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The Signora Pellegrina went into mourning at once, she put on black silk, put a black hem on her nightgowns, lowered the blinds, and lit a lamp on the wide linen-cupboard.
She was of high lineage and had come in for the shares of two sisters who had gone into convents and passed away early, but her husband had been a poor hand at guiding the domestic economy and had left little either of her good heritage or of his own. He had been honorary physician to the Confraternity of the Misericordia, and High Chamberlain of the Church of San Lorenzo; he had had, therefore, a magnificent funeral.
The Signora Pellegrina showed no signs of grief at his passing. She said: Well out of it; you are.
Then she assembled her three sons and called Cleofe, the general servant who had come from the mountains, to act as witness:
You are all three grown men.
Your progenitors are no longer. Divide what is left.
The clothes I have on are my own. Don’t grumble if I wear silk.
After that she forgot to talk, as if turned mute.
My grandfather was the youngest of the Signora’s three sons.