Once or twice I
nearly fell into disgrace with my master--the first time because on a
clear starry night I began to play the fiddle up there on my box, and
then because of my sleeping. It _was_ strange! I longed to see all
that I could of Italy, and opened my eyes wide every fifteen minutes.
And yet, after I had gazed steadily about me for a while, the sixteen
trotting feet before me would grow indistinct and dreamy, my eyes
would gradually close, and at last I would fall into a slumber so
profound and invincible that it was impossible to rouse me. Then day
or night, rain or sunshine, Tyrol or Italy, it was all the same;
I swayed first to the right, then to the left, then backward--nay,
sometimes my head nodded down so low that my hat dropped off, and Herr
Guido screamed aloud.
Thus we had passed, I hardly know how, half through the part of
Italy that they call Lombardy, when on a fine evening we stopped at
a country inn. The post-horses were to be ready for us at the
neighboring station in a couple of hours, so the painters left the
carriage, and were shown into a special apartment, to rest a little,
and to write some letters. I was greatly pleased, and betook myself
to the common room to eat and drink in comfort. Here everything looked
rather disreputable: the maids were going about with their hair in
disorder and their neckerchiefs awry, exposing their sallow skin;
the men-servants were at their supper in blue smock-frocks, around a
circular table, whence they glowered at me from time to time.
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