CHAPTER VI

ROSES

“Rome is so big, so impossible to get acquainted with in less than years of time, that I think we would do as well to go on,” said Miss Cavendish at the end of two weeks spent in assiduous sight-seeing.

“Especially as we have not a good _pension_, and as the town is so crowded,” put in Sidney.

“Oh, for dear Sorrento! all that deliciousness for six francs a day, wine and lights included,” sighed Gabriella for the tenth time since she had arrived in Rome.

“I think we will see then what Florence can afford us. I have written to two or three places there for rooms and have just received some very satisfactory replies. We really are not any too happy here,” said Miss Cavendish.

“And we have worked, yes, really worked, harder than anywhere else. In two weeks we have tried to see what we could never master in less than ten years. I am tired,” replied Sidney.

“Then we will go on, if you and Gabriella agree.”

Gabriella did agree, and declared that she was yearning for the Uffizi and the Pitti galleries. Therefore they shook the dust of Rome from off their feet and were borne along in a crowded train toward the city of Dante.

“Tea will be served immediately,” said the little maid who showed them to their rooms when they had reached their _pension_.

“Tea?” exclaimed Gabriella as the maid departed. “This certainly promises better than Rome. Oh, Gem, we can afford to stay here for a long time: rooms that overlook the Arno, tea and--”

“Wine and lights included,” laughed Sidney.

“Yes, actually, and all for five francs a day. I don’t see how they do it. I hope they will not starve us as they did at the last place.”

“My dear,” said Miss Cavendish, “I have learned one thing: when you want home comforts abroad, don’t go to a boarding-house kept by one of your own countrywomen, especially if she be a missionary.”

The girls’ spirits rose as time went on, for not only were their rooms exceedingly comfortable, but they found the fare excellent. To be sure the house was old and dingy, and it was not of spotless cleanliness. “But for Italy, well, we might go much further and fare worse,” remarked Gabriella.

“One could go as far as America and not begin to have all this,” declared Miss Cavendish, whose experience of American boarding-houses was not limited. “I do not know where at home we could find good beds, cheerful, prompt and skilled attendance, delicious food, fresh flowers on the table every day, a hostess anxious to please, all for a dollar a day.”

“Wine and--” began Gabriella mechanically. And then they all laughed.

The days went by all too rapidly, and a week passed before they knew it. “I could hang out this window all day,” remarked Gabriella, after Sidney had called her two or three times on Sunday morning. “There is so much to see along this river front. I have been watching a gentleman spruce himself up for Sunday. He has taken off his shirt, washed it in the Arno, and you may see it there spread out on the steps in the sunshine while he sits complacently in his coat waiting for it to dry. Isn’t that the simple life exemplified? Yesterday I beheld a scene worthy of a French novel. Two washerwomen took to fisticuffs and dragged each other over the face of the earth by the hair of the head. It was dreadful, and yet I had to watch to see whether the big or the little one came off victor.”

“And which did?”

“Neither, for two men separated them, but there were Vesuvius-like mutterings all day, and doubtless by this time one or the other is badly done up. The Italians are so impulsive, you know.”

“That’s a mild word for such a performance,” said Sidney. “Come, do hurry, Gabriella, we want to go to the Cathedral.”

It was at the Uffizi that they ran across the Bailey party again. They were standing before a Titian, Baedekers in hand, looking at the picture with a half interest.

“Miss Mildred still wears her chain bracelet,” whispered Gabriella.

“Yes, and she has a new chain; that makes three that she is wearing. I suppose the last is one that she has bought here,” returned Sidney.

“I wonder of what the chain bracelet is the symbol,” said Gabriella. “Every Englishwoman we have seen has worn one. I should really like to know the why of it.”

“There is Mr. Morgan with his friend, the German,” exclaimed Sidney. “Shall we discover them or let them discover us?”

“We can move along a little and let them be the discoverers,” said Gabriella; “it will be more dignified.” But as she spoke Miss Cavendish had recognized the others and in a few minutes the two parties had become one.

At the end of half an hour Gabriella found herself with Mr. Morgan, separated from the rest. “Dear me, where are they?” she exclaimed, looking around in dismay.

“They can’t be very far,” Mr. Morgan assured her. “It’s jolly easy to lose one’s way in a place like this. We’ll meet them at some convenient point, no doubt.”

“And if we don’t I am so near home that it makes little difference,” said Gabriella, resolving not to trouble herself. “This place is such a joy; in fact, Florence is all a joy.”

“It’s rather a nice old place,” said Mr. Morgan.

“Oh, dear, why can’t you English be more enthusiastic?” exclaimed the girl. “You never rise to superlatives unless you use horrid words like beastly and rotten, and even then you don’t rise, you sink.”

Mr. Morgan laughed. “And you Americans are so very enthusiastic. You rave over such remarkable things.”

“Who wouldn’t rave over that Botticelli, for example? I suppose you would say that is not a superlatively fine picture.”

“No doubt it is for those who care for Botticelli.”

“And you don’t?”

“I care for others more, though I do see some things to admire in his work.”

