FLORENCE
Question and answer followed each other in uninterrupted succession. Yes, that was San Miniato Al Monte, with La Bella Villanella hard by; and that beyond was Santa Margherita, neighboured by the villa in which Guicciardini completed his History. And yes,—Lamia was quite right,—that was the Torre del Gallo, and away to the right and farther up the hills was the Medicean Poggio-a-Cajano, where Lorenzo wrote his poem on the Ambra. Over the matchless panorama of hill and valley her interrogatories wandered unceasingly, whilst we called on our recollection to supply the names she asked for.
Suddenly, other persiane were pushed back, and Veronica joined us.
‘What are you all doing?’
‘Do you remember,’ answered Lamia, ‘the wife of Cosimo, Pater Patriæ, asking him, when advanced in years, why he so often sate with closed eyes, and his answering that he did so in order to accustom them to what they must soon always be doing? I am opening mine thus early, feeling that, in such a world as this, I shall never be able to close them again.’
‘It is perfect, absolutely perfect,’ said Lamia, ‘and no wonder Politian found it so.’
‘But did Politian really live here?’ I asked.