Someone had died at Donnafugata, some tired body unable to withstand the deep gloom of Sicilian summer had lacked stamina to await the rains. “Lucky person,” thought the Prince, as he rubbed lotion on his whiskers. “Lucky person, with no worries now about daughters, dowries and political careers.” This ephemeral identification with an unknown corpse was enough to calm him. “While there’s death there’s hope,” he thought; then he saw the absurd side of letting himself get into such a state of depression because one of his daughters wanted to marry.
