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All the English are simpatici. Come this way, signore! Gaspare knows me. Gaspare knows that I am not birbante." "Signorino! Signorino! Look at this clock! It plays the 'Tre Colori. It is worth twenty-five lire, but I will make a special price for you because you love Sicily and are like a Siciliano. Gaspare will tell you " But Gaspare elbowed away his acquaintances roughly.
How entirely differently constituted, how differently qualified historically, politically, and socially, was that generation in whose ears sounded the dance rhythm of the majestic sarabande, the solemnly animated entrée, loure, and chaconne, the delicate pastoral musette, the staid gliding siciliano, and the measured, graceful minuet, compared to a generation who dance the whirling waltz, the stormy skipping galop, and the furious cancan!
Inghilfredi Siciliano: "Gesù Cristo ideolla in paradiso E poi la fece angelo incarnando Gioia aggio preso di giglio novello E vago, che sormonta ogni ricchezza Sua dottrina m' affrezza Cosi mi coglie e olezza Come pantera le bestie selvagge."
He lifted his hands to Maurice's striped flannel jacket and thrust two large bunches of flowers and ferns into the two button-holes, to right and left. "Bravo! Now, then." "No, no, signorino! Wait!" "More flowers! But where what, over my ears, too!" He began to laugh. "But " "Si, signore, si! To-day you must be a real Siciliano!" "Va bene!" He bent down his head to be decorated. "Pouf!
He broke away, laughing, from Gaspare, and was swiftly in the sea. The Sicilians looked at him with admiration. "E' veramente più Siciliano di noi!" exclaimed Nito. The others murmured their assent. Gaspare glowed with pride in his pupil. "I shall make the signore one of us," he said, as he deftly let out the coils of the net. "But how long is he going to stay?" asked Nito.
Per Dio! Fifteen lire and to a Siciliano! For he didn't know you were coming. I took care not to tell him that." "Oh, you took care not to tell him that I was coming!" Maurice was looking over the wall at the platform of the station far down below. He seemed to see himself upon it, waiting for the train to glide in on the day of the fair, waiting among the smiling Sicilian facchini. "Si, signore.
Where everybody is so clean and tidy, he is almost ragged. His week's beard shows very black in his slightly hollow cheeks. He hates the man who has waked him by clapping him on the shoulder. Pietro is already married, yet he behaves as if he were not. He has been carrying on with a loose woman, the wife of the citron-coloured barber, the Siciliano.
You mean Ruffo Scarla, who fishes with Giuseppe Mandano Giuseppe, Signore?" "It may be. A young fellow, a Sicilian by birth, I believe." "Il Siciliano! Si, Signore. We call him that, but he has never been in Sicily, and was born in America." "That's the boy." "Do you want him, Signore? But he is not here to-day. He is at sea to-day." "I did want to speak to him."
As we pass with the padrona of the hotel, who is a Bavarian, we stop to speak to our own padroni, the Di Paoli. They have a warm handshake and effusive polite conversation for us; for Maria Samuelli, a distant bow. We realize our mistake. The barber not the Siciliano, but flashy little Luigi with the big tie-ring and the curls knows all about the theatre.
"The povero signorino! the povero signorino!" he cried, in a choked voice. "And I put roses above his ears! Si, signora, I did! I said he should be a real Siciliano!" He began to rock himself to and fro. His whole body shook, and his face had a frantic expression that suggested violence. "I put roses above his ears!" he repeated. "That day he was a real Siciliano!" "Gaspare Gaspare hush! Don't!
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