Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXVI. Miss Hall
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bad job in a place where nobody dies as long as
he keeps clear of the doctor. Even after I had
established him and his children in San Michele
he would not hear of giving up his job as a
gravedigger. He had a peculiar liking for handling
dead people, he positively enjoyed burying
them. Old Pacciale arrived on Easter Thursday
in a state of complete bewilderment. He had
never travelled on the railway before, he had
never been in a town, he had never sat in a
carriage. He had to get up at three o’clock
every morning when he went down on the
Piazza to wash his hands and face in Bernini’s
fountain under my window. After having been
taken by Miss Hall and the children to kiss the
bronze toe of St. Peter and to crawl up the
Scala Santa and by his colleague Giovanni of
the Protestant Cemetery to inspect the various
cemeteries of Rome, he said he would not see
anything more. He spent the rest of his time
seated by the window overlooking the Piazza,
in his long fisherman’s cap of Phrygian cut
which he never took off his head. He said it
was the finest view in Rome, nothing could beat
Piazza di Spagna. So thought I for the matter
of that. I asked him why he liked Piazza di
Spagna best.
“Because there are always funerals passing,”
explained old Pacciale.
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