“I have given up the idea of finding a place in the city,” Wanda
continued. “It will be difficult to find an entire floor which is shut
off and where you can do as you please. In such a strange, mad
relationship as ours there must be no jarring note. I shall rent an
entire villa—and you will be surprised. You have my permission now to
satisfy your hunger, and look about a bit in Florence. I won’t be home
till evening. If I need you then, I will have you called.”
I looked at the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Logia di Lanzi, and
then I stood for a long time on the banks of the Arno. Again and again
I let my eyes rest on the magnificent ancient Florence, whose round
cupolas and towers were drawn in soft lines against the blue, cloudless
sky. I watched its splendid bridges beneath whose wide arches the
lively waves of the beautiful, yellow river ran, and the green hills
which surrounded the city, bearing slender cypresses and extensive
buildings, palaces and monasteries.
It is a different world, this one in which we are—a gay, sensuous,
smiling world. The landscape too has nothing of the seriousness and
somberness of ours. It is a long ways off to the last white villas
scattered among the pale green of the mountains, and yet there isn’t a
spot that isn’t bright with sunlight. The people are less serious than
we; perhaps, they think less, but they all look as though they were
happy.
It is also maintained that death is easier in the South.
I have a vague feeling now that such a thing as beauty without thorn
and love of the senses without torment does exist.
Wanda has discovered a delightful little villa and rented it for the
winter. It is situated on a charming hill on the left bank of the Arno,
opposite the Cascine. It is surrounded by an attractive garden with
lovely paths, grass plots, and magnificent meadow of camelias. It is
only two stories high, quadrangular in the Italian fashion. An open
gallery runs along one side, a sort of loggia with plaster-casts of
antique statues; stone steps lead from it down into the garden. From
the gallery you enter a bath with a magnificent marble basin, from
which winding stairs lead to my mistress’ bed-chamber.
Wanda occupies the second story by herself.
A room on the ground floor has been assigned to me; it is very
attractive, and even has a fireplace.
I have roamed through the garden. On a round hillock I discovered a
little temple, but I found its door locked. However, there is a chink
in the door and when I glue my eye to it, I see the goddess of love on
a white pedestal.
A slight shudder passes over me. It seems to me as if she were smiling
at me saying: “Are you there? I have been expecting you.”
* * * * *
It is evening. An attractive maid brings me orders to appear before my
mistress. I ascend the wide marble stairs, pass through the anteroom, a
large salon furnished with extravagant magnificence, and knock at the
door of the bedroom. I knock very softly for the luxury displayed
everywhere intimidates me. Consequently no one hears me, and I stand
for some time in front of the door. I have a feeling as if I were
standing before the bed-room of the great Catherine, and it seems as if
at any moment she might come out in her green sleeping furs, with the
red ribbon and decoration on her bare breast, and with her little white
powdered curls.