“Then let us go on. I will not stand here with such an unenthusiastic person. I will come back when I can gloat over this by myself. I want to be with some one who can rave or with no one at all, when I look at a picture like that. If there happens to be anything in this collection which appeals to your fieriest ardor, lead me to it.”

Her companion laughed and sauntered leisurely on, Gabriella following. At last he paused before a madonna of Andrea del Sarto’s. “Is this it?” asked Gabriella.

“Do you like it?”

“Ye-es. Please let me hear you rave.”

“I did not promise to.”

“You are trying to fool me. I am sure this does not appeal to you more than anything in the gallery.”

“No, but I like it. Don’t you?”

“I do, but I always see del Sarto’s horrid little wife in all his Madonnas. They all have that discontented expression, and they make me mad. I always think of Browning’s poem on poor Andrea. Oh, you little beast!” She shook her fist at the picture to the horror of a group of Italians standing near. Seeing their shocked looks, Gabriella laughed. “They think I am somebody dreadful; an anarchist, no doubt, or a lunatic, at the very least. I forgot what the picture represented; I was thinking only of the model. Now show me something that you really do admire.”

“Here is something; Raphael’s portrait of Pope Julius II.”

“Do you admire it because Baedeker gives four and a quarter lines to it?” Gabriella asked saucily.

“No, because it is rather a good thing. You have seen the Madonna della Sedia, of course. You must admit that it is beautiful.”

“It is much more beautiful than I expected to find it, for when poor reproductions of an exquisite thing are scattered broadcast over the earth, it is hard to see the beauty when you come face to face with the original. I sometimes wonder if after all it isn’t a mistake to familiarize the masses with the beautiful through such means.”

“I think it is well, if it is not overdone.”

“And the tendency is to overdo. Santa Claus, even, is no longer a mystery when every cheap John shop has a mock figure of the saint in the shop window, performing tricks for a gaping crowd, and he is even reduced to the base purpose of advertising some quack medicine as he stands on the corner and gives out hand-bills. That is one thing I like about Italy; it still retains some of the old illusions. We are fast out-growing them at home.”

Mr. Morgan looked down at the girl with an amused expression. “For a young person of your tender years, that sounds rather blasé, and from you who adore enthusiasm, too.”

“That’s just it; I love enthusiasm. I don’t want to outgrow my dear illusions, and I do not want to be compelled to use the modern process of dissecting everything. I would rather not tear the veil from the mysteries. Let the children of this world make their discoveries for themselves.”

“Here is something that’s not half bad,” said Mr. Morgan, stopping before a fine portrait.

“You like Titian, don’t you?”

“Well, rather.”

At this moment Sidney came upon them from a side gallery. “Oh, here you are,” she said. “We are ready to go, Gabriella. Miss Bailey is coming with us. She wants to try a meal at our _pension_. She is nothing if not enterprising in adding to her addresses. She has just given Gem six for Venice, and grateful Gem has asked her to lunch, or is it breakfast we have at this hour?”

“Where are you all?” Gabriella asked.

“In the Tribuna waiting for you. Hasn’t it been a perfectly delightful morning? Have you and Mr. Morgan seen everything?”

“We have seen several things. No one could see everything here in one short morning,” returned Gabriella. “I hope I am not the kind of American who rushes about Baedeker-possessed, and only looks at the things he stars. I have the greatest respect and affection for my Baedeker, but I do like to observe with some sort of originality. I saw several rushers this morning. Do you remember the one on the steamer that we called the Microbe? She was here.”

Sidney cast an amused look at the young man standing by, who looked unmistakably puzzled. “I remember,” she replied.

“I asked her if she had seen a delicious little thing in one of the rooms, and she rustled over the leaves of her guide book and said: ‘Baedeker hasn’t starred it; I don’t believe I have looked at it.’ ‘He hasn’t even mentioned it,’ I said, and she looked at me as if I were some sort of queer specimen. I suppose she wondered at my daring to form an unauthorized opinion. Isn’t it a blessing to have a mind of your own?”

Mr. Morgan laughed. “You certainly have. Is that Miss Mildred over there buying photographs?”

“I wonder if she is buying another Madonna,” said Sidney. “She has bought three already, none of which is the special one she is looking for.”

“Why does she buy them, then?” asked Gabriella.

Sidney laughed. “I don’t know. She discovers only too late that what she has just bought is not her favorite.”

“Well, I never,” remarked Gabriella, reserving further comment till she should be alone with her friends.

Miss Bailey now saw them and came fluttering up, her sister following. The latter was all filmy veil and dangling chains with clinking ornaments. Her manner was that of a belle of the last century, for she dipped and tripped and undulated to the last degree. Evidently she considered Mr. Morgan her especial cavalier, for she chid him for so long deserting her, tapping him playfully with her fan. Miss Cavendish here joined them and all took their way to the street.

“And where is Herr Muller?” Mr. Morgan asked Sidney.

“He has gone back to his hotel,” was the answer.

“He though you were lost, naughty boy,” said Miss Mildred, catching the remark, “and he went to find you.”

Mr. Morgan made no reply, but a few minutes later, when he and Gabriella fell a little behind the others, he said: “Let us give them the slip this afternoon, and go to the rose gardens of San Miniato.”

