‘EVERYWHERE ARE ROSES, ROSES’
Then she would revert to her own tongue, in its paraphrase of the pagan song the Compagnacci used to troll in the days of Savonarola, when they wanted to protest against the austerity of his followers and the Burning of the Vanities.
‘Every wall is white with roses,
Linnets pair in every tree;
Brim your beakers, twine your posies,
Kiss and quaff ere Springtime closes;
Bloom and beauty quickly flee.’
If we drove down to Florence, we drove along roads that were avenues of roses; and, in the Fair City itself, we forget to look at palace, or façade, or bridge, absorbed in gazing on the white and yellow Banksias that hung in bunches and clusters over intramural garden-walls. But, as the year expanded and deepened in beauty, we grew more and more unwilling to stir from the enchanting surroundings of the villa itself, unless it were to wander in other poderi and among other vineyards, or to make expeditions that took us uninterruptedly through a world of radiant newness. Lamia did not now inquire how we proposed to employ ourselves, since being alive was in itself occupation enough. Lest, however, as she said, Veronica’s conscience should prick her for so much time passed in the mere delight of doing nothing, she read us the following passage written by Lorenzo de’ Medici, and which she said she intended to recite to a larger audience whenever she delivered those lectures in the Sala Dante.