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It was in mid-July, and the weather was blazing in the glaring
sun-blanched Mediterranean town. If you know Leghorn, you probably know
the Consulate with its black and yellow escutcheon outside, a large,
handsome suite of huge, airy offices facing the cathedral, and
overlooking the principal piazza, which is as big as Trafalgar Square,
and much more picturesque. The legend painted upon the door, "Office
hours, 10 to 3," and the green persiennes closed against the scorching
sun give one the idea of an easy appointment, but such is certainly not
the case, for a Consul's life at a port of discharge must necessarily
be a very active one, and his duties never-ending.
Carducci had left me to the correspondence for half an hour or so, and I
confess I was in no mood to write replies in that stifling heat,
therefore I sat at the Consul's big table, smoking a cigarette and
stretched lazily in my friend's chair, resolving to escape to the cool
of England as soon as he returned in the following week.


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