If it is worth
your while to accept the little he can offer you, take it by all
means, for he is a character worth knowing. He was exiled, I
should tell you, years ago, for some absurd political reason, and
has lived in England ever since. All the money he inherits from
his father, who was a mail contractor in the north of Italy, goes
in books and experiments; but I think I can answer for his
solvency, at any rate, for the large sum of five pounds. If you
are not very much occupied just now, go and see him. He is sure
to amuse you."
Professor Tizzi lived in the northern suburb of London. On
approaching his house, I found it, so far as outward appearance
went, excessively dirty and neglected, but in no other respect
different from the "villas" in its neighborhood. The front garden
door, after I had rang twice, was opened by a yellow-faced,
suspicious old foreigner, dressed in worn-out clothes, and
completely and consistently dirty all over, from top to toe. On
mentioning my name and business, this old man led me across a
weedy, neglected garden, and admitted me into the house. At the
first step into the passage, I was surrounded by books. Closely
packed in plain wooden shelves, they ran all along the wall on
either side to the back of the house; and when I looked up at the
carpetless staircase, I saw nothing but books again, running all
the way up the wall, as far as my eye could reach.
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