But what is the matter?” he demanded. “Ma guarda, she is twenty years old the good mare, do you expect her to fly?”
The cart had begun to move slowly again, but nothing would induce Gian-Luca to get in; so he and Maddalena tramped on through the dust, which sprayed up over their ankles.
Cousin Sisto felt annoyed. “He is mad!” he was thinking. “He makes his wife walk for a horse!” and he looked down on Maddalena with pity, “Povera disgraziata!” he muttered.
Still walking, they arrived at the gates of the farm, where Lidia was standing to receive them; a plump, comely woman with wavy brown hair, and small, very even white teeth. But seeing Maddalena tramping through the dust, she held up her hands and exclaimed:
“Madonna! What has happened?” she inquired in agitation. “Has there been an accident, Sisto?”
“It was only our Giuseppina,” said Sisto; “she pretended that the cart was too heavy.”
“The Giuseppina is sly,” smiled Lidia; “she is old, and the old grow crafty. But to walk, that is too bad, and on your first evening! However, you are safely arrived, God be thanked; and now do come in, I must get to know Gian-Luca, I am happy in having a new cousin.”
II
Early the next morning they went out on the hills, and Gian-Luca saw the vendemmia. He was walking through a region of wide, green vineyards in which worked an army of peasants; their strong, slim bodies arched over the vines as they stooped to gather in the grapes. Here and there stood huge baskets overflowing with fruit that glowed purple-red in the heat; for the sun was already gathering power, pushing the mist away from the hilltops, pushing the light clouds away from the sky that stretched widely, fervently blue. The paths between the vines were strewn with crushed grapes, and the air was heavy with a queer, intense odor of fermentation and sweating human bodies; it smelt of fertility, virility and women, all steaming together in the sunshine.
The peasants were quick to observe a stranger; they glanced at Gian-Luca from under their lids, and whenever they stood up to ease their backs, they stared quite openly at him. Their eyes were the eyes of curious children, of the very young of the earth; they were not the eyes of those bygone Legions who had flung out the straight, white roads. For some reason Gian-Luca appeared to amuse them, perhaps it was his English clothes; but whatever it was, no sooner had he passed than they started laughing and talking loudly, calling him “forestiere.” Once or twice he spoke to them in Italian, but at this they seemed rather nonplussed, as though something in the fact of his knowing their language struck them as
