ooking, he spoke affectedly; his manners were not good, and
his conversation betrayed both ignorance and stupidity. He was a beggar,
devoid of money and wits, and I could not make out why he took with him a
beauty who, unless she were over-kind, could add nothing to his means of
living. Perhaps he expected to live at the expense of simpletons, and had
come to the conclusion, in spite of his ignorance, that the world is full
of such; however, experience must have taught him that this plan cannot
be relied on.

When we got to Vaucluse I let Dolci lead; he had been there a hundred
times, and his merit was enhanced in my eyes by the fact that he was a
lover of the lover of Laura. We left the carriage at Apt, and wended our
way to the fountain which was honoured that day with a numerous throng of
pilgrims. The stream pours forth from a vast cavern, the handiwork of
nature, inimitable by man. It is situated at the foot of a rock with a
sheer descent of more than a hundred feet. The cavern is hardly half as
high, and the water pours forth from it in such abundance that it
deserves the name of river at its source. It is the Sorgue which falls
into the Rhone near Avignon. There is no other stream as pure and clear,
for the rocks over which it flows harbour no deposits of any kind. Those
who dislike it on account of its apparent blackness should remember that
the extreme darkness of the cavern gives it that gloomy tinge.

Chiare fresche a dolce aque
Ove le belle membra
Pose colei the sola a me pay donna.

I wished to ascend to that part of the rock where Petrarch's house stood.
I gazed on the remains with tears in my eyes, like Leo Allatius at
Homer's grave. Sixteen years later I slept at Arqua, where Petrarch died,
and his house still remains. The likeness between the two situations was
astonishing, for from Petrarch's study at Arqua a rock can be seen
similar to that which may be viewed at Vaucluse; this was the residence
of Madonna Laura.

"Let us go there," said I, "it is not far off."

I will not endeavour to delineate my feelings as I contemplated the ruins
of the house where dwelt the lady whom the amorous Petrarch immortalised
in his verse--verse made to move a heart of stone:

"Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso"

I threw myself with arms outstretched upon the ground as if I would
embrace the very stones. I kissed them, I watered them with my tears, I
strove to breathe the holy breath they onc