Our windows look out on the Arno, and to the right I see the Ponte Vecchio; to the left, a bella vista which ends at Fiesole.
The new Florence is broad and white and glistening; the old is narrow, dark and massively rich.
The Arno, like the Tiber, is a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are unique, ancient and historic.
The Lungarno, down which we walk each morning, is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno side a marble balustrade; on the other, little shops displaying jewels and precious stones which would tempt the soul of a female angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, yet sometimes—once, I think—we really went by without entering. The day we did not go in, however, we went by appointment to one of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and rings of scarabs, the cartouch of which proved them to belong to some Egyptian potentate.
The Piazza della Signoria forms the center of Florence. It is surrounded by the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the Loggia dei Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savonarola was burned.
In the buildings just named, each a masterpiece of architectural beauty, are found many of the chefs-d'œuvre of the world. Florence overflows with so much that is ornate, it was difficult to make selections. Like poor Helen—
"Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated,
I'd give it all to be to her translated."
