ROSES
“Rome is so big, so impossible to get acquainted with in less than
years of time, that I think we would do as well to go on,” said Miss
Cavendish at the end of two weeks spent in assiduous sight-seeing.
“Especially as we have not a good _pension_, and as the town is so
crowded,” put in Sidney.
“Oh, for dear Sorrento! all that deliciousness for six francs a day,
wine and lights included,” sighed Gabriella for the tenth time since
she had arrived in Rome.
“I think we will see then what Florence can afford us. I have written
to two or three places there for rooms and have just received some very
satisfactory replies. We really are not any too happy here,” said Miss
Cavendish.
“And we have worked, yes, really worked, harder than anywhere else. In
two weeks we have tried to see what we could never master in less than
ten years. I am tired,” replied Sidney.
“Then we will go on, if you and Gabriella agree.”
Gabriella did agree, and declared that she was yearning for the Uffizi
and the Pitti galleries. Therefore they shook the dust of Rome from
off their feet and were borne along in a crowded train toward the city
of Dante.
“Tea will be served immediately,” said the little maid who showed them
to their rooms when they had reached their _pension_.
“Tea?” exclaimed Gabriella as the maid departed. “This certainly
promises better than Rome. Oh, Gem, we can afford to stay here for a
long time: rooms that overlook the Arno, tea and--”
“Wine and lights included,” laughed Sidney.
“Yes, actually, and all for five francs a day. I don’t see how they do
it. I hope they will not starve us as they did at the last place.”
“My dear,” said Miss Cavendish, “I have learned one thing: when you
want home comforts abroad, don’t go to a boarding-house kept by one of
your own countrywomen, especially if she be a missionary.”
The girls’ spirits rose as time went on, for not only were their rooms
exceedingly comfortable, but they found the fare excellent. To be sure
the house was old and dingy, and it was not of spotless cleanliness.
“But for Italy, well, we might go much further and fare worse,”
remarked Gabriella.
“One could go as far as America and not begin to have all this,”
declared Miss Cavendish, whose experience of American boarding-houses
was not limited. “I do not know where at home we could find good beds,
cheerful, prompt and skilled attendance, delicious food, fresh flowers
on the table every day, a hostess anxious to please, all for a dollar a
day.”
“Wine and--” began Gabriella mechanically. And then they all laughed.
The days went by all too rapidly, and a week passed before they knew
it. “I could hang out this window all day,” remarked Gabriella, after
Sidney had called her two or three times on Sunday morning. “There is
so much to see along this river front. I have been watching a gentleman
spruce himself up for Sunday. He has taken off his shirt, washed it
in the Arno, and you may see it there spread out on the steps in the
sunshine while he sits complacently in his coat waiting for it to
dry. Isn’t that the simple life exemplified? Yesterday I beheld a
scene worthy of a French novel. Two washerwomen took to fisticuffs and
dragged each other over the face of the earth by the hair of the head.
It was dreadful, and yet I had to watch to see whether the big or the
little one came off victor.”
“And which did?”
“Neither, for two men separated them, but there were Vesuvius-like
mutterings all day, and doubtless by this time one or the other is
badly done up. The Italians are so impulsive, you know.”
“That’s a mild word for such a performance,” said Sidney. “Come, do
hurry, Gabriella, we want to go to the Cathedral.”
It was at the Uffizi that they ran across the Bailey party again.
They were standing before a Titian, Baedekers in hand, looking at the
picture with a half interest.
“Miss Mildred still wears her chain bracelet,” whispered Gabriella.
“Yes, and she has a new chain; that makes three that she is wearing. I
suppose the last is one that she has bought here,” returned Sidney.
“I wonder of what the chain bracelet is the symbol,” said Gabriella.
“Every Englishwoman we have seen has worn one. I should really like to
know the why of it.”
“There is Mr. Morgan with his friend, the German,” exclaimed Sidney.
“Shall we discover them or let them discover us?”
