The Brownings are
close by, and we are going to see them soon. The language has yet to
be made in which to describe beautiful, beautiful Florence, with its
air of nectar and sherbet and soft odors, its palaces, Arno, and
smooth streets, arched bridges, and all its other charms and
splendors. . . .
We were hot in the city of Florence. My only consolation was to eat
unnumbered cherries and apricots, for I did not as yet like the figs.
My brother and I sometimes had a lurid delight in cracking the cherry
and apricot stones and devouring the bitter contents, with the
dreadful expectation of soon dying from the effects. Altogether I
considered our sojourn in the town house, Casa del Bello, a morose
experience; but it was, fortunately, short. My mother had a different
feeling: she wrote home to America, "It is a delightful residence."
Without doubt it contained much engaging finery. Three parlors, giving
upon a garden, were absorbed into the "study" for my father alone; and
my mother was greatly pleased to find that fifteen easy-chairs were
within reach of any whim for momentary rest between the campaigns of
sight-seeing. To add to my own arbitrary shadow and regret of that
time, the garden at the rear of the house was to me clamp; full of
green things and gracefully drooping trees, doubtless, but never
embracing a ray of sunshine. Yet it was hot; all was relaxing; summer
prevailed in one of its ill-humored moods. To make matters worse, my
brother had caught in this Dantesque garden a brown bird, whether
because sick or lame I know not.
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