“By the expression of the countenance.”
When I first came to Italy I should have scoffed at this; now I have lived away from home so long that I too recognize the American expression,—nervous, sensitive, masterful,—the Look Dominant!
“Si vede Procida, La Spagna, io veggio a te!” Lucia crooned a stave of the old Neapolitan song, Funiculi Funicula, in a cracked voice.
“Yes, yes, I know both Americani ed Inglesi; my daughter’s husband is an Inglese.”
“Where did she meet him?”
“Here on Mt. Epomeo, where else? Una bella ragazza (She was a pretty girl)! You may not believe it, Signori, but there is no difference between my daughter and me save a matter of fifteen years. At fifty she is just what I was,—at sixteen she was her mother over again. You would not think it, eh? Well, one can speak about it, now that one is so old. She was called the most beautiful girl in all Ischia. How do I know if it was true? I could not think so, you see, because she was myself over again, and I never saw any difference between myself and the other girls.”
“I hope your daughter has a good husband.”
“Grazie a Dio, a good husband, yes, yes, a good husband.”
“Who was that pretty girl at the inn down at Fontana?” J. asked.
“Bella? quella ragazza? faccia di patate (Pretty? that girl? a potato face)! Ai! if you could have seen my Eva! The Madonna herself was not more beautiful. That girl, the innkeeper’s daughter, is as awkward as a cow, and she squints besides, as her mother did before her.”