EDITH'S FLORENTINE MOSAIC
HOTEL NEW YORK, FLORENCE, ITALY.
October 10, 19--.
TO SIGNOR RAFAEL VALLA,
_My dear Sir:_--Can you leave your tops for a few moments and read a
letter from your American friends, the Spragues?
Although we have been in Florence for more than a month, we have not
yet forgotten our visit in Venice and our journey to Verona. We sat by
the right-hand window in the train, as you told us to do; but I looked
often across the way to see what could take place on the opposite
side. Once I saw some storks that had flown down from Strassburg and
were standing on their long legs in the marshes.
But our side of the train was truly the more pleasant one. There were
grape-vines and mulberry trees and wheat-fields; and also cypress
trees, which you did not mention, but which we were glad to see. Then
there were big fields of watermelons ripening in the sun, and women
gathering them in baskets which they carried on their heads across
the fields.
In Verona we went to see the play in the colosseum by moonlight. I
have never seen such a performance in our stadium at Harvard, and you
have a right to be proud of the great colosseum.
There were four hundred performers on the stage at one time, and the
play ended at "the twenty-three hours" with a gunpowder explosion that
destroyed the fort,--the play fort, I mean.
And we looked at the tombs of the Scaligers, although I don't know any
good reason for doing so; and then we came through the most beautiful
country to Florence.
Men and women, dressed in gayest colors, were reaping with sickles in
the wheat-fields. The grain was truly "golden grain," and there was
never a foot of ground anywhere, whether the grain was standing or had
fallen, without a flaming scarlet poppy. And every hill was green with
trees and crowned with a castle or a tower.
We rode through miles and miles of vineyards, all arranged in
pictures, for our benefit, as it seemed. The vines hung in festoons
from long rows of mulberry trees. The trees were planted in rows that
crossed one another, forming hollow squares, and the square spaces
were filled with the scarlet poppies and the golden grain.
The trees grew so regularly, and the vines hung so gracefully--a
single vine running from tree to tree--that we could not take our eyes
from the lovely sight; and we have promised ourselves to see the
gathering of the grapes, on our way from Florence to Rome.
At the toll-gate we found that we could not enter Florence until after
our automobile and all our luggage had been examined. The officers
seemed to fear that we were trying to smuggle something to eat, either
fruit or vegetables, into the city.
It was in the midst of a thunder-storm; and not until the official was
convinced that we were quite wet, and wished to enter in order to find
shelter, and that we were truly a foreign lady and her daughter, on a
sight-seeing tour, did he let us pass through the gates and enter the
city.
And now, after our month's visit, I have a Florentine mosaic to take
to America with my Venetian necklace.
The golden background of my mosaic is another sunset; one which we saw
from the Shepherd's Tower, with the sky a rosy-pink, the River Arno
taking its slow course through the city and reflecting the rosy light,
and the surrounding hills all deep blue and amethyst.
The most precious stone of my mosaic is the glorious statue of David,
on the heights of San Miniato. Perhaps, if Michael Angelo could have
known, four hundred years ago, that I was going to have one minute of
such very great happiness as when I first saw his work, he would have
been very glad.
What a splendid fashion the Italians have of placing beautiful statues
out of doors where everyone may see and admire them often! In America
we crowd them all together in museums and charge an admission fee, so
that one sees them but seldom, if at all.
There are many stones in my mosaic. Florence is well called the "City
of Flowers." One sees flower-girls everywhere, and little Bianca, with
the tanned face and the big black eyes, who comes to our door every
morning with the sweetest and freshest of roses, is one of my friends.
Every Friday we have been to the market-place to see the peasants, who
come in from the surrounding hillsides with loads of peaches, figs,
grapes, pumpkins, watermelons, squashes,--all kinds of beautiful
fruits and vegetables.
But I like best the boys who carry trays of plaster images which have
been made in their little villages up among the mountains, and which
they bring here just as they sometimes take them to America.
We saw also the straw market, and the women braiding the straw and
making hats. You shall see the one which Mother bought for me, and
which I wear every day.
And this brings me to the reason for writing you this letter. We are
going to leave the music of the churches, the pictures, the
sculptures, the peasants and the market-place, and go into the country
to see the harvests.
I shall miss hearing the constant ringing of the church bells, and
seeing the squads of soldiers marching to the sound of military music.
And perhaps I shall never again sleep in a room with barred windows
overlooking the blue waters of an Italian river, and look through
those same bars into the faces of sweet nuns and shaven monks as they
pass on the sidewalk outside.
But we can have the automobile only a few days longer, and it is our
great wish that you join us in Florence and take the trip with us to
Rome.
Then if you will but stay with us for a few weeks in Rome, we shall
not get lost again because of being unable to speak Italian. Mother
says that you will be tongue and eyes for us.
Your American friend,
EDITH SPRAGUE.