THE LEMON GARDENS


The padrone came just as we were drinking coffee after dinner. It was
two o'clock, because the steamer going down the lake to Desenzano had
bustled through the sunshine, and the rocking of the water still made
lights that danced up and down upon the wall among the shadows by
the piano.

The signore was very apologetic. I found him bowing in the hall, cap in
one hand, a slip of paper in the other, protesting eagerly, in broken
French, against disturbing me.

He is a little, shrivelled man, with close-cropped grey hair on his
skull, and a protruding jaw, which, with his gesticulations, always
makes me think of an ancient, aristocratic monkey. The signore is a
gentleman, and the last, shrivelled representative of his race. His only
outstanding quality, according to the villagers, is his avarice.

_'Mais--mais, monsieur--je crains que--que--que je vous derange--'_

He spreads wide his hands and bows, looking up at me with implicit brown
eyes, so ageless in his wrinkled, monkey's face, like onyx. He loves to
speak French, because then he feels grand. He has a queer, naive,
ancient passion to be grand. As the remains of an impoverished family,
he is not much better than a well-to-do peasant. But the old spirit is
eager and pathetic in him.

He loves to speak French to me. He holds his chin and waits, in his
anxiety for the phrase to come. Then it stammers forth, a little rush,