A Summer In Rome.
By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”
Of course all our friends exclaimed, when we intimated the possibility of our remaining in Rome for the summer:
We would suffocate with heat.
We would be poisoned with malaria.
We would have chills, and consequently fevers.
The fruit would make us sick, the wine would turn sour while we were pouring it out, and we would be kept awake all night by people in the street.
We would have no one to speak to, for everybody would be gone out of town.
Besides, and above all, it was not the proper thing to do.
I do not believe that either of us was serious in first making the proposal, unless Bianca cherished such a wish under her pensive silence; but so much opposition led us to look at the project, and we did not find it so bad as might have been expected. Besides, no one with a particle of spirit likes to be scouted and talked down; and all of us had spirit enough to feel a little vexed at the storm of opposition we had brought about our ears—all except Mr. Varney. He was too indolent to resent anything.
“I do not believe that there is the least necessity for having a fever in Rome,” said Isabel. (It was nearly always Isabel who spoke.) “One has but to select a cool apartment and use a little prudence. If we were to do as I have seen people do here—go from the oven to the refrigerator—we [pg 659] should know what to expect. To walk in a sunny street till you are in a perspiration, then sit on a shady stone to cool off, is not only inviting a fever, but sending a gendarme to fetch it. As for heat, New York is ten times hotter; and I once passed a whole summer in New York, and was quite comfortable; wasn't I, papa? Then, how any one can say that we shall have no one to speak to I cannot imagine. Here are four of us; and I take perfect delight in talking to myself. The most interesting conversations I ever had in my life were with Miss Isabel Varney.”
“Besides,” said a clear voice from the window, “what we came to Rome to see doesn't go away in the summer.”
We all looked at Bianca, who had turned her head toward us to speak, and was gazing out the window again, the lace curtain wrapped about her like a bridal veil, and the persienne half closed to shield her from the many eyes in the piazza.
“May I ask what you came to see?” inquired a visitor, who always tried to make this silent one talk.
She only half turned to answer.
“The Holy Father; the shrines and homes of the saints; all the holy, and all the beautiful, and all the famous places here; and the skies that are above them. And, again, the Holy Father. He is the Christian Prometheus, bound to the Vatican as to a rock, and we are a little chorus of American Oceanides who are come to bewail him, and who have no mind to go away for pleasure.”
“Brava!” said papa.
“And as for the ‘proper thing,’ ” said another member of the family, “we have bored ourselves to death all winter trying to do that.”
“Besides,” struck in Isabel, with a bright thought, “we want to learn the language; and that we never could do going about from place to place. Here we can sit down quietly, and study the four or five hundred irregular verbs at our leisure, and settle the genders of things, and learn to pronounce properly all their undulating and circuitous strings of vowels and the little curly tails to their ridiculous words.”
“Don't include me in your class, if you please,” Mr. Varney said. “I would as soon shave off my hair and wear a wig as drop my own language and speak another. I shall speak English when I say anything; and if people do not understand me, it will not be my fault. We can always find interpreters; and I do not approve of—of—er—of deserting your own tongue for another,” he concluded rather weakly, not having measured his strength before commencing this speech.
The truth was that he never did approve of anything which cost him the least effort; but we listened as gravely as if we believed him to be actuated by the most heroic patriotism.
“You are quite right, papa,” Isabel said emphatically. “Still, since interpreters may not always be honest, you know, it is better that some of us should understand and be able to protect the family.”
“You will not find the verbs so difficult as you may imagine,” remarked an Italian. “The irregularities are chiefly in the preterite. Preterites are always ragged. They are never a part of the original language, I think, but were interpolated when it was discovered that a nicer expression of thought was needed; and then the grammarians had to accommodate themselves to circumstances, and use what was left. You will take pleasure in learning so musical a language, Miss Isabel.”
“Oh! I think English quite as musical as Italian,” replied the young woman with composure.
“When you speak it, signorina,” said the Italian, after a momentary pause of astonishment.
