No spot is more propitious to
lingering repose than the broad terrace in front of the church, where,
lounging against the parapet, you may glance in slow alternation from the
black and yellow marbles of the church facade, seamed and cracked with
time and wind-sown with a tender flora of its own, down to the full domes
and slender towers of Florence and over to the blue sweep of the wide-
mouthed cup of mountains into whose hollow the little treasure city has
been dropped. I had proposed, as a diversion from the painful memories
evoked by Mrs. Coventry's name, that Theobald should go with me the next
evening to the opera, where some rarely-played work was to be given. He
declined, as I half expected, for I observed that he regularly kept his
evenings in reserve, and never alluded to his manner of passing them.
"You have reminded me before," I said, smiling, "of that charming speech
of the Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset's 'Lorenzaccio': 'I do no
harm to anyone. I pass my days in my studio, On Sunday I go to the
Annunziata or to Santa Mario; the monks think I have a voice; they dress
me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in the choruses;
sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times I go into public.
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