to suggest a project as innocent as a trip, he had waited until evening. It bothered me to think that perhaps I was merely a screen for a quarrel between him and Clelia. I have said already that I had always been jealous of Doro.
This time we took an early-morning train and arrived while it was still cool. Deep in a landscape so vast that the trees seemed tiny, Doro's hills rose up; dark, wooded hills that stretched long morning shadows over their yellow lower slopes dotted with farmhouses. Doro—I made up my mind to watch him closely—was taking things very calmly now. I had been able to make him concede that the trip would last no more than three days,-1 had even persuaded him not to bring his suitcase.
We walked down, looking around us, and while Doro, who knew everybody, entered the station hotel, I stayed in the empty square—so empty I glanced at the clock hoping it might already be noon. But it wasn't yet nine, so I carefully examined the cool cobblestones and the low houses with their green shutters and balconies bright with wisteria and geraniums. The villa where Doro used to live stood outside the village on a spur of a valley open to the plain. We had spent a night there during our famous expedition, in an ancient room with flowered panels over the doors, leaving our beds unmade in the morning and giving ourselves no more trouble than to close the gate. I had not had time to explore the surrounding park. Doro had been born in that house,- his people had lived there the year round and died there. Doro sold it when he married. I was curious to see his face in front of that gate.
But when we left the hotel to walk, Doro took a completely different route. We crossed the tracks and went down the bed of the stream. He was obviously looking for a shady place the way one looks for a cafe in the city. "I thought we would be going to the villa," I muttered. "Isn't that why we came?"
Doro stopped and looked me up and down. "What's got into your head? That I'm returning to my origins? The important things I have in my blood and nobody is going to take them away. I'm here to drink a little of my wine and sing a little—with anybody. I'm going to have a good time, and that's all."
I wanted to say: "It's not true," but kept quiet. I kicked a stone and pulled out my pipe. "You know I can't sing," I muttered between my teeth. Doro shrugged.
The morning and afternoon we spent in peaceful exploration, climbing and descending the hill. Doro seemed to like paths that led nowhere in particular, that petered out by a sultry riverbank, against a hedge, or beside a locked gate. Toward evening when a low sun reddened the fine dust of the plain and the acacias began to shiver in the breeze, we went up a stretch of the main road that crossed the valley. I could feel myself reviving and Doro also became more talkative. He told about a certain peasant notorious in his day for driving his sisters out of the house—he had several— and then making the rounds of the farms where they used to take refuge, working himself into a lather and demanding a supper of reconciliation. "I wonder if he's still alive/ 7 Doro said. He lived in a farmhouse down below which one could see, a small dry man who spoke little and was feared by everyone. Still, he had a point; he didn't want to marry because he said he would hate to have to drive his wife away too. One of his sisters actually escaped altogether, to the general satisfaction of the countryside.
"What was he? A representative man?" I asked.
"No, a man born for something quite different, a misfit, one of those people who learn to be sly because they don't care much for their lives."
"Everybody should be sly, at that rate."
"Exactly."
"Did he marry?"
"No, he did not. He hung on to one sister, the strongest, who bore him sons and worked the vineyard. And they did well. Perhaps they are still doing well."
Doro spoke sarcastically, and as he spoke swept the hill with his eyes.
"Did you ever
This time we took an early-morning train and arrived while it was still cool. Deep in a landscape so vast that the trees seemed tiny, Doro's hills rose up; dark, wooded hills that stretched long morning shadows over their yellow lower slopes dotted with farmhouses. Doro—I made up my mind to watch him closely—was taking things very calmly now. I had been able to make him concede that the trip would last no more than three days,-1 had even persuaded him not to bring his suitcase.
We walked down, looking around us, and while Doro, who knew everybody, entered the station hotel, I stayed in the empty square—so empty I glanced at the clock hoping it might already be noon. But it wasn't yet nine, so I carefully examined the cool cobblestones and the low houses with their green shutters and balconies bright with wisteria and geraniums. The villa where Doro used to live stood outside the village on a spur of a valley open to the plain. We had spent a night there during our famous expedition, in an ancient room with flowered panels over the doors, leaving our beds unmade in the morning and giving ourselves no more trouble than to close the gate. I had not had time to explore the surrounding park. Doro had been born in that house,- his people had lived there the year round and died there. Doro sold it when he married. I was curious to see his face in front of that gate.
But when we left the hotel to walk, Doro took a completely different route. We crossed the tracks and went down the bed of the stream. He was obviously looking for a shady place the way one looks for a cafe in the city. "I thought we would be going to the villa," I muttered. "Isn't that why we came?"
Doro stopped and looked me up and down. "What's got into your head? That I'm returning to my origins? The important things I have in my blood and nobody is going to take them away. I'm here to drink a little of my wine and sing a little—with anybody. I'm going to have a good time, and that's all."
I wanted to say: "It's not true," but kept quiet. I kicked a stone and pulled out my pipe. "You know I can't sing," I muttered between my teeth. Doro shrugged.
The morning and afternoon we spent in peaceful exploration, climbing and descending the hill. Doro seemed to like paths that led nowhere in particular, that petered out by a sultry riverbank, against a hedge, or beside a locked gate. Toward evening when a low sun reddened the fine dust of the plain and the acacias began to shiver in the breeze, we went up a stretch of the main road that crossed the valley. I could feel myself reviving and Doro also became more talkative. He told about a certain peasant notorious in his day for driving his sisters out of the house—he had several— and then making the rounds of the farms where they used to take refuge, working himself into a lather and demanding a supper of reconciliation. "I wonder if he's still alive/ 7 Doro said. He lived in a farmhouse down below which one could see, a small dry man who spoke little and was feared by everyone. Still, he had a point; he didn't want to marry because he said he would hate to have to drive his wife away too. One of his sisters actually escaped altogether, to the general satisfaction of the countryside.
"What was he? A representative man?" I asked.
"No, a man born for something quite different, a misfit, one of those people who learn to be sly because they don't care much for their lives."
"Everybody should be sly, at that rate."
"Exactly."
"Did he marry?"
"No, he did not. He hung on to one sister, the strongest, who bore him sons and worked the vineyard. And they did well. Perhaps they are still doing well."
Doro spoke sarcastically, and as he spoke swept the hill with his eyes.
"Did you ever
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