Mrs. Mutton, poor soul, has had a dead infant. It is perhaps scarcely to
be wondered at, as she had another encounter with the water-butt shortly
before the event; but she is as much “taken-to” as if she had been
hoping to bring an heir-apparent into a realm of splendour. The doctor,
to console her, asked her hadn’t she plenty already.
“I did think it unkind of him, Miss! It does seem ’ard! I did so seem to
long for this one to live!”
We had a confidential conversation with the experienced matron who was
ministering to her, and we mentioned the water-butt with some severity.
But Mrs. Tosher would have none of this. Hers is a large mind
philosophy:
“Ho! well, you see, Miss, it’s just as it takes them. I don’t say as
Mutton isn’t a bit fond of his glass; but after all, Miss,” she smiled
indulgently, “you must remember he was a bit upset-like. It isn’t as if
there ’adn’t been a reason. When ’e ’eard there was going to be another,
it turned ’im against ’er. Of course, poor feller! That was only to be
expected like—”
“Good Heavens!”
Mrs. Tosher smiled more broadly than ever at our innocence.
“Some men do take it very ’ard!”
Words failed us. We could not reason upon such a point of view.
At the bottom of the garden the “little cot,” as Mrs. Adam calls it,
which she and her husband have made so pretty, has been the scene of a
similar domestic event which makes the contrast still more poignant. A
little Eve, in fact, has been born into our small garden of Eden. She
has received a joyful welcome. That most attractive child, black-eyed
Adam Junior, with the mysterious intuition of childhood had recently
been bombarding heaven for a little sister. He is now thrilled and
triumphant at the success of his prayers. We personally are quite
pleased with the addition to the _famiglia_.
[Illustration: view of house from garden]
We wonder whether it is because of the Italian atmosphere that has so
unaccountably descended on Villino Loki that we and our establishment
are really falling into relations not unlike those which so happily
subsist between master and servant in Italy. The Master is not master,
but Father-in-chief; the servant are not servants, but members of his
family—the _famiglia_.
We were afraid our last winter in Rome had spoilt us for English ways.
We had a delightful famiglia there. Fioravanti di Rienzo, the pearl of
cooks; Camillo Lanti, the clever, busy, and quite reasonably peculating
butler; and Aristide ‹surname unknown›, the superb coachman, all begged
with tears to come back to England with us.
“Take but a postcard,” cried Camillo, “and write upon it ‘Camillo,
come,’ and instantly I start.”
[Illustration: man in trees]
“Will ever anyone drive the Excellencies as I drive them?” Aristide
demanded. “I would learn the ways of Londra in a day—two days. To learn
the ways of Londra, that would be nothing; but to drive another family,
that I feel I cannot ever again!”
[Sidenote: A FEARFUL DREAM]
It was Fioravanti whom we loved the most, and whom we did really try to
get over to us later. But it was a case of binding engagements on one
side and the other. He had given his word, as a man of honour, to remain
a year with his new family, and we were pledged to some new cook at the
moment when he was free. So it all came to nothing—which was perhaps
just as well. He was a choleric little man. Loki’s Mamma dreamt he
stabbed the kitchen-maid and buried her in the garden, which was not at
all an unlikely thing to happen, for, like Vatel, his dishes were his
glory, his honour was bound up in them, and the race of Cinderellas in
this land would inflame the blood of such an enthusiast.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: ROMAN MEMORIES]
This is not to say that all Italian servants are like those three. We
had some very thrilling experiences in the shape of Roman rascality
during our first weeks of housekeeping there. After the odd custom we
had one woman servant to three men; and, as the genus housemaid does not
exist at all in many parts of the Continent, we had extreme difficulty
in procuring a _donna di faccenda_. We had a whole large house in the
Via Gregoriana, and it was imperative we should have something female to
scrub its bedrooms and bathrooms.—Scrub? It is not a word you could get
any Roman to understand the meaning of, much less put into application;
but still we had to get somebody to sweep the dust into the corner or
under the rug, and pass an occasional wet rag languidly round the rim of
a bath. Loki’s Ma-Ma, being the Italian scholar of the family, engaged
the staff. She was enchanted with the appearance of a splendid young
girl from the Campagna, with cheeks like ripe nectarines, and a
coroneted black head. Alert and brisk as a mountain kid, she seemed to
us. Alas! who could have thought it? The creature was a bacchante! She
ordered in a cask of wine all for herself, and then ran out the second
evening and never came in till the next morning. Having danced with
Bacchus all night, she was altogether unfit for any Christian habitation
in the morning. It may be all very well to sleep off the red fumes on a
thymy bank in a pagan world; but it’s not at all poetical or attractive
at close quarters within four walls! A sordid, pitiful, revolting
business! And the happy mountain kid, who proved after all to be only a
bad little gutter goat, had to be driven forth when the legs that had
caracoled so much were able to crawl again.
