Who ever thought of building a
tower at the bottom of a hill? It was good enough, he dared say, for
Siena. Oh, yes; doubtless it satisfied their artistic notions, such as
they were.
This tower being one of my favourites, I felt called upon to undertake
its defence. Recollecting all I had ever heard or read to its credit,
citing authorities neither of us had ever dreamt of - improvising
lustily, in short, as I warmed to my work - I concluded by proving it to
be one of the seven wonders of the world. He said:
"Now really! One would think you had been born in this miserable hole.
You know what we Florentines say:
Siena
Di tre cose e piena:
Torri, campane,
E figli di putane."
"I admit that Siena is deficient in certain points," I replied. "That
wonderful dome of yours, for example - there is nothing like it here."
"No, indeed. Ah, that cupola! Ah, Brunelleschi - che genio!"
"I perceive you are a true Florentine. Could you perhaps tell me why
Florentines, coming home from abroad, always rejoice to see it rising
out of the plain?"
"Some enemy has been talking to you...."
A little red-haired boy from Lucca, carrying for sale a trayful of those
detestable plaster-casts, then accosted me.
Who bought such abominations, I inquired?
Nobody. Business was bad.
Bad? I could well believe it. Having for the first time in my life
nothing better to do, I did my duty. I purchased the entire collection
of these horrors, on the understanding that he should forthwith convey
them in my presence to the desolate public garden, where they were set
up, one after the other, on the edge of a bench and shattered to
fragments with our snow-balls. Thus perished, not without laughter and
in a good cause, three archangels, two Dantes, a nondescript lady with
brocade garments and a delectable amorino whose counterpart, the sole
survivor, was reserved for a better fate - being carried home and
presented as a gift to my chambermaid.
She was polite enough to call it a beautiful work of art.
I was polite enough not to contradict her.
Both of us know better....
This young girl has no illusions (few Tuscans have) and yet a great
charm. Her lover is at the front. There is little for her to do, the
hotel being practically empty. There is nothing whatever for me to do,
in these Arctic latitudes. Bored to death, both of us, we confabulate
together huddled in shawls and greatcoats, each holding a charcoal pan
to keep the fingers from being frostbitten. I say to myself: "You will
never find a maidservant of this type in Rome, so sprightly of tongue,
distinguished in manner and spotless in person - never!"
The same with her words. The phrases trip out of her mouth, immaculate,
each in full dress. Seldom does she make an original remark, but she
says ordinary things in a tone of intense conviction and invests them
with an appetizing savour.
