When F., the Norwegian sculptor, lay dangerously ill,
the woman in whose house he was did not even speak to him; she went out
and left him alone in the house. When the Danish dilettante S. was at
death's door, his landlady did not enter his room once a day, or give
him a drink of water, and he was obliged to keep a servant. V.'s
landlady stole an opera-glass, a frock-coat, and a great deal of money
from him. Most foreigners are swindled in a hundred different ways; if
they make a stain on the carpet, they must pay for a new one. Maria
looks after me like a mother. Every morning she rubs me with the
ointment the doctor has prescribed. When I have to have a bath, she
takes me in her arms, without any false shame, and puts me in the water;
then takes me up and puts me to bed again; after my sojourn in the
hospital, I am not very heavy. What I am most astonished at is the
indulgent delicacy of these people. For instance, Maria has forbidden
her good-natured husband, whom, like Filomena, I like to call _Zio_
(uncle), to eat garlic (the favourite food of the Romans) while I am
ill, that I may not be annoyed in my room by the smell. I have only to
say a word, and she and her niece run all my errands for me. Indeed, the
other day, Maria exclaimed, quite indignantly: "Sir, do not say
'_when_ you go into the town, will you buy me this or that?' Are we
robbers, are we scoundrels? Only say, 'go,' and I will go.
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