“I find the phrases and words I learned in music very useful,” she continued. “The other day I said ‘allegro, ma non troppo,’ to the coachman, and he drove perfectly. That is on millions of pieces of music, you know, papa. It quite pleased me to talk to a coachman as if he were a fugue. And when I said ‘andante,’ he actually put down the brake.”
“But you know we were going down-hill then, Bella,” remarked her sister.
“I can make the servants understand perfectly well,” continued Isabel. “But in churches and galleries, and catacombs, and such places, the people are very stupid.”
This is the way in which Miss Isabel Varney made the servants understand perfectly:
“Angelina,” she would say to the donna, in English, “I want you to black my thick walking-boots. The dust has made them look dingy. But first bring me another pitcher of water. It is strange that in a city that would be a lake if all its aqueducts were to burst at once one cannot get more than a quart of water at a time. Make haste, now, for I wish to go out immediately.”
Angelina stood immovable, a picture of distressful doubt. The time had gone past when she would have ventured to remind her mistress that English had not been included in her education.
“Oh! to be sure,” says Isabel. “What a bother it is when one is in a hurry! What is the Italian for water, Bianca? Acqua? Well, Angelina, bring me some acqua.”
The donna began to lift her apron toward her eyes.
“Apportez moi some acqua!” said her mistress distinctly and authoritatively.
The donna shrank back. “Signorina mia,” she began pitifully.
“Don't talk!” cried the young lady. “What is the use of your talking to me when I cannot understand a word you say? It is too absurd. Besides, it is the servant's place to obey without speaking. Bianca, do look in the dictionary for the Italian for wish or will, the strongest word you can get; then in the grammar for the first person, singular, indicative of it—or, no, the imperative. And be quick, or I never shall get out. Voglio? Angelina, I voglio a pitcher of acqua—what is the word for quickly? Vitement? No. That isn't Italian. It must be vita. That is an Italian word, I know, and it sounds as if it meant quickly. Angelina, I voglio acqua vita.”
“Si, si, signorina!” exclaimed the poor little donna, and ran off, glad to get out of the room.
“And, after all, she hasn't taken the pitcher,” said Isabel. “But may be she will bring a pailful. She knew quite well that I was finding fault because we have so little. They understand what we say, I'm sure they do. Their ignorance is all a pretence.”
Five minutes passed, and ten minutes; and when the young lady had exhausted herself in impatient exclamations, Angelina entered the chamber, all out of breath, but smiling in confident triumph, and placed in her hand a bottle on which was an apothecary's label with acquavite neatly inscribed on it.
There was a bersagliere passing the house at that moment; and I have always thought I would like to know [pg 661] if he ever suspected that the hand of a papalina flung that bottle which alighted safely on the great tuft of flying feathers in his hat. I am sure that if the bottle had contained anything but acquavite, the military would have been called out.
This feat accomplished, Miss Isabel seized the empty water-pitcher, and thrust it into the hands of the frightened girl with one word, “Acqua!” uttered in a tone which proved her to have tragical abilities.
Angelina returned in a trice with the water, and found her mistress standing in the middle of the room, with a stern countenance, and a dictionary in her hand.
“Now, nero my guadagno.”
The girl lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
“Profitto, I mean,” was the hasty correction.
Tears rolled down Angelina's cheeks.
“It couldn't be that boot is stivale!” said the young woman in a low tone to a third person in the room. “That sounds as if it meant something three-cornered.”
“You might try,” was the suggestion.
“Stivale?” demanded the young woman of the donna.
“Si, signorina,” said the girl eagerly, glancing at the articles in question.
“Well, nero my stivale,” ordered the mistress haughtily.
“O Dio mio!” sobbed Angelina.
Isabel lost all patience and dignity. She flew at the boots and caught them in one hand, flew at the toilet-table and snatched her tooth-brush in the other, then, rushing at the terrified donna, performed before her face a furious pantomime of polishing her boots with the tooth-brush.
“Capisco!” cried Angelina joyfully.