Aristide had a profile like the head of a philosopher on a Roman coin.
He was a magnificent driver. We had a pair of powerful, fiery Russian
horses, and they wanted all his skill. Whenever they took to
plunging—and when they did so they struck sparks out of the stones and
filled the street with the thunder of their hoofs—Aristide’s method of
reassuring “his family” was invariably to gather the reins in one hand
and blow his nose with great _désinvolture_ with the other. He always
turned sideways to do this, flourishing an immense pocket-handkerchief,
as one who would say: “Behold! how calm I am!... Have no fear!”
Only on the occasions when we discarded our carriage for the use of a
motor was the harmony disturbed between Aristide and ourselves. He would
droop on his box for days afterwards and take the characteristic Roman
revenge of declining to shave.
Loki’s Grandmother developed a sudden and violent attack of influenza on
one of these motor expeditions, and had to be conveyed home in a
collapsed condition.
“Ah,” said Aristide, “if Mamma had been with me, this would not have
happened! Autos are nasty feverish things.”
* * * * *
We were very sorry to leave our Roman house, with its delicious
proximity to the Pincio. It was a very old house, with a round marble
staircase, deep-grilled windows, and a delightful tiled inner courtyard
filled with green, where a fountain splashed day and night—a courtyard
into which the sunshine literally poured. A great many of the objects
which now give us pleasure at Villino Loki we placed originally in that
double drawing-room which the owners of the house had left in somewhat
denuded condition.
[Sidenote: ORANGES AND ALMOND BLOSSOM]
[Illustration: orange tree in pot]
The gardener of the Barberini Palace kept us supplied with hired plants.
Never have we seen Azaleas or Orange trees grown like those, with such
exquisite artistic freedom. We had a Tangerine tree that was a complete
joy. This arrangement worked beautifully for the first month. But
unfortunately the gardeners, father and son, were professed anarchists
and, when they were in their cups, their ethical principles overcame
their business sense. Loki’s Grandmother had one day to stand by
helplessly while Loki’s Ma-Ma was cursed and vituperated in a foam of
vulgar Italian for innocently requesting to have a faded Azalea
replaced. Not being able to speak Italian herself, she could not come to
the assistance of her more talented daughter.... And both felt
ignominiously inclined to cry!... Alas! that any spot so beauty-haunted
should have been desecrated by such coarse and stupid passions! Those
gardens of the Barberini, with their Lemon groves and Orange groves; the
lush grass filled with Narcissus and Violets, and, in the Roman way,
with water dripping from every corner; with the bits of columned wall
and the statues and the three great stone pines against the blue sky! It
is all Italy in one small enclosure.
We moved from the Pincian Hill to much less interesting quarters; but,
with the luck that followed us all through that happy time, quite close
to the Borghese gardens. There we had a black-and-white tiled
dining-room and a long drawing-room all hung with pearl grey satin and a
wonderful Aubusson carpet. And when the room was filled with almond
blossom there were compensations for the exiguity of our accommodation.
The lady who was obliging enough to accept us as her tenants ‹for a rent
that filled our Roman friends with horror at our profligate
extravagance›, although bearing a noble Austrian name, it was darkly
whispered, had a commercial origin. Her businesslike spirit certainly
showed itself in her transactions with us; for neither blankets, nor
cooking utensils, nor the necessary glass and china were forthcoming, in
spite of magnificent assurances.
“What will you?” said Fiori, our beloved little chef, shrugging his
shoulders, “_Sono Polacchi!_” “The Countess,” he informed the young
housekeeper, “sent in her maid, and I showed her the few poor pans, the
miserable couple of pots she expected me to do with. ‘Is it not enough?’
she cried. ‘Enough?’ I answered. ‘Enough perhaps for your lady, for a
service that is content with an egg on a plate, or one solitary cutlet!
But my noble family must be nobly served.’”
[Illustration: man with apron]
Excellent Fiori, he used to trot upstairs every night to receive his
orders, clad in the most spotless white garments and a new white paper
cap, which he doffed with a superb gesture on entering the room. Upon
receiving a well-deserved compliment, he would spread out his small fat
hands and bow profoundly, exclaiming, “My duty, Excellency, only my
duty!”
In one single instance was his entire content in our establishment
clouded; that was when, in a moment of abstraction, he forgot to send up
a dish of young peas—the first in the market—which he had prepared with
his own superlative skill, and adorned with a pat of fresh butter
whipped to a cream at the top: “_All’Inglese_,” he called it. We believe
he spent the evening in tears, and he could not speak of it next day
without emotion.
“Useless, useless, to try and console me, Excellency,” he exclaimed. “I
am profoundly humiliated, I shall never get over it!”
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