I, Cornelio Grandi, who tell you these things, have a story of my own, of which some of you are not ignorant.

You know, for one thing, that I was not always poor, nor always a professor of philosophy, nor a scribbler of pedantic articles for a living.

Many of you can remember why I was driven to sell my patrimony, the dear castello in the Sabines, with the good corn-land and the vineyards in the valley, and the olives, too.

For I am not old yet; at least, Mariuccia is older, as I often tell her.

These are queer times.