I went one day to the great annual fair at Fiesole. Shouting and
shrieking, the people drove down the unspeakably dusty road with such
haste, carelessness and high spirits that conveyances struck against
each other at every moment. It was the life represented in Marstrand's
old-time pictures. In crowded Fiesole, I saw the regular Tuscan country
type, brown eyes, yellow or clear, white skin, thin, longish face, brown
or fair, but never black hair, strong, healthy bodies. The masculine
type with which I was acquainted from the soldiers, was undeniably
handsomer than our own, in particular, was more intelligent; the young
women were modest, reserved in their manner, seldom entered into
conversation with the men, and despite the fire in their eyes,
manifested a certain peasant bashfulness, which seems to be the same
everywhere.
XL.
Vines twine round the fruit-trees; black pigs and their families make
their appearance in tribes; the lake of Thrasymene, near which Hannibal
defeated the Romans, spreads itself out before us. The train is going
from Florence to Rome. Towards mid-day a girl enters the carriage,
apparently English or North American, with brown eyes and brown hair,
that curls naturally about her head; she has her guitar-case in her
hand, and flings it up into the net.
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