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Updated: June 29, 2025
Serafino told me calmly, with occasional profanity, of the arrest of large numbers of Italians who belonged to the Unita Italiana at Naples, whose condemnation was speedily followed by hideous dungeons and atrocious cruelties. There was slavery in Italy too! Italy was under the heel of Austria.
Odo indeed perceived with a touch of amusement that, in a society where Don Serafino set the pace, he must needs lag behind his own lacquey.
"Besides," she plausibly admonished him, "you might do me the justice of supposing that I have changes aboard the Fiorimondo. My maid awaits me there with quite a dozen boxes. So you see. Oh, and by the bye," she interjected, "Serafino also is coming with me. He'll act as courier buy my tickets, register my luggage; and then, when we reach our ultimate destination, resume his white cap and apron.
'Sure, I killed him! says he. 'And I'd kill him again, the ! I prefer not to quote his exact language. I've just come from the Tombs and had quite a talk with Serafino in the counsel room, with a gum-chewing keeper sitting in the corner watching me for fear I'd slip his prisoner a saw file or a shotgun or a barrel of poison. I'm all in! These murder cases drive me to drink, Mr. Tutt.
I have always thought that Monsieur Choulette resembled Socrates." Therese asked the cobbler to tell his name and his history. His name was Serafino Stoppini, and he was a native of Stia. He was old. He had had much trouble in his life. He lifted his spectacles to his forehead, uncovering blue eyes, very soft, and almost extinguished under their red lids.
I am too fat to run around like you young folks do. Go on and have a good time." And we ran down, following Serafino who had preceded us to engage a carriage. Off we drove, the wheels rattling over the stones, past the Forum, past the Coliseum, in view of St. Peter's. Soon we entered a dusty road. The houses were small now, broken and old.
The spacious atelier is full of scholars and apprentices employed in carrying out their master's ideas or making chemical experiments, but careless of the noise of tools and hammers, the fair-haired boy Angelo sings his golden song, and Serafino the wondrous improvisatore chants his own verses to the sound of the lyre.
Serafino was something past sixty. He had been with the Carbonari of 1820, and in the Italian revolution of 1830-31. He saw this suppressed.
Serafino looked at me with quiet, comprehending eyes which said: "It's the same struggle of money and power everywhere." He added aloud: "Italy will never eat free bread and have enough of it until the Austrian is driven off our back. They make us work and take away our labor in taxes. We are negroes too." He wanted to know something of Garrison, of whom he had heard.
In '48, when my soul was torn, I used to come in here every day just for the consolation of that face. And now I come for the memory and the peace it brings me." Slow tears were on the lower lids of his eyes. With a rough hand he brushed them away, then asked me: "What do you think?" "I love that face," I replied. "I understand how you feel." A friendship grew up between Serafino and me.
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