De vulgari eloquentia
Spring ought to be a time of lean harvests, but food out of measure weighed down the Vaccà table. Artichokes spilled in bagfuls, bean pods burst with grape-sized morsels; there were yellow tomatoes, Tangerine oranges, ruddy squashes and crumbled sheep’s cheese, a tang in everything of vinegar and pressed olives, and always a beaker of cool wine beside.
Keats was seldom alone with his hosts at table. The palazzo at suppertime was a common haunt and word might be given to set a dozen places, setting Keats beside a doctor or German professor—he did well enough with these, talking science in bad French—or else the big-bodied chief of a manufacturing concern, whose enthusiasm at meeting an Englishman would cool when he found Keats could tell him nothing about London comm
