began the study of literature, and if at first I read disingenuously, I
went on to read with profit. The "Vita Nova" of Dante enabled me,
perhaps, to touch upon topics with her which I could not have dared to
do without its moving text; but it won me to the heart of the great
poet. I walked the dire circles of Hell, I scaled the Mount of
Purgatory, I flew from ring to ring of the Heaven of pure light. Aurelia
was my Beatrice; but the great Florentine and his lady were necessarily
of the party. And then I began, as men will, to take the lead. Aurelia
had exhausted her little store when she had named Giotto and Dante: I
took her further afield. We read the Commentaries of Villani,
Malavolti's History of Siena, the Triumphs of Petrarch, his Sonnets
(fatal pap for young lovers), the Prince of Machiavelli, the Epics of
Pulci and Bojardo, and Ariosto's dangerously honeyed pages. Here Aurelia
was content to follow me, and I found teaching her to be as sweet in the
mouth as learning of her had been. I took enormous pains and consumed
half the night in preparation for the morrow's work. I abridged
Guicciardini's intolerable History, I hacked sense out of Michael
Angelo's granite verses, weeded Lorenzo of disgustfulness, Politian of
pedantry. The last thing we read together was the Aminta of Tasso; the
last thing I had of her was the "Little Flowers of St. Francis," a
favourite book of her devotion. My Saint, she called St. Francis of
Assisi--as in one sense no doubt he was; but, "Aurelia," I had replied,
kissing both her hands, "you know very well who is my saint. I should
have been named Aurelius." She had said, "It is a good name, Aurelio.
There are many who have it in my country." "You shall call me nothing
else, "said I then; but she shook her head, and hung it down as she
whispered softly, "I like best Francesco," and then, so low as to be
hardly audible, "Checho," the Sienese diminutive for my name of Francis.
Old Nonna came in to hound me from the room. That night--it was my last
but one--Aurelia came to the door with me, and let me kiss her two hands