There were arranged on its walls half-a-dozen canvases, blackened with years and smoke, on which you could make out—here, the severe profile of Don Gasparo Majori, 1592; there, the grey eyes, white moustache, and pointed beard of Don Carlo, 1690; beside it, the wig and round shaven face of Don Paolo, 1687; and further on, the lean and narrow head of Don Antonio, 1805, framed in an enormous collar, with white neckcloth, and showy waistcoat with watch-chain and seals dangling from its pockets. Don Mario knew by heart the life, death, and miracles of each one, and so did Don Ignazio.
Could they turn them out of their own house? No; it was impossible. Better let the whole fall into ruins.
They went to bed and put out the light.
“Well, it will last our time. We are old, Mario!”
“You are two years older than I!”
“... To-morrow, Notary Patrizio is coming to get an old deed read out to him.”
“So we shall be able to buy half a kilo of meat.”
“Saverio the butcher cheats in his weights. I shall keep my eyes open.”
“I have lent the rolling-pin to Comare Nina.”
“I will get the wine from Scatá.... Vittoria wine this time.... Pater Noster!”