The People
Are Birds Of Prey; A Shallow And Rapacious Brood Who Fleece Visitors
During Those Summer Weeks And Live On The Proceeds For The Rest Of The
Year.
There is no commerce to liven them up and make them smilingly
polite; no historical tradition to give them self-respect; no
agriculture worth mentioning (the soil is too poor) - in other words, no
peasantry to replenish the gaps in city life and infuse an element of
decency and depth.
An inordinate amount of singing and whistling goes on
all day long. Is it not a sign of empty-headedness? I would like the
opinion of schoolmasters on this point, whether, among the children
committed to their charge, the habitual whistlers be not the dullest of
wit.
And so five days have passed. A pension proving uninhabitable, and most
of the better-class hotels being closed for the winter, I threw myself
upon the mercy of an octroi official who stood guarding a forlorn gate
somewhere in the wilderness. He has sent me to a villa bearing the name
of a certain lady and situated in a street called after a certain
politician. He has done well.
A kindlier dame than my hostess could nowhere be found. She hails from
the province of the Marche and has no high opinion of this town, where
she only lives on account of her husband, a retired something-or-other
who owns the house. Although convulsed with grief, both of them, at the
moment of my arrival - a favourite kitten had just been run over - they at
once set about making me comfortable in a room with exposure due south.
The flooring is of cement:
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