“We can move along a little and let them be the discoverers,” said
Gabriella; “it will be more dignified.” But as she spoke Miss Cavendish
had recognized the others and in a few minutes the two parties had
become one.
At the end of half an hour Gabriella found herself with Mr. Morgan,
separated from the rest. “Dear me, where are they?” she exclaimed,
looking around in dismay.
“They can’t be very far,” Mr. Morgan assured her. “It’s jolly easy to
lose one’s way in a place like this. We’ll meet them at some convenient
point, no doubt.”
“And if we don’t I am so near home that it makes little difference,”
said Gabriella, resolving not to trouble herself. “This place is such a
joy; in fact, Florence is all a joy.”
“It’s rather a nice old place,” said Mr. Morgan.
“Oh, dear, why can’t you English be more enthusiastic?” exclaimed the
girl. “You never rise to superlatives unless you use horrid words like
beastly and rotten, and even then you don’t rise, you sink.”
Mr. Morgan laughed. “And you Americans are so very enthusiastic. You
rave over such remarkable things.”
“Who wouldn’t rave over that Botticelli, for example? I suppose you
would say that is not a superlatively fine picture.”
“No doubt it is for those who care for Botticelli.”
“And you don’t?”
“I care for others more, though I do see some things to admire in his
work.”
“Then let us go on. I will not stand here with such an unenthusiastic
person. I will come back when I can gloat over this by myself. I want
to be with some one who can rave or with no one at all, when I look at
a picture like that. If there happens to be anything in this collection
which appeals to your fieriest ardor, lead me to it.”
Her companion laughed and sauntered leisurely on, Gabriella following.
At last he paused before a madonna of Andrea del Sarto’s. “Is this
it?” asked Gabriella.
“Do you like it?”
“Ye-es. Please let me hear you rave.”
“I did not promise to.”
“You are trying to fool me. I am sure this does not appeal to you more
than anything in the gallery.”
“No, but I like it. Don’t you?”
“I do, but I always see del Sarto’s horrid little wife in all his
Madonnas. They all have that discontented expression, and they make me
mad. I always think of Browning’s poem on poor Andrea. Oh, you little
beast!” She shook her fist at the picture to the horror of a group of
Italians standing near. Seeing their shocked looks, Gabriella laughed.
“They think I am somebody dreadful; an anarchist, no doubt, or a
lunatic, at the very least. I forgot what the picture represented; I
was thinking only of the model. Now show me something that you really
do admire.”
“Here is something; Raphael’s portrait of Pope Julius II.”
“Do you admire it because Baedeker gives four and a quarter lines to
it?” Gabriella asked saucily.
“No, because it is rather a good thing. You have seen the Madonna della
Sedia, of course. You must admit that it is beautiful.”
“It is much more beautiful than I expected to find it, for when poor
reproductions of an exquisite thing are scattered broadcast over the
earth, it is hard to see the beauty when you come face to face with
the original. I sometimes wonder if after all it isn’t a mistake to
familiarize the masses with the beautiful through such means.”
“I think it is well, if it is not overdone.”
“And the tendency is to overdo. Santa Claus, even, is no longer a
mystery when every cheap John shop has a mock figure of the saint in
the shop window, performing tricks for a gaping crowd, and he is even
reduced to the base purpose of advertising some quack medicine as he
stands on the corner and gives out hand-bills. That is one thing I like
about Italy; it still retains some of the old illusions. We are fast
out-growing them at home.”
Mr. Morgan looked down at the girl with an amused expression. “For a
young person of your tender years, that sounds rather blasé, and from
you who adore enthusiasm, too.”
“That’s just it; I love enthusiasm. I don’t want to outgrow my dear
illusions, and I do not want to be compelled to use the modern process
of dissecting everything. I would rather not tear the veil from the
mysteries. Let the children of this world make their discoveries for
themselves.”
“Here is something that’s not half bad,” said Mr. Morgan, stopping
before a fine portrait.
“You like Titian, don’t you?”
“Well, rather.”
