I might have known that we were going there. The place is celebrated
through the entire province. For what it was celebrated I only vaguely
knew. Grandfather had never taken me there; he detested places that
every one visited, “where,” he used to say, “whole families go on
Sundays, places full of memories, great men, battles and greasy papers.”
Father grew animated when he talked of battles. Had not he too defended
the house against our enemies, against Aunt Deen’s they, so fiercely
bent upon its overthrow? Won to him for a moment, I had almost asked,
“And where were you during the war, father?” I knew that he had entered
the army and braved the snow with his company during a bitter winter.
But the question did not pass my lips. To have asked it would have
been to own that I was yielding to his influence, and I braced myself
to resist him. I would have given all this forest of oaks, birches and
beeches, all those ruins, so picturesque against the sky-line, for the
chestnut tree under which Nazzarena had passed.
He led me to the edge of the terrace that had once been the court of
the château, the wall of which had been thrown down. From here one
dominated the whole country; there was the lake with its indented
shores, its graceful little gulfs, its green promontories, the town
rising in terraces above it, easy to trace by its open squares and
public gardens; there were the villages of the plain, half hidden
in greenery, like flocks of sheep at rest, those on the hillsides
grouped around their sentry-like churches; and closing in the view, the
mountains, here clothed with forests, there rocky and bare. The pure
afternoon light, shimmering over all, sharpened their outlines. Here
and there a slate roof reflected back its arrows of gold. The various
crops could be distinguished by their different colours, by the various
shades of green, and all the boundaries of the indefinitely divided
properties, hedges, walls or fences, and the little white cemeteries
with their square plots, near the groups of houses, stood out clear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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