5 years ago
"When the family had settled into its carriage (the dew had made the cushions damp) Don Fabrizio said that he would walk home; a little fresh air would do him good, he had a slight headache. The truth is that he wanted to draw a little comfort from gazing at the stars. There were still one or two up there, at the zenith. As always, seeing them revived him; they were distant, they were omnipotent and at the same time they were docile to his calculations; just the contrary to humans, always too near, so weak and yet so quarrelsome.
There was already a little movement in the streets, a cart or two with rubbish heaped four times the height of the tiny grey donkey dragging it along. A long open wagon came by stacked with bulls killed shortly before at the slaughter-house, already quartered and exhibiting their intimate mechanism with the shamelessness of death. At intervals a big thick red drop fell on to the paving-stones.
At the cross-roads he glimpsed the sky to the east, above the sea. There was Venus, wrapped in her turban of autumn mist. She was always faithful, always awaiting a Don Fabrizio on his early morning outings, at Donnafugata before a shoot, now after a ball.
Don Fabrizio sighed. When would she decide to give him an appointment less ephemeral, far from stumps and blood, in her own region of perennial certitude?"
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