(Indirizzo)
All’ Egregio Giovanotto Micio Boccadifuoco,
Casa Educativa Garibaldi,
Via Fata Morgana No. 92, Castellinaria.
Four o’clock was also Giovanni’s dinner-hour, and this was the day he had promised to dine with me. I was in some fear lest I might choose the wrong restaurant or order something that would disagree with him; the evening’s entertainment, on which the whole town depended, was at stake. But I need not have worried about it. Giovanni lives so entirely among people who are devoted to him that he habitually takes the lead in everything. Consequently he chose the restaurant, and its name was Quo Vadis? He also brought a couple of friends, ordered the dinner and, as a matter of course, took me for a drive afterwards to the lighthouse and back.
As we drove through the town, he pointed out the municipio, the post-office, the old Saracen palace, and the other objects of interest. When we got into the country, it occurred to me that I might not again have Giovanni all to myself, it was the first time we had been alone. If I could now get him to talk about his art, he might tell me exactly how deeply he feels the emotions which he expresses with so much conviction. I considered how to begin. I had better ask him first which was his favourite character. I turned to put the question. He had fallen asleep, and gave me rather an anxious time, for he repeatedly seemed to be on the point of rolling out of the carriage. It was a relief when, at last, the clattering of the horse’s hoofs on the paved streets woke him up, and there was no longer any necessity to hold him in by the coat-tail.
“There now,” said Giovanni, as he helped me out, “we have had a delightful drive. Is this your umbrella?” he added, handing it to me; “if I had known you had brought that, I would have put it up to keep the sun off you while you were asleep.”
I had not expected this and looked into his eye for a twinkle, I saw nothing but
grave politeness and the kindest consideration for my comfort. There are moments when one may regret not having been brought up on impromptu plays; Pietro would have known at once what to do. I could only ask, rather feebly—
“Have I been to sleep?”—a question to which, of course, he did not know the answer; he was quite capable of inventing one, however, so I hastily went on about the umbrella: “Thank you very much. I am afraid it would have been of no use. I intended to take it to be mended. I had an accident with it in the storm last night. Look,” and I opened it.
“You will never get that mended. You must buy a new one. Why, it is broken into as many pieces as the quarters of the globe. Ha, ha! The two parts of Enrico’s umbrella are three in number and they are the four following, viz. the handle, the ribs, the silk, most of the stick and—and—yes, and this little bit broken off from the end.”
“Bravo, Giovanni, bravo!”
“You are coming to see me act this evening?”