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25, 1863.] set wide, and there on the opposite wall was the fresco, by Tamagni.

The dirty servant told us that this part of the house had been inhabited by a religious order, and that this had been the refectory. The air was however too close, and the effluvia too nauseating, for us to remain, and we picked our way out again, not surprised to hear that the community had been established by Sta. Caterina. The saint’s abhorrence of cleanliness had evidently clung to the place. Such filth I never saw in the habitation of any human being. The woman talked grandiloquently of the grandeur of the family whom she served, but hinted at the decadence of their fortunes. On repassing the kitchen we met the priest going out, with his unclerical quadruped at his heels. He touched his hat as we passed him. There was something in his face which interested me. Spirit and courage were in every line of it, but blent with these was a kind of melancholy disdain. The stern exigencies of family pride had evidently forced him into the priesthood. As the younger brother, he had been resolutely set apart for it. What other profession was open to the cadet of a poor, proud, family at San Gimignano? Had he been “vilain, très vilain,” as Béranger says, he could have chosen for himself. That man’s face, with its look of thwarted purpose and passion, made a greater impression on me than the fresco. He was no priest at heart, and evidently rebelled even at the poor necessity of the costume, from the way he wore it.

We then returned to the inn, found the gateway empty and clean, and our carriage drawn up under it. Even the stairs had been feebly swept and garnished, and the whole place had been arranged to do us honour. After luncheon two of the party went to see the Oliveto, a convent three quarters of a mile from the town, which contains a beautiful fresco by Pinturicchio, and we remained to rest in the inn till it was time to recommence our journey.

We had only guide-books, and amused ourselves with them, and with looking at the towers we could see from the window, and wondering what life was like at San Gimignano. Our reflections were interrupted by our host. He and his wife and one servant formed the whole establishment, which was of the poorest and most primitive kind. He entered immediately into conversation with us. With the ready politeness of an Italian, he felt it was his duty to endeavour to entertain the two guests under his roof. His manner was courteous, and, if I may so term it, deferentially affable. He began praising the beauty of his native town; its unique adornments, its treasures of art, and the excessive purity and salubrity of its climate. With the last assertion I entirely agreed. He confided to me that he sometimes went to Florence to deposit money in the bank, “Yes, as much as 300 scudi at a time;” but he confessed he wondered how people could breathe down in such a well. He had a podere five miles from San Gimignano. He had just come home when we arrived. The grain we had seen in the entrance was from his own land.

“I walked there at five this morning, worked there till ten, and then I walked home.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventy-six.”

He certainly did credit to the air, for he was a hale, wiry-looking old man, with abundance of health and work still left in him. He told me that his wife and himself were both very strong, but he did not know how it was, his children were not like their parents, they had all died but one. His daughter had died two months ago of consumption in that room (he opened the door of the bedroom which led from the one we were in).

“You need not be afraid,” he said; “the room has been whitewashed, and everything that belonged to her, or that she used during her illness, has been burnt. Will you go in?”

I did so. He pointed out that a new bed had been placed in the room, but the two long low trestles which belonged to the former bed were still there. He assured me, however, that no infection could possibly be feared from these. There was something ghastly in the reiteration of this assertion, and it certainly spoke more for the prudence of the innkeeper than for the feelings of the father. There is an absolute mania in Italy as to the infectious nature of consumption.

There was no trace left of his child in the room in which she had lived and died, and he gloried in it. There were, however, two relics which had escaped the general sacrifice: the first was a pocket edition of “Tasso.” The other relic was on the wall. A spirited sketch of a very handsome head, with a German name beneath it. The whole framed in carved wood. “That was also hers,” the father said. “It was given to her by one of the artists who come here to sketch the beautiful scenery and copy our famous pictures. He stayed three months here, two years ago. He lodged here, and dined here, and seemed like one of the family. She often watched him painting, and he taught her to draw a little. She was so clever—all my children are clever and handsome but they die.” This was said as if it was a moral fault in them, which he parentally but justly deplored, and in a tone of deprecation.

“She, Nanina,” he continued, “was like a Madonna. You should have seen her as she lay on that bed opposite this sketch; she would look at it for hours together. With her beautiful colour, and her long dark hair hanging down, she looked like a picture herself. When she was dead, her face seemed as innocent as a child’s. The doctor said the air was too ‘fine’ for her; yet she was born here. She was quite well all the summer. She and my son Michael used to go out with the German gentleman when he was sketching, and walk for miles. It was not till the winter that she began to complain. I thought at first she was dull, for we were alone, and it had been more merry when Signor Reinhof was here. Then my son Carlo came to us, ill, from Florence, and she then seemed to get a little better. She would have returned to Florence with him, but he died here, and I could not go with her, or send her alone. She never held up her head afterwards, and died this summer.”

“Did the German artist ever return?”

“Oh, no, we never heard of him after he left.