“Oh, I can’t,” returned Gabriella, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’ve promised to go haunt the goldsmith’s shops with Sidney.”

“The ones on the Ponte Vecchio?”

“Yes; and we are anxious to see Casa Guidi windows.”

“You will be disappointed in them, but you will not be disappointed in the Boboli gardens, if you are going there. I may be on that side the river myself, this afternoon.”

“I thought you were going to San Miniato.”

“Not by myself.”

“There is Herr Muller.”

“Yes, but one wants to see roses under special conditions. You remember how you feel about the Botticellis; grant me the grace of feeling so about roses.”

“But Herr Muller would surely say _wunderschoen_ often enough to please you.”

“He might, but I don’t want any but English enthusiasm.”

“I am sorry American is not sufficient for you, but there is Miss Mildred,” said Gabriella wickedly.

Mr. Morgan’s face immediately became imperturbable, and Gabriella felt a little ashamed of her small fling at the older woman. She relieved her confusion by exclaiming, “Oh, see those lovely saffron roses that man has. They remind me of Sorrento. I must get some for Gem. Think of it! only twenty centimes, four cents.” She buried her face in the flowers, exclaiming: “You beauties, how I adore you!”

“I knew you loved flowers,” said Mr. Morgan, “and that is why I want you to go to San Miniato with me.”

“I will go to-morrow,” said Gabriella hastily, turning aside to give the roses into Miss Cavendish’s hands.

The glory of an Italian spring lay over the gardens of San Miniato. Thousands of roses gave a responsive loveliness to the favors of sun and soft air. Gabriella, who had felt a little guilty at leaving her comrades out of her plans, and who had wondered if it were quite the proper thing to make this excursion with so recent an acquaintance, lost all sense of discomfort when she saw the loveliness before her. “Ah,” she sighed, “it was worth coming to see. It is Eden before the fall. It is all the romance of Italy, all the sunniness concentrated in the hearts of these roses.”

Her companion smiled. “I knew you would express the poetry I can only feel.”

“And there are so many of them,” Gabriella went on. “I never could have believed it. Isn’t it lovely to be up here and to look down on the historic city? The Medicis, Dante, Savonarola, Romola, the Brownings, how they all come to one’s mind.”

“But don’t you know,” said her companion, “a simple Welshman of the engineering profession cannot follow you in these flights. I only feel the poetry of the roses, and I only see the Florence of to-day enveloped in a haze at my feet.”

“Oh, but surely, surely you have read Romola and some of Browning at least.” Gabriella was vaguely disappointed.

“I am sorry to confess that I have not read Romola, and of Browning I am scared.”

“You mustn’t be, and you must read Romola.”

“I will at once. I will stop on my way back and get a copy, and you shall pick it out for me, if you will.”

“That is better. I begin to have hopes of you. Before we leave Florence I may be able to set your feet in the right way.”

“And when do you leave Florence?”

“In a few days, I am afraid. There are some of the churches we have yet to see, and we have not been to Fiesole. To me Florence is almost, if not quite, as inexhaustible as Rome, and in many respects is more fascinating. Have you happened to see a funeral at night? It is the most impressive thing you can imagine. It is much more so than at Naples, where they carry an empty coffin and make a great to-do, but all in the glaring light of day. But we must be leaving this kingdom of Rosedom, for it is time to be getting back.” Her companion, however, lingered, and finally, under protest, filled her arms with roses and they returned to the city.

“Late to luncheon again,” said Miss Cavendish, as the girl came in. “We were just going down. What beautiful roses, and what a mass of them. Have you been squandering your substance in that kind of riotous living?”

“No,” replied Gabriella, depositing her burden in the water pitcher, “they were given to me.”

“Take care,” warned Sidney. “Roses will be your destruction yet. Remember the rose of Rome.”

“‘Ah, but where blooms the rose of yesterday?’” quoted Gabriella. “Who cares for the roses of Rome when one can have the roses of Florence?”

“And have you been mooning all morning over there at San Miniato?” Sidney asked.

“No, we have been sunning,” answered Gabriella, flippantly.

“What do you know of that Mr. Morgan?” asked Miss Cavendish in her most judicial tone.

“Let me see, what do I know?” returned Gabriella speculatively. “He is from some utterly unpronounceable place in Wales, but he was educated in England. He is a civil engineer, very civil, I should call him. His father was a clergyman, but he is no longer in the land of the living, and his mother died recently. The unpronounceable place he still calls home, but Owen ap Owen goes where his profession leads him. Just now he is off for a short holiday, having come here from Germany with the Misses Bailey, who were great friends of his mother’s. They were very kind to her once when she was ill away from home, nursed her as if they had been sisters, and have been devoted friends to her at other times, hence the young man’s sweet acceptance of Miss Mildred’s attentions. He didn’t tell me that last, but I draw my own conclusions, and gather that there is no harm in her little dabs and dips. I believe that is all I can report at this present time, but given the opportunity, I have no doubt I can satisfy any amount of curiosity on the subject.”

“Gabriella, Gabriella,” was all Miss Cavendish vouchsafed in reply as she led the way down to luncheon.