Two Pilgrims' Progress; from fair Florence, to the eternal city of Rome

by Joseph Pennell; Elizabeth Robins Pennell

"Why, truly, I do not know what had become of me there, had not Evangelist happily met me."

It was in this high hill town that one of the pilgrims fell by the way. For two days J. was too ill to ride, and we feared our pilgrimage had come to an end. We stayed at the Albergo Marzocco. It was on the fifth floor of an old palace, and the entrance was through the kitchen. The padrone and his family were very sociable. Almost immediately his wife wanted to know the trade of the Signore. "Ah! an artist. Ecco me! I am a washerwoman!"

She was also cook. From the dining-room we could watch her as she prepared our meals. When she kept us waiting too long we had only to step into the kitchen and stand over her until the dish we had ordered was ready. We could look too into an adjacent room where during our stay one daughter of the house forever ironed table-cloths, while a second added up endless accounts.

But friendly as these people were, they were stupid. The padrone had a pizzicheria, or pork-shop, across the street. When anything was wanted at the Albergo it was brought from the shop. Every time I went to my window I saw messengers on their way between the two establishments. But no man can serve two masters; the pizzicheria drove a more thriving trade, and the Albergo suffered in consequence. It was left in the charge of a youth of unparalleled stupidity, who seldom understood what we asked for, and when he did, declared it something not to be had. But a friend was sent to us in our need.

It happened in this way. The first morning we went out for a walk. As we started, and were passing the palace with the Etruscan inscriptions on the heavy stones of its lower wall, a Harlequin newly painted in red and white struck nine from a house-top near by. In the Via dell' Erbe women, their heads covered with gay handkerchiefs or wide-brimmed, high-crowned felt hats, were selling vegetables and fruit. Just in front of us, walking hand in hand, were three beggars, two blind and one lame, and an old brown monk with a wine-cask on his shoulder. At almost every turn we saw through an archway the three far-away lakes of Montepulciano, Chiusi, and Thrasymene. But it was now J. began to feel ill, and we went to a caffè and called for cognac. As we sat there the door opened and a young Italian dressed à l'Anglaise, even to his silver-headed cane, came in. He took a seat at the table next to us. When his coffee was brought he asked the waiter if he had seen the English lady and gentleman who arrived the evening before on a velocipede. No, the waiter had not; he knew nothing of these foreigners. There was a pause, while the young Italian sipped his coffee. But presently he turned to us and said in good English, but with a marked accent:—

"I beg pardon, sare, but was it not you who came to Montepulciano on a tricycle?"

"Yes," said J., but rather curtly, for he was just then very miserably.

"Ah, I thought so!" continued the Italian, well satisfied with the answer. "I have seen it,—a Humber. It is a beautiful machine. I myself do ride a bicycle,—the Speecial Cloob. You know it? I do belong to the Cyclists' Touring Cloob and to the Speedvell Cloob. All the English champions do belong to that Cloob. I did propose some one for director at the last meeting; you will see my name on that account in the papers. Here is my card, but in the country around Montepulciano all call me Sandro or Sandrino. I have ridden from Florence to Montepulciano in one day. I have what you call the wheel fever,"—and he smiled apologetically and stopped, but only to take breath.

We were fellow-cyclers, and that was enough. He was at once our friend, though our greeting in return was not enthusiastic, and our record would have disgusted the Speedvell Cloob. He could sympathize. He was feeling vary bad himself, because the day before he had gone on his bicycle as far as Montalcino with a gun to keel the leetle birds. It was too far even for a champion. But he had taken the waters—Janos: he had great faith in the waters.

The cognac by this time had made J. better, and we started to leave the caffè. Sandrino, to give him his Montepulciano name, insisted on paying for everything. We must let him have that favor, he said, and also another. He was not a native of the town,—he was a Roman, as he supposed we could see by his nose,—but still he would like to do us the honors of the place. He would take us to see so fine a church we could not but be pleased with it; it was only a step. Foolishly we went. The step was a long one. It took us half-way down the mountain-side to the Madonna di San Biagio. But J. was now really too wretched to look at anything, and we turned back at once. As we walked slowly up again, Sandrino explained that he had lived in England several years; and it turned out that he had the English as well as the wheel fever. All his clothes were from London, he said, even his flannels; and he pulled down his sleeve that we might see. He smoked English tobacco,—a friend sent it to him; and he showed us the small paper box tied with a string in which he kept it. And most of his news was English, too. His friends wrote him. He had just had a letter—see—and he opened it. There had been fearful riots in England. He cared much for the politics of the country. But the refrain of all he said was praise of cycling. He offered to ride with us when we left Montepulciano. He could go any day but the next, which was his twenty-first birthday, when he was to have a great dinner and many friends and much wine. He would call, if we would allow him; and with profession of great friendship he left us at the door of the Albergo.