At this moment Sidney came upon them from a side gallery. “Oh, here you
are,” she said. “We are ready to go, Gabriella. Miss Bailey is coming
with us. She wants to try a meal at our _pension_. She is nothing if
not enterprising in adding to her addresses. She has just given Gem six
for Venice, and grateful Gem has asked her to lunch, or is it breakfast
we have at this hour?”
“Where are you all?” Gabriella asked.
“In the Tribuna waiting for you. Hasn’t it been a perfectly delightful
morning? Have you and Mr. Morgan seen everything?”
“We have seen several things. No one could see everything here in
one short morning,” returned Gabriella. “I hope I am not the kind of
American who rushes about Baedeker-possessed, and only looks at the
things he stars. I have the greatest respect and affection for my
Baedeker, but I do like to observe with some sort of originality. I saw
several rushers this morning. Do you remember the one on the steamer
that we called the Microbe? She was here.”
Sidney cast an amused look at the young man standing by, who looked
unmistakably puzzled. “I remember,” she replied.
“I asked her if she had seen a delicious little thing in one of the
rooms, and she rustled over the leaves of her guide book and said:
‘Baedeker hasn’t starred it; I don’t believe I have looked at it.’
‘He hasn’t even mentioned it,’ I said, and she looked at me as if I
were some sort of queer specimen. I suppose she wondered at my daring
to form an unauthorized opinion. Isn’t it a blessing to have a mind of
your own?”
Mr. Morgan laughed. “You certainly have. Is that Miss Mildred over
there buying photographs?”
“I wonder if she is buying another Madonna,” said Sidney. “She has
bought three already, none of which is the special one she is looking
for.”
“Why does she buy them, then?” asked Gabriella.
Sidney laughed. “I don’t know. She discovers only too late that what
she has just bought is not her favorite.”
“Well, I never,” remarked Gabriella, reserving further comment till she
should be alone with her friends.
Miss Bailey now saw them and came fluttering up, her sister following.
The latter was all filmy veil and dangling chains with clinking
ornaments. Her manner was that of a belle of the last century, for she
dipped and tripped and undulated to the last degree. Evidently she
considered Mr. Morgan her especial cavalier, for she chid him for so
long deserting her, tapping him playfully with her fan. Miss Cavendish
here joined them and all took their way to the street.
“And where is Herr Muller?” Mr. Morgan asked Sidney.
“He has gone back to his hotel,” was the answer.
“He though you were lost, naughty boy,” said Miss Mildred, catching the
remark, “and he went to find you.”
Mr. Morgan made no reply, but a few minutes later, when he and
Gabriella fell a little behind the others, he said: “Let us give them
the slip this afternoon, and go to the rose gardens of San Miniato.”
“Oh, I can’t,” returned Gabriella, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’ve
promised to go haunt the goldsmith’s shops with Sidney.”
“The ones on the Ponte Vecchio?”
“Yes; and we are anxious to see Casa Guidi windows.”
“You will be disappointed in them, but you will not be disappointed in
the Boboli gardens, if you are going there. I may be on that side the
river myself, this afternoon.”
“I thought you were going to San Miniato.”
“Not by myself.”
“There is Herr Muller.”
“Yes, but one wants to see roses under special conditions. You remember
how you feel about the Botticellis; grant me the grace of feeling so
about roses.”
“But Herr Muller would surely say _wunderschoen_ often enough to please
you.”
“He might, but I don’t want any but English enthusiasm.”
“I am sorry American is not sufficient for you, but there is Miss
Mildred,” said Gabriella wickedly.
Mr. Morgan’s face immediately became imperturbable, and Gabriella felt
a little ashamed of her small fling at the older woman. She relieved
her confusion by exclaiming, “Oh, see those lovely saffron roses that
man has. They remind me of Sorrento. I must get some for Gem. Think
of it! only twenty centimes, four cents.” She buried her face in the
flowers, exclaiming: “You beauties, how I adore you!”
“I knew you loved flowers,” said Mr. Morgan, “and that is why I want
you to go to San Miniato with me.”
