"What have you done with your horse? At the tavern? Why you've forgotten we're kin. Well? Are we too poor for you to lodge with us?"
"I wish I was as rich," smiled the youth.
"We'll send for the horse," said Anania, hiding his grammar in his pocket.
They went off together. Anania was childishly pleased at seeing this humble shepherd in his rough clothes which recalled to him a whole wild and far off world. Zuanne was overcome by shyness beholding this handsome young gentleman, fair and fresh with his white collar and splendid necktie.
"Mother, we want some coffee," called Anania from the street.
Then he took the guest to his own room and began to exhibit his possessions. Quaint furniture filled the long narrow room. The ceiling was of cane, whitewashed; there were two wooden chests like antique Venetian coffers, roughly carved with griffons, eagles, and fantastic flowers; a pyramidal chest of drawers, baskets suspended from the walls, and pictures in cork frames: in one corner a vessel of oil, in the other his bed covered with a quilt knitted by Aunt Tatàna. The window looked out on the courtyard elder; between the window and the bed was a little table with a green cover, and a white wood book-case, the corners of which had been carved by Maestro Pane in imitation of the chests. On the table were sundry books and much manuscript written by Anania; a few boxes strangely tied up, almanacs and a packet of Sardinian newspapers. All was tidy and very dean; sweet odours and waves of light entered by the window. The tiled floor was cracked in places, and a couple of elder leaves fluttered over it, chasing each other as if in play. A volume of Les Misérables lay open on the desk. Anania had intended to show everything to the visitor as to a long missed brother; but Zuanne's stupid expression as he opened and shut the mysterious boxes, damped his friend's enthusiasm.
Why had he brought this bumpkin into his little room? It was fragrant not only with the scent of honey, of fruit, of lavender which Aunt Tatàna hoarded in the chests, but also with the perfume of his lonely dreams. From its windows opening on the elder flower and the moss-grown roofs of neighbouring cottages, the world was opening for him, virgin and flowery like the untrodden mountains of the horizon. His pleasure had changed into disappointment.
Something had detached itself and fallen away from him, as a stone sometimes detaches itself from the rock, never to return. His native village, the past, the first years of his life, the homesick memories, the poetic affection for the brother of his adoption—all seemed to vanish in a flash.
"Let's go out," he said brusquely; and led the shepherd through the Nuoro streets, avoiding his schoolfellows lest they should ask who was this peasant walking awkwardly at his side. They passed before Signor Carboni's house. Suddenly appeared at the door a plump and rosy face, illuminated, it seemed, by reflection from a blouse of republican scarlet.
Anania snatched off his hat and the reflection of the blouse flamed on his face also. Margherita smiled, and never were the round cheeks of any maiden marked with more adorable dimples.