The Collected Works of Susan Coolidge: 7 Novels, 35+ Short Stories, Essays & Poems (Illustrated). Susan Coolidge
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and corner fireplaces like Franklin stoves, in which odd little fires burned on cool days, made of pine cones, cakes of pressed sawdust exactly like Boston brown bread cut into slices, and a few sticks of wood thriftily adjusted, for fuel is worth its weight in gold in Florence. Katy’s was the smallest of the bedrooms, but she liked it best of all for the reason that its one big window opened on an iron balcony over which grew a Banksia rose-vine with a stem as thick as her wrist. It was covered just now with masses of tiny white blossoms, whose fragrance was inexpressibly delicious and made every breath drawn in their neighborhood a delight. The sun streamed in on all sides of the little apartment, which filled a narrowing angle at the union of three streets; and from one window and another, glimpses could be caught of the distant heights about the city,—San Miniato in one direction, Bellosguardo in another, and for the third the long olive-hung ascent of Fiesole, crowned by its gray cathedral towers.
It was astonishing how easily everything fell into train about the little establishment. Every morning at six the English baker left two small sweet brown loaves and a dozen rolls at the door. Then followed the dairyman with a supply of tiny leaf-shaped pats of freshly churned butter, a big flask of milk, and two small bottles of thick cream, with a twist of vine leaf in each by way of a cork. Next came a contadino with a flask of red Chianti wine, a film of oil floating on top to keep it sweet. People in Florence must drink wine, whether they like it or not, because the lime-impregnated water is unsafe for use without some admixture.
Dinner came from a trattoria, in a tin box, with a pan of coals inside to keep it warm, which box was carried on a man’s head. It was furnished at a fixed price per day,—a soup, two dishes of meat, two vegetables, and a sweet dish; and the supply was so generous as always to leave something toward next day’s luncheon. Salad, fruit, and fresh eggs Maria bought for them in the old market. From the confectioners came loaves of pane santo, a sort of light cake made with arrowroot instead of flour; and sometimes, by way of treat, a square of pan forte da Siena, compounded of honey, almonds, and chocolate,—a mixture as pernicious as it is delicious, and which might take a medal anywhere for the sure production of nightmares.
Amy soon learned to know the shops from which these delicacies came. She had her favorites, too, among the strolling merchants who sold oranges and those little sweet native figs, dried in the sun without sugar, which are among the specialties of Florence. They, in their turn, learned to know her and to watch for the appearance of her little capped head and Mabel’s blond wig at the window, lingering about till she came, and advertising their wares with musical modulations, so appealing that Amy was always running to Katy, who acted as housekeeper, to beg her to please buy this or that, “because it is my old man, and he wants me to so much.”
“But, chicken, we have plenty of figs for to-day.”
“No matter; get some more, please do. I’ll eat them all; really, I will.”
And Amy was as good as her word. Her convalescent appetite was something prodigious.
There was another branch of shopping in which they all took equal delight. The beauty and the cheapness of the Florence flowers are a continual surprise to a stranger. Every morning after breakfast an old man came creaking up the two long flights of stairs which led to Mrs. Ashe’s apartment, tapped at the door, and as soon as it opened, inserted a shabby elbow and a large flat basket full of flowers. Such flowers! Great masses of scarlet and cream-colored tulips, and white and gold narcissus, knots of roses of all shades, carnations, heavy-headed trails of wistaria, wild hyacinths, violets, deep crimson and orange ranunculus, giglios, or wild irises,—the Florence emblem, so deeply purple as to be almost black,—anemones, spring-beauties, faintly tinted wood-blooms tied in large loose nosegays, ivy, fruit blossoms,—everything that can be thought of that is fair and sweet. These enticing wares the old man would tip out on the table. Mrs. Ashe and Katy would select what they wanted, and then the process of bargaining would begin, without which no sale is complete in Italy. The old man would name an enormous price, five times as much as he hoped to get. Katy would offer a very small one, considerably less than she expected to give. The old man would dance with dismay, wring his hands, assure them that he should die of hunger and all his family with him if he took less than the price named; he would then come down half a franc in his demand. So it would go on for five minutes, ten, sometimes for a quarter of an hour, the old man’s price gradually descending, and Katy’s terms very slowly going up, a cent or two at a time. Next the giantess would mingle with the fray. She would bounce out of her kitchen, berate the flower-vender, snatch up his flowers, declare that they smelt badly, fling them down again, pouring out all the while a voluble tirade of reproaches and revilings, and looking so enormous in her excitement that Katy wondered that the old man dared to answer her at all. Finally, there would be a sudden lull. The old man would shrug his shoulders, and remarking that he and his wife and his aged grandmother must go without bread that day since it was the Signora’s will, take the money offered and depart, leaving such a mass of flowers behind him that Katy would begin to think that they had paid an unfair price for them and to feel a little rueful, till she observed that the old man was absolutely dancing downstairs with rapture over the good bargain he had made, and that Maria was black with indignation over the extravagance of her ladies!
“The Americani are a nation of spend-thrifts,” she would mutter to herself, as she quickened the charcoal in her droll little range by fanning it with a palm-leaf fan; “they squander money like water. Well, all the better for us Italians!” with a shrug of her shoulders.
“But, Maria, it was only sixteen cents that we paid, and look at those flowers! There are at least half a bushel of them.”
“Sixteen cents for garbage like that! The Signorina would better let me make her bargains for her. Già! Già! No Italian lady would have paid more than eleven sous for such useless roba. It is evident that the Signorina’s countrymen eat gold when at home, they think so little of casting it away!”
Altogether, what with the comfort and quiet of this little home, the numberless delightful things that there were to do and to see, and Viessieux’s great library, from which they could draw books at will to make the doing and seeing more intelligible, the month at Florence passed only too quickly, and was one of the times to which they afterward looked back with most pleasure. Amy grew steadily stronger, and the freedom from anxiety about her after their long strain of apprehension was restful and healing beyond expression to both mind and body.
Their very last excursion of all, and one of the pleasantest, was to the old amphitheatre at Fiesole; and it was while they sat there in the soft glow of the late afternoon, tying into bunches the violets which they had gathered from under walls whose foundations antedate Rome itself, that a cheery call sounded from above, and an unexpected surprise descended upon them in the shape of Lieutenant Worthington, who having secured another fifteen days’ furlough, had come to take his sister on to Venice.
“I didn’t write you that I had applied for leave,” he explained, “because there seemed so little chance of my getting off again so soon; but as luck had it, Carruthers, whose turn it was, sprained his ankle and was laid up, and the Commodore let us exchange. I made all the capital I could out of Amy’s fever; but upon my word, I felt like a humbug when I came upon her and Mrs. Swift in the Cascine just now, as I was hunting for you. How she has picked up! I should never have known her for the same child.”
“Yes, she seems perfectly well again, and as strong as before she had the fever, though that dear old Goody Swift is just as careful of her as ever. She would not let us bring her here this afternoon, for fear we should stay out till the dew fell. Ned, it is perfectly delightful that you were able to come. It makes going to Venice seem quite a different thing, doesn’t it, Katy?”
“I don’t want it to seem quite different, because going to Venice was always one of my dreams,” replied Katy, with a little laugh.
“I hope at least it doesn’t make it seem less pleasant,” said Mr. Worthington, as his sister stopped to pick a violet.
“No, indeed, I am glad,” said Katy; “we shall all be seeing it for the first time, too, shall we not? I think you said you had never been there.” She spoke simply and frankly, but she was conscious of an