“It is worse than Robinson Crusoe with his man Friday,” sighed Isabel, sinking, exhausted, into a chair. “These scenes are positively ruining my disposition. You know, Bianca, I used to have a very good temper, and the servants at home were always fond of me. But here I am becoming a scold and a fury. We must get settled in another apartment, and have a teacher right away.”
A cool summer apartment was found near the Esquiline, a teacher engaged, and our parting friends went their several ways, taking doleful leave of us.
And here it may not be amiss to make the reader better acquainted with the family who desire the pleasure of his acquaintance and company for a time.
Mr. Varney, the son of a Boston merchant, had, when he was young and venturesome, made a voyage to Spain in one of his father's ships. The ship came back without him; but, after six months' absence, he returned, bringing with him a young Spanish wife, whom he had wooed and won during that brief visit. She lived only ten years, pining ever for the sunny land of her birth, and dropped away finally before they had begun to fear that she was dying, leaving two daughters, Bianca and Isabel.
Her death quite uprooted her husband from his accustomed life, and gave him a shock from which he never recovered. He had always promised, and had meant, to take her back to Spain; but, between the calls of business and a habit of procrastination, had put off the visit from year to year till it was too late. Then the New England which had killed her became distasteful to him, and, after lingering a few years to settle up his business, he went abroad [pg 662] for an indefinite time, taking his daughters with him. He seemed to fancy that by this tardy journey he was proving to his wife his regret and the sincerity of his promises.
They avoided Spain, however, unwilling to hasten at once to that land which she had longed in vain to see. There was even an idea of self-exile and punishment in going so near without touching its beautiful shores. They visited England and France, then came directly to Rome.
“I do not believe that we shall ever go away from Italy for any length of time,” Bianca said. “It is the true land of the lotos, and we have eaten of the charmed plant.”
“Would you like to live here always?” her father asked, looking earnestly at her.
There was a certain pensive melancholy in her face and attitude which constantly drew his anxious regards.
“Yes!” she answered slowly.
“I think Bianca is changed from what she used to be,” he said afterward to one of the family. “It seems to me that I remember her gay and bright, like Isabel; but she has grown quiet and gentle, little by little, and so gradually that I do not know when the change began.”
The person whom he addressed tried to give him the comfort and reassurance which his anxiety evidently pleaded for. She pointed out that one had but to look at the two girls to see at once the difference in their temperaments; that Isabel's shorter and more compact form proved a stronger and more aggressive vitality than her sister's willowy slenderness was capable of; that the very shape of their faces—a delicate oval in the one and a full oval in the other—was another proof of difference; and that, moreover, Bianca, being the elder, had been of an age to be impressed by her mother's death, while Isabel was still too young.
“And I find yet another reason,” the comforter continued, turning mentor. “Your frequently-expressed regret for your wife, and the habit you have of referring to her love for Spain and her home-sickness, cannot fail to sadden so sensitive a heart as Bianca's, while Isabel thinks that it is merely a ‘way you have got into,’ as she would express it.”
It was, perhaps, rather a severe speech; but when a person contracts a habit of making a mournful luxury of his troubles, and of perpetually setting up his mourning standard beside the red, white, and blue of those who at least try to be cheerful, it does no harm to let him know that the effect is not enlivening.
Well, we were settled in our summer quarters, and had just finished our first dinner there, when the historian of the party made a prudent suggestion.
“Since we are beginning a new life with new people, I think that we should have a clear understanding about everything, so as to save trouble at the end,” she said.
Her ears were still ringing with the din of battle which had accompanied their exit from their former home—the loud voice of the padrona demanding payment for broken chairs and tables that had dropped in pieces the first time they were touched; the vociferous porter, who insisted on having money because he had snatched Isabel's reticule from her hand, in spite of her, and carried it a dozen steps; the small but very shrill boy, whom they had no recollection of ever having seen before, and who wanted to be paid for they knew not what; the hysterical donna, who expected that her heart, lacerated because her services [pg 663] had not been re-engaged, would be soothed by the gift of a few extra lire; and a half-dozen beggars crying for “qualche cosa.”
And so “it might be as well to have everything arranged at the beginning,” remarked this prudent person.