“I will go to-morrow,” said Gabriella hastily, turning aside to give
the roses into Miss Cavendish’s hands.
The glory of an Italian spring lay over the gardens of San Miniato.
Thousands of roses gave a responsive loveliness to the favors of sun
and soft air. Gabriella, who had felt a little guilty at leaving her
comrades out of her plans, and who had wondered if it were quite the
proper thing to make this excursion with so recent an acquaintance,
lost all sense of discomfort when she saw the loveliness before her.
“Ah,” she sighed, “it was worth coming to see. It is Eden before the
fall. It is all the romance of Italy, all the sunniness concentrated in
the hearts of these roses.”
Her companion smiled. “I knew you would express the poetry I can only
feel.”
“And there are so many of them,” Gabriella went on. “I never could have
believed it. Isn’t it lovely to be up here and to look down on the
historic city? The Medicis, Dante, Savonarola, Romola, the Brownings,
how they all come to one’s mind.”
“But don’t you know,” said her companion, “a simple Welshman of the
engineering profession cannot follow you in these flights. I only
feel the poetry of the roses, and I only see the Florence of to-day
enveloped in a haze at my feet.”
“Oh, but surely, surely you have read Romola and some of Browning at
least.” Gabriella was vaguely disappointed.
“I am sorry to confess that I have not read Romola, and of Browning I
am scared.”
“You mustn’t be, and you must read Romola.”
“I will at once. I will stop on my way back and get a copy, and you
shall pick it out for me, if you will.”
“That is better. I begin to have hopes of you. Before we leave Florence
I may be able to set your feet in the right way.”
“And when do you leave Florence?”
“In a few days, I am afraid. There are some of the churches we have
yet to see, and we have not been to Fiesole. To me Florence is almost,
if not quite, as inexhaustible as Rome, and in many respects is more
fascinating. Have you happened to see a funeral at night? It is the
most impressive thing you can imagine. It is much more so than at
Naples, where they carry an empty coffin and make a great to-do, but
all in the glaring light of day. But we must be leaving this kingdom of
Rosedom, for it is time to be getting back.” Her companion, however,
lingered, and finally, under protest, filled her arms with roses and
they returned to the city.
“Late to luncheon again,” said Miss Cavendish, as the girl came in.
“We were just going down. What beautiful roses, and what a mass of
them. Have you been squandering your substance in that kind of riotous
living?”
“No,” replied Gabriella, depositing her burden in the water pitcher,
“they were given to me.”
“Take care,” warned Sidney. “Roses will be your destruction yet.
Remember the rose of Rome.”
“‘Ah, but where blooms the rose of yesterday?’” quoted Gabriella. “Who
cares for the roses of Rome when one can have the roses of Florence?”
“And have you been mooning all morning over there at San Miniato?”
Sidney asked.
“No, we have been sunning,” answered Gabriella, flippantly.
“What do you know of that Mr. Morgan?” asked Miss Cavendish in her most
judicial tone.
“Let me see, what do I know?” returned Gabriella speculatively. “He is
from some utterly unpronounceable place in Wales, but he was educated
in England. He is a civil engineer, very civil, I should call him. His
father was a clergyman, but he is no longer in the land of the living,
and his mother died recently. The unpronounceable place he still calls
home, but Owen ap Owen goes where his profession leads him. Just now
he is off for a short holiday, having come here from Germany with the
Misses Bailey, who were great friends of his mother’s. They were very
kind to her once when she was ill away from home, nursed her as if they
had been sisters, and have been devoted friends to her at other times,
hence the young man’s sweet acceptance of Miss Mildred’s attentions.
He didn’t tell me that last, but I draw my own conclusions, and gather
that there is no harm in her little dabs and dips. I believe that is
all I can report at this present time, but given the opportunity, I
have no doubt I can satisfy any amount of curiosity on the subject.”
“Gabriella, Gabriella,” was all Miss Cavendish vouchsafed in reply as
she led the way down to luncheon.