"My dear, I had the right to blow his brains out; but as I didn't,
we can't let him starve. He has lost his pension and he is utterly
incapable of doing anything in the world for himself. We must take
care of him, secretly, to the end of his days. Don't I owe him the
most ecstatic moment of my life? . . . Ha! ha! ha! Over the fields, two
miles, running all the way! I couldn't believe my ears! . . . But for
his stupid ferocity, it would have taken me years to find you out. It's
extraordinary how in one way or another this man has managed to fasten
himself on my deeper feelings."
A PATHETIC TALE
IL CONDE
"Vedi Napoli e poi mori."
The first time we got into conversation was in the National Museum
in Naples, in the rooms on the ground floor containing the famous
collection of bronzes from Herculaneum and Pompeii: that marvellous
legacy of antique art whose delicate perfection has been preserved for
us by the catastrophic fury of a volcano.
He addressed me first, over the celebrated Resting Hermes which we had
been looking at side by side.
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