“I settled about the furniture before you came in to dinner,” Isabel said. “I had the whole family up, and before their eyes, with papa as witness, I shook and leaned on every table and cabinet, and sat down in every chair as hard as I could. Two chairs dropped, and are taken out for repair, which will cost us nothing. And I have ordered out all the paper bouquets with tall glass cases over them, and all the ornamental cups and saucers. But I think we may as well tell them that if they send begging people up to us, we will deduct what we give from the rent. Papa says he has made a careful reckoning, and finds that if we give a soldo to each ragged beggar in the street, and half a lira to each well-dressed beggar who comes up, we shall be ourselves reduced to beggary in six months.”
Bianca turned round on the piano-stool, her face full of expostulation. “Oh! but those dear Capuchins!” she exclaimed.
“It isn't likely that I meant to refuse a Capuchin,” answered Isabel indignantly. “They are an exception; and so are all religious. No one can say that religion costs them much in Italy. I am ashamed to give so little and receive so much.”
“Having an understanding at the beginning will make no sort of difference at the end,” Mr. Varney said. “Every stranger here expects to have a fight with the family he is leaving. It is a part of the play which cannot be left out by particular request, like the Prince of Denmark out of Hamlet. Let us put off explanations till they are forced on us. I would like, though, to say a word or two to Giuseppe about the table.”
Giuseppe was a new servant, whom we considered ourselves very fortunate in engaging, as he not only spoke English, but had lived in England several months, and might therefore be supposed to know something of Anglo-Saxon ways. He came in immediately.
“There are two or three directions which I wish to give once for all, Giuseppe,” Mr. Varney said in his slow, languid way. “I hope you will remember them, for I do not like to repeat orders.”
“Yes, sir!” said Giuseppe, with a stiffness of bow and attitude oddly in contrast with his sparkling Italian face.
“In the first place,” resumed his master, “when I say that I want breakfast, or dinner, or the carriage at a certain hour, I mean that time precisely, and not an hour or a half-hour later, nor even five minutes later.”
A second bow and “Yes, sir!” worthy of May Fair.
Mr. Varney went on argumentatively, bringing his fingers into play: “Secondly, I want my wine brought in with the seals unbroken. If I find a single bottle of the wine I have put up opened, I will”—he paused for a suitable threat.
“Break the bottle over your head,” struck in Isabel. “Remember, papa, all the watered wine we have paid for, and don't be too mild. Remember the horrible stuff for which we paid three times the market price all last winter. Don't be too mild. You may depend upon it, Giuseppe, we shall not permit of any tampering with wine, or fruit, or candles, or anything. We have had too much of that.”
“Yes, miss!” says Giuseppe.
“I hate to be called ‘miss,’ ” remarked the young lady. “Call me signorina. Of all titles I think miss the most disagreeable. And Mrs. and Mr. are not much better. The Italian language has that one advantage, I will own.”
“Be careful about the fruit you give us,” Mr. Varney went on. “We want ripe fruit. The figs to-day were not quite perfect. Figs,” said Mr. Varney with solemn deliberation—“figs should be just right, or they are good for nothing. When they are just right, there is nothing better, and you can give them to us three times a day. They must be ripe, but not too ripe; fine-grained, but not salvy; cool, crisp, intensely sweet, and on the point of bursting open, but not quite broken.”
Giuseppe forgot his English training long enough to inquire, “Hadn't you better speak to the trees about it, sir?”
“That will do,” Mr. Varney concluded with dignity. “I have no more to say now. You can go.”
The setting sun, shining on the new walls opposite, was reflected into our drawing-room, lighting it beautifully, touching Mr. Varney's gray hair and pleasant face, as he sat in a huge, yellow arm-chair by the window and diving into Isabel's bright eyes, as she leaned on his shoulder, and looked over with him the Diario Romano, trying to make out the holy-days.
“Here is the anniversary of the coronation of Pius IX.,” she said. “I wonder if we shall be arrested if we wear yellow roses in our hats, Bianca?”
