There
was quite a severe drought in Asisi last summer, and loud and deep were
the imprecations we heard against the government. As the vines withered
and the corn shrank, so withered and shrank the king and his ministers
in the esteem of these poor people. Count Bindangoli told me that they
very much feared some democratic demonstration, and that they were
anxiously looking forward to the winter. In vain for weeks we looked
over to Perugia for rain (rain comes to Asisi only from that
direction). In vain were prayers in the churches, processions and
promises. We saw the gray showers sail around the horizon, heard their
far-off thunders, saw the lightning zigzag down through the slanting
torrents, and almost saw the hills grow green under them. The only
tempests we had were those we saw brooding on the brows of scowling
contadini. They talked openly of a republic, they were sick of the
devouring taxes, they regretted the papacy: there was certainly danger
of some "scompiglio," my padrone di casa assured me.
At length, after long weeks of waiting, Perugia disappeared in a gray
deluge: the rain came marching like an army across the plain toward us;
its first scattered drops printed the dust, its sheets of water
drenched the windows, its small torrents rushed down the steep streets.
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