MORE BRIC-A-BRAC
It is little wonder that the doratore should cherish us. The drawing-room of the Villino on the Surrey hill is chiefly furnished out of his store. Therefrom come the Venetian chairs, the huge Goldoni armchair, the two cabinets of rusty gold. The hanging cabinet is full of Venetian glass, picked up—of all places—at that roaring cheap emporium, Finocchi’s, in the hideous modern corso fitly dedicated to Vittorio Emanuele. ‹To think these bubbles of ethereal loveliness, these liquid curves, these foam-frail phantasies, should have been discovered, unshattered, in such a spot!› There from the walls a wistful Giovannino, with pious, sentimental, guileless head inclined, looks down from his golden background, a true bit of early Siennese simplicity and faith. He came to us from the talons of a voluble Jew in the Via due Macelli, from which unclean grasp were likewise rescued those meek companions, “St. Bernardino of Siena” and “St. Antoninus,” on the opposite wall. St. Bernardino’s face is quite out of drawing, but, nevertheless, rarely has any presentment been more impregnated with holy benignity. The gentle pair hang just above a statue of Polyhymnia.... Oh! that “Manifattura di Signa,” in the dark purlieus of the Via Babuino! It is a blessing that we only discovered it the last week of our four months’ stay in Rome, and that our resources were then at a low ebb; else, indeed, the exiguous limits of our new country home never would have held our purchases. Another “Madonna” between the rose-coloured curtains in the narrow window.
Yes, indeed, there are a great many “Madonnas” about the place. There is an undeniably papistical atmosphere.—An old gentleman, of developed intellectuality, who stumbled in upon us shortly after our establishment, could not conceal the horrible impression it made upon him. His thoughts would have been easy to read even if the hurry of his adieux had not so plainly proclaimed his disgust. Seeing his eyes fixed upon the majolica statuette in question, we ‹perhaps with a little malice› informed him that it was known as the “Madonna del Bacio.” It was then he rose, not quite swallowing down his “Faugh!”
AN OLD-TIME NOTE
“You had not expected to find such superstition abroad in an enlightened age,” we murmured politely. We cling to these old-world symbols—some of us by conviction, others for mere love of the beautiful past.—A little mistake? The wrong house, say you? How could we have been so stupid as not to guess!—Of course, you wanted the bungalow at the other end of the village. Yes, Mrs. Ludwigsohn is everything that you can desire to meet. Up-to-date cap-a-pie. Socialism, rationalism, suffragism. You can begin on the suffrage: she will saw the air with her right hand in a convincing platform manner. A delightful, capable woman! She feeds her infants scientifically on proteids. And there are Röntgen pictures—anatomical, you know—in the hall, that you will find more inspiring than della Robbia. Oh, you will get on with her splendidly. We know her ... slightly. Indeed, we blush when we think of our one and only meeting: it was so inharmonious on our part. She began to argue—and instantly had us in a cleft stick: “Soul?” she exclaimed, fiercely interrupting an incautious remark. “Soul? there is no such thing. I deny it.—Prove,” she cried, “prove I have a soul!”
Poor lady, how could we? No—the Villino is certainly no place for the higher critic; for the lady of ’isms. We are not rationalistic in our tastes; we love old and simple things; prefer to take much for granted in life and enjoy the good peace that is vouchsafed.
