It Was Not Nearly Midday, But I Had Walked Perhaps Fifteen Miles, And
Had Only Rested Once In A Miserable Trattoria.
In less than three
miles I came to that unkempt and lengthy village, founded upon dirt
and living in misery, and through the quiet, cold, persistent rain I
splashed up the main street.
I passed wretched, shivering dogs and
mournful fowls that took a poor refuge against walls; passed a sad
horse that hung its head in the wet and stood waiting for a master,
till at last I reached the open square where the church stood, then I
knew that I had seen all Old Lodi had to offer me. So, going into an
eating-house, or inn, opposite the church, I found a girl and her
mother serving, and I saluted them, but there was no fire, and my
heart sank to the level of that room, which was, I am sure, no more
than fifty-four degrees.
Why should the less gracious part of a pilgrimage be specially
remembered? In life were remember joy best - that is what makes us sad
by contrast; pain somewhat, especially if it is acute; but dulness
never. And a book - which has it in its own power to choose and to
emphasize - has no business to record dulness. What did I at Lodi
Vecchio? I ate; I dried my clothes before a tepid stove in a kitchen.
I tried to make myself understood by the girl and her mother. I sat at
a window and drew the ugly church on principle.
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