Another Midnight Run Full Movie Download In Italian Hd
Gema Shisila
In northern Italy, Christmas traditions include skiing at midnight to welcome Christmas day. Skiers usually take torches down the slopes in celebration. Another midnight-into-Christmas tradition includes midnight mass for church-goers.
As dawn breaks, Secondo silently cooks an omelette. When done, he divides it in thirds, giving one to Cristiano, one for himself, and leaving the remainder in the pan. Primo hesitantly enters, and Secondo serves him the last portion. Cristiano leaves, as the brothers begin to eat. They lay their arms across one another's shoulders, and eat silently.
One of the most incredible scenes in Italy during Christmas time is the beautiful presepe or nativity scenes erected throughout the country. Italians favor presepes over our traditional Christmas trees. Some have both, but everyone has a presepe. In addition to the presepes found in homes, nearly every church has a presepe and they are often found outdoors in a square or other public areas. Jesus is placed into the scene when the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve.
24. Drink alcohol from glass containers on public streets, public transit and in non-enclosed green spaces in Rome after 10pm. Or drink alcohol out of any container after midnight in these spaces.
Now I firmly believe that every one has in him a vein of superstitionwhich is developed in accordance with his surroundings. Place a man atmidday in a bustling city, and he scoffs at the idea of thesupernatural; but let him find himself at midnight alone on a solitarymoor, with the shadows of moonlight on every side, and all hisinherent superstition will start to life, peopling the surroundingsolitude with unseen phantoms, more terrible than those of the ArabianNights. Whether it was the time of night, or the proximity of theburial-ground, I do not know, but I felt my breast fill with vaguefears, and hastened to leave the uncanny spot as quickly as possible.
Fate, however, was against me, for in my blind speed, instead ofcrossing the bridge, I turned to the left, and unexpectedly foundmyself in the vicinity of another burial-ground. It was apparentlymuch older than the one I had first seen, and there was a ruined wallaround it, overtopped by tall, melancholy cypresses, looming black andfunereal against the midnight sky. By this time I had recovered mynerve, and feeling somewhat ashamed of my former ignominious flight, Idetermined to punish myself by entering this antique abode of thedead, and examining it thoroughly.
The cause of this sudden fear was that, while wrapt in contemplationof this desolate necropolis, I heard a laugh, a low, wicked laugh,which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. It was now nearlymidnight, that hour when the dead are said to come forth and wanderamong the living, whose nightly sleep so strangely mocks the semblanceof that still repose which chains these spectres to their tombs duringthe day. This idea pierced my brain like a knife, and for the moment,under the influence of the hour, the ghastly scene, the evil laugh, Ibelieved that I was about to witness this terrible resurrection. Itried to turn and fly, but my limbs were paralyzed, and like a statueof stone I stood there rooted to the earth, feeling as if I were underthe influence of some horrible nightmare.
In another moment I would have fled, when for the third time I heardthe evil laugh, the iron door of the tomb slowly opened, and a darkfigure appeared on the threshold. The sight was so terrifying that Itried to mutter a prayer, feeling at the time as firm a belief in thevisitation of the dead as any old woman; but my throat was so dry thatI could do nothing but remain silent in my hiding-place and stare atthis ghoul, vampire, wraith, or whatever it was, leaving its tomb.
Suddenly I felt that this creature of the night was passing near me,and in abject terror I shrank back against the rough trunk of the treeunder which I was standing. I heard nothing in the still night, I sawnothing in the thick darkness; but I felt it pass, by that sixth sensewhich is possessed by those who have highly strung nerves. In anothermoment the moon emerged from behind the clouds in all her splendour,and the burst of light gave me courage, for without considering thedanger, either material or immaterial, I rushed quickly towards thebroken wall, in which direction I judged this unseen ghoul had gone.
Who was she? Some unhappy ghost of antique Verona, who had committedone of those terrible crimes invented by Lucrezia Borgia, and who wascondemned by God to nightly revisit the scene of her former splendouras a punishment for her evil life? Some ghoul who left the feast ofthe dead in order to prey upon the living? Some vampire, lusting forblood, hastening towards the sleeping city to select her victim anddrain him of his life-blood? All the wild, weird tales which I hadheard recurred to my memory; all the terrible legends of Brittany, ofthe East, of Spain, and of the savage North. The memories of witchesrifling the dead for their unholy needs, of wizards holding orgies inlonely churchyards, of magicians evoking the silent tenants of thegrave by powerful spells, and of demons entering the bodies of thenewly dead in order to roam the midnight world--all these gruesomeideas surged in my brain like the delirium of fever.