Mr. Varney pored awhile over the book in his hand, and presently asked, with a general inquiring glance about the room, “Does anybody know what time of day or night twenty-three o'clock is? Here is a function announced to begin at twenty-three o'clock. Do people go to church at that hour? I should think it would be very late at night.”
“It might be some time the next day,” suggested a member of the family.
The gentleman arranged his glasses, and looked puzzled. “Then, when a function is announced for twenty-three o'clock on Wednesday, it takes place at some hour on Thursday,” he said.
No one ventured either to acquiesce or to dissent, and it was concluded to put this difficulty on the list of questions we were making out for our Italian teacher to answer the next morning.
“He will be such a convenience to us!” Isabel said. “People assure me that he knows everything, and is never at loss for an answer.”
Mr. Varney took a pinch of snuff. He had always shown an inclination toward that indulgence, but had not dared to yield to it in America. Now, however, with such eminent examples constantly before his eyes, he could carry his snuff-box, not only with impunity, but with a kind of pride.
“Have you reflected, my daughter,” he asked, “that your Italian teacher knows not a word of English, and that, since you cannot very well fly at him, as you could at Angelina, and extract his meaning at the sword's point, his explanations, however excellent they may be, are not likely to profit you much for some time to come?”
“Oh! we will make out some way,” she replied carelessly. “One can always understand a clever person. Besides, if worse comes to worse, I don't know why I shouldn't fly at him, if necessary. He will be paid for his time; and one can always scold a person whom one pays.”
The last sun-ray faded away, and the golden globe of the new moon shone out over Santa Maria Maggiore, shining so low and full in the transparent sky that one almost feared it might strike the tower or domes of that dearest of churches in passing, and break itself like a bubble.
We were silent a little while, then Mr. Varney said, “Sing us that song you are humming, my darling.”
When he said “my darling,” he always meant Bianca.
She made a motion to put away the music-sheet before her, and take another, but replaced it; and presently we heard her low voice, which half sang, half spoke, the words:
“Friend, the way is steep and lonely,
Thickly grows the rue;
All around are shadows only:
May I walk with you?
“Not too near; for, oh! your going
Is upon the heights,
Where the airs of heaven are blowing
Through the morning lights.
“Dare I brush the dews that glisten
All about your feet?
Can I listen where you listen?
Meet the sights you meet?
“Not too far—I faint at missing
You from out my way.
Vain is then the glory kissing
All the peaks of day;
“Vain are all the laughing showers
Leading in the spring;
All the summer green and flowers,
All the birds that sing.
“At your side my way is clearest:
Tell me I may stay!
Not too near—and yet, my dearest,
Not too far away!”
“What does it mean?” asked Mr. Varney. “It seems to me very obscure.”
“Oh! a song isn't expected to mean anything but melody,” somebody answered rather hastily. “All that is required of the lines is that they should be of the proper length. Sing the other, Bianca—the one I looked over to-day.”
The speaker knew that nothing suited Mr. Varney so well as a genuine love-song.
Bianca sang
“O roses dewy, roses red and sweet!
Tinting with your hues the summer air,
Give my cheeks your blushes, give my mouth your breathing,
Add such rounded beauty as is meet,
Wrap me in the graces all your tendrils wreathing;
For he loves me, and I would be fair.
“O sunshine, playing with the swinging vine,
Sift your gold through all my dusky hair,
Gild each braid and ringlet with a softened glimmer,
Hint the crown his love has rendered mine.
Than the brightest eyes, oh! let not mine be dimmer;
For he loves me, and I would be fair.
“O lilies! in a drift of scented snow,
Willing all your sweetness to immure
In a leafy cloister, waves alone caressing,
Give my soul your whiteness ere ye go,
That its stainless beauty be to him a blessing;
For he loves me, and I would be pure.
“O faithful stars! I pray ye, touch me so
With the virtue given unto you
That I fail him never, living, nor yet dying,
Howsoe'er the days may come and go,
With a steadfast tenderness his life supplying;
For he loves me, and I would be true.”
The first stroke of the Ave Maria broke off the last chord of the song, and there was silence in the room till the bells had sung their evening chorus.