III
CASA ROSA, _May_ 18.
Such a fanfare of bells as greeted our ears on the morning of our firstawakening in Casa Rosa!
“Rise at once and dress quickly, Salemina!” I said. “Either an heir hasbeen born to the throne, or a foreign Crown Prince has come to visitVenice, or perhaps a Papal Bull is loose in the Piazza San Marco.Whatever it is, we must not miss it, as I am keeping a diary.”
But Peppina entered with a jug of hot water, and assured us that therewere no more bells than usual; so we lay drowsily in our comfortablelittle beds, gazing at the frescoes on the ceiling.
One difficulty about the faithful study of Italian frescoes is that theycan never be properly viewed unless one is extended at full-length on theflat of one’s honourable back (as they might say in Japan), a positionnot suitable in a public building.
The fresco on my bedroom ceiling is made mysteriously attractive by awilderness of mythologic animals and a crowd of cherubic heads, wings andlegs, on a background of clouds; the mystery being that the number ofcherubic heads does not correspond with the number of extremities, one ortwo cherubs being a wing or a leg short. Whatever may be theirlimitations in this respect, the old painters never denied their cherubscheek, the amount of adipose tissue uniformly provided in that quarterbeing calculated to awake envy and jealousy on the part of thepredigested-food-babies pictured in the American magazine advertisements.
Padrona Angela furnishes no official key to the ceiling-paintings of CasaRosa; and yesterday, during the afternoon call of four pretty Americangirls, they asked and obtained our permission to lie upon the marblefloor and compete for a prize to be given to the person who should offerthe cleverest interpretation of the symbolisms in the frescoes. It maybe stated that the entire difference of opinion proved that mythologicart is apt to be misunderstood. After deciding in the early morning whatour bedroom ceiling is intended to represent (a decision made and unmadeevery day since our arrival), Salemina and I make a leisurely toilet andthen seat ourselves at one of the open windows for breakfast.
The window itself looks on the Doge’s Palace and the Campanile, St.Theodore and the Lion of St. Mark’s being visible through a maze offishing-boats and sails, some of these artistically patched in white andyellow blocks, or orange and white stripes, while others of grey havesmoke-coloured figures in the tops and corners.
Sometimes the broad stone-flagging pavement bordering the canal is busywith people: gondoliers, boys with nets for crab-catching, ’longshoremen,and _facchini_. This is when ships are loading or unloading, but atother times we look upon a tranquil scene.
Peppina brings in _dell’ acqua bollente_, and I make the coffee in thelittle copper coffee-pot we bought in Paris, while Salemina heats themilk over the alcohol-lamp, which is the most precious treasure in herpossession.
The butter and eggs are brought every morning before breakfast, andnothing is more delicious than our freshly churned pat of solidifiedcream, without salt, which is sweeter than honey in the comb. The cowsare milked at dawn on the campagna, and the milk is brought into Venicein large cans. In the early morning, when the light is beginning tosteal through the shutters, one hears the tinkling of a mule’s bell andthe rattling of the milk-cans, and, if one runs to the window, may seethe _contadini_, looking, in their sheepskin trousers, like brethren ofJohn the Baptist, driving through the streets and delivering the milk atthe _vaccari_. It is then heated, the cream raised and churned, and thepats of butter, daintily set on green leaves, delivered for aseven-o’clock breakfast.
Finally _la colazione_ is spread on our table by the window. A neatwhite cloth covers it, and we have gold-rimmed plates and cups ofdelicate china. There is a pot of honey, an egg _à la coque_ for each, aplate of brown and white bread, on some days a dish of scarlet cherrieson a bed of green, on others a mound of luscious berries in their frills;sometimes, too, we have a bowl of tiny wild strawberries that seem tohave grown with their faces close pressed to the flowers, so sweet andfragrant are they.
This _al fresco_ morning meal makes a delicious prelude to ourcomfortable _déjeuner à la fourchette_ at one o’clock, when the LittleGenius, if not absorbed in some unusually exacting piece of work, joinsus and gives zest to the repast. Her own breakfast, she explains, is a_déjeuner à la_ thumb, the sort enjoyed by the peasant who carves a bitof bread and cheese in his hand, and she promises us a sight, someleisure day, of a certain _déjeuner à la_ toothpick celebrated for themoment among the artists. A mysterious painter, shabby, but of a certainelegance and distinction even in his poverty, comes daily at noon into awell-known restaurant. He buys for five sous a glass of chianti, a rollfor one sou, and with stately grace bestows another sou upon the waiterwho serves him. These preparations made, he breaks the roll in smallbits, and poising them delicately on the point of a wooden toothpick, hedips them in wine before eating them.
“This may be a frugal repast,” he has an air of saying, “but it is atleast refined, and no man would dare insult me by asking me whether ornot I leave the table satisfied.”