Once more the torch disappeared round a corner to the left, but in amoment I had it again in sight; another flight of shallow steps,another short corridor, and at the end an arched door, through whichthe phantom disappeared. At the door I paused to consider what Ishould do next, as, if I rashly entered the room, I might pay for mytemerity with my life; so I stood irresolutely at the half-open door,ready to fly at the least sign of danger.
The peasants looked at one another with a meaning smile and shooktheir heads. I saw that they thought I had been drinking, so, giving apiece of money to the fat woman who had spoken, I took my way at onceto my hotel, which I reached in a state of bewilderment betterimagined than described.
Well, I had found out the name of the family buried in the tomb, andthat the wife was the sole representative of the race, so I naturallythought she was the only person who would have been able to enter thetomb; although why she did so, unless it was to pray beside the corpseof her late husband, I could not understand. Besides, Peppino, who wasone of the greatest gossips in the town, said she had left Verona, soperhaps the midnight visitor was not the Contessa Morone at all.
A mad and jealous husband, old, too, into the bargain. With such atrinity of imperfections a young and beautiful woman could hardly bemuch in love with him, and, a year after his death, would certainlynot have taken the trouble to pray at his tomb. No! the unknown ladycould not possibly have been the Contessa. Who, then was thismysterious visitant? I had now quite got over my fancy that she was aspectre, and felt profoundly curious to find out who she was, and whyshe had come to this ancient burial-place at midnight.
"Signore, he was the last lover of Donna Renata, whom she killed withthe Borgia poison because he was faithless. Eh! it is true,Illustrious. She found out by her spies that the Marchese lovedanother, so she asked him to a last feast in her room, and when he wasgoing she gave him a cup of wine. Dio! he drank it, the poor youngman, and died. Ecco!"
This explanation was quite satisfactory, and having thus learned theidentity of the young man whom I had seen murdered, I prepared to go,when another idea entered my head, and, going over to the piano, Ibegan to play by ear the strange air I had heard at the PalazzoMorone. Bianca gave a cry of surprise as she heard the melody, andcame over to the piano with a puzzled look on her face.
I thought of the person into whose arms I had fallen, the person whohad placed a handkerchief wet with some liquid over my face, andalthough, according to Peppino's story, this watcher at the door wasthe phantom of Count Mastino Morone, yet dismissing such anexplanation as due to superstition, I began to think that anotherperson had followed the lady of the sepulchre besides myself. Yes,there could be no doubt about it, some third person had tracked her tothe palazzo, and, unable to enter in the ordinary way, had filedthrough and broken the iron bar in the gate. Gaining access to theinterior of the palazzo in this way, the unknown had penetrated to thesecret chamber, and doubtless had witnessed the same strange scene asI had done. My presence had been discovered, and to preserve for someunknown reason, the secret of this terrible chamber, I had beenseized, rendered insensible by chloroform, and taken to the PiazzaVittorio Emanuele, so that I would be unable to re-discover thePalazzo Morone.
For myself, standing there in the perfumed atmosphere, with the lightjust showing the intense gloom, the dim glitter of gold and silver,the absolute stillness and the horrible memories of the chamber--Ifelt as though I were in the presence of the dead. At the table satthe phantoms of Donna Renata and her lover, smiling at one anotherwith hatred in their ghostly hearts; at the door watched the evil faceof the outraged husband awaiting the consummation of the tragedy; andin imagination I could see the wicked smile of the woman, the scowl ofthe husband, the loathing look on the face of the lover. My breath,coming quick and fast, made the flame of the candle flicker and flareuntil, overcome by the horror of the room, and by the workings of myimagination, I turned and fled--fled from the evil gloom, from thatblood-stained splendour, out into the blessed sunshine and pure air ofheaven.
During my narrative I fancy I have mentioned that I spoke andunderstood Italian tolerably for an Englishman. Well, I did not learnmy Italian in Italy--no, indeed! Foggy London saw my maiden efforts toacquire that soft bastard Latin which Byron talks of, and the MarcheseLuigi Beltrami gave me my first lessons in his melodious language. Hehad come to England some years before with a card of introduction tomy father from a friend in Florence, and on being introduced to ourhousehold we had taken a great fancy to one another. Even in thosedays, perhaps as a premonitory symptom of my operatic leanings, I wasmad on all things Italian, and discoursed about art, raved of Cimabueand Titian, and quoted Dante, Ariosto, and Alfieri until every one ofmy friends were, I am sure, heartily wearied of my enthusiasm.Beltrami appeared, and feeling flattered by my great admiration forhis country, advised me to learn Italian. I did so, and with his helpsoon became no mean proficient in the tongue which the Marchese, beinga Florentine, spoke very purely. In return I taught him English; buteither I was a bad master, or Beltrami was an idle scholar, for allthe English he ever learned consisted of two sentences: "You are abeautiful miss," and "I love you," but with these two he got alongcomparatively well, particularly with woman.
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