Sicilian Carousel Read Online Free PDF

against the flying olive groves, deeply thinking. No one could look like that and not be thinking very deep thoughts. I offered her a penny. “I was wondering what we will have for dinner,” she replied with the same Socratic air. And then slept like a white Sphinx.
    The dream faded into an untroubled sleep, and when I woke it was almost seven on a cloudless morning. Time for a dip in the hotel pool before breakfast. And here I found the gallant Bishop performing feats of youthful athleticism while his wife sat in a deck chair holding his towel. His morning boom of greeting proved that he had become acclimatized by now and was ready for anything. He swung about on elastic calves and even was so bold as to go off the top board—at which his wife covered, not her eyes, but her ears. I hoped he would not become too hearty and decide to hold Protestant services in the lounge as is the way of bishops traveling in heathen countries. I returned to pack and dress and then descended to find Deeds eating a slow breakfast and picking his way through the local Italian paper while Roberto guided him with an occasional bit of free translation.The French proconsular couple shared our table and seemed rested and refreshed.
    I thought, however, that they eyed me a trifle curiously, as if they too were busy speculating as to what I did in life. The German girl was reading Goethe’s enthusiastic account of his own trip round Italy. I hoped to find the text in English or French as I knew no German. The Microscopes were wolfing their food and calling for refills of coffee with the air of people who knew that it was all paid for in advance. They were determined to leave no crumb unturned. Pretty soon, I could see, complaints would start. The British would revolt over the tea and the absence of fish knives. The French would utter scathing condemnation of the cuisine. Poor Roberto! For the moment, however, all was harmony and peace. The novelty of our situation kept us intrigued and good tempered. The brilliance of the Sicilian sun was enthralling after the northern variety. And then there was the little red bus which we had not as yet met, and which was at this moment drawing up outside the hotel to await us. It was a beautiful little camionette of a deep crimson-lake color and apparently quite new. It was richly upholstered and smelled deliciously of fresh leather. It was also painstakingly polished and as clean inside as a new whistle. It gave a low throaty chuckle—the Italians specialize in operatic horns—and at the signal the chasseurs humped our baggage and started to stow.
    We were introduced to its driver, a stocky and severe-looking young man, who might have been aprizefighter or a fisherman from his dark scowling countenance. His habitual expression was somber and depressive, and it took me some time to find out why. Mario was a peasant from the foothills of Etna and understood no language save his own dialect version of Sicilian. He also distrusted nobs who spoke upper class—and of course Roberto spoke upper class and was a nob, being a university man. But from time to time, when a word or a phrase became intelligible to Mario, the most astonishing change came about in that black scowling face. It was suddenly split (as if with an axe blow or a saber cut) by the most wonderful artless smile of a kindly youth. It was only lack of understanding that cast the shadow; the minute light penetrated he was absolutely transformed. But he was grim about his job, and would not touch a drop of drink throughout the trip; it made Roberto, who was a convivial soul, a trifle plaintive to see such devotion to duty. Well, on the sunny morning we gathered around the little bus and eagerly appraised it, for we would be virtually living in it for a week. It looked pretty good to me—the luxury of not having to drive myself. Mario shook hands darkly with us all, the proconsulars, the Microscopes, ourselves, the German girl,