University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER 16

Florence

Mother of Mine:

We came by way of Bologna and Ed pretended to be greatly disappointed because the station was not filled with vendors of Bologna sausage, saying that another belief of his childhood was dispelled. The train only paused for which I was thankful, the heat being intense, we were soon puffing hurriedly, at least, so we were told, towards Florence. Italian train service is not worthy of comparison with that of Germany, it is like it is with us far south, the climate and the temperament of the people preclude a hurry. Only forty-six tunnels today, or that is the number Ed reported. I ceased to count when fifteen were on my list. The Tuscan country is worthy of her noble sons, and the city of Florence drew from me many an exclamation, where she nestles.

"Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty of leaps. To laughing life with her redundant horn."

Cook always pleases me in his selection of hotels, he does not put us away in remote corners and thus lose valuable time. Here we are near the Cathedral, within walking distance of many an ancient pile.

After removing the dust of travel, and viewing ourselves in numerous mirrors, we dined, then Heigh-ho for the streets. We are enjoying a little joke on two of our party. They were in a rush to see the Duomo and Ed had not nearly finished dinner when they were off. We met them returning, greatly disappointed, the edifice was not at all "magnificent." We followed their directions and found ourselves facing a museum, the cathedral was far from there! I was not disappointed in the imposing appearance, yet I do not think it appeals to me as did the cathedrals at Cologne and Milan. Perhaps I shall like it better under the glowing sun. We expect to attend mass there in the morning. As usual in Europe the side walks are used as cafes. We sat across the street from the cathedral, drank a little wine, gazed at the vast edifice, and watched the passing throng. I wish I had a wee bit of the Indian's love for "firewater," the Frenchman's love for wine, or the Englishman's love for whisky and soda. With all that admixture of blood I cannot get up a decent thirst for any liquor, thus you see I make a fine prohibitionist! Hearing music afar, we sought it, found the plaza near our hotel the scene of a concert. Here we again sat before a table, this time with lemonade, or at least the beverage honored with that name over here, for it is not the American brand. To obtain the privilege of a chair, you are expected to partake of something. I am always interested in the constant drinking, and yet the absence of intoxicated men. In our state, where red ink, Peruna, Jamaica Ginger, Lemon Extract, etc.,[1] are in demand, such frequent quaffs of this glass, would mean promiscuous shooting, and a town of bright vermilion hue! I remember as well my grandfather's dissertations on the evils of prohibition. I understand his attitude now. Do you know, I do not think this fair land has changed in a hundred years or so, the people are just as their forefathers were, live in the same houses, eat similar food, think the self-same thoughts. I know in my short life I have seen greater changes wrought in the beautiful Indian Territory than have taken place here in many centuries.

I like this quiet acceptance of destiny, it is so restful. You have time for great thoughts, and perhaps after a time, the satisfaction experienced in them, recompenses for the lack of great deeds.

Did I hear you say "daughter" in reproachful tones. Yes, I know. "Life is real, life is earnest" but I am going to forget I am an American.

The night is the day over here, and it is easy to be gay and laughter-loving when the stars are out. It is always difficult to leave the novel scenes for our rooms and I am afraid I am losing too many beauty sleeps. "Gather the rose buds while you may." I think I have, my arms are laden today, so out with the lights, and "good night, sweet mother."

Sunday, July 25.

All good people in Oklahoma are abed at this hour, and I trust, dreaming of angels. You will please dream of me. When the sun awoke me, I jumped up glad to be alive and in this old world city. Even a day in the art galleries could not lessen the ardor. The programme for the day would not admit of attending High Mass, so we dressed and at six thirty were praying in the Cathedral. Mother these magnificent temples of the Lord have not seemed like His home to me, they are great museums of the ages, open to the public for a fixed fee. Of course, the treasures are within, and the people have a right to see them, yet my religious sentiments are a tiny bit shocked when I see the lights gleaming on an altar where rests the sacred Host, and careless jostling throngs almost through His throne. This morning when only a few lowly worshippers were before Him, and the tourists were not there, for the first time I felt the full beauty of these, His sanctuaries, and my heart surged with the thought that here mankind had given Him his best, great artists, great sculptors had considered it an honor to lay their genius at His feet. After mass, finding the Baptistry open, we walked in to look and to pray. This church is said to have been built in the sixth century, the dome is all covered with mosaics of great beauty, and the floor bears a zodiac, said to be the work of Strozzo Strozzi. The massive doors are of bronze, the work of Pisano and Ghiberti. A mass commencing we remained until after the elevation, and thus reached the hotel just at the breakfast hour. This being Sunday that repast had been delayed to accommodate those desiring a late sleep. The Florentine guide soon appeared and we walked the streets of Florence in the Sabbath calm. This is one of the few cities in Italy with a Sunday closing law, thus the shops do not entice and there is an air of peace everywhere.

Of course, the art galleries and churches are open to the people and they have no cause for complaint of lack of places to visit. Let us skip a little mother. I feel so inadequate to the task of writing intelligently concerning the pictures. Two hours were spent in the Pitti and Uffizi Palaces looking amazedly at the wealth of art displayed. Art, with a great capital letter, mother, far beyond my capacity to criticize, yet I know the ones I like best and have safely stowed away in my house of dreams realized. "I'll bring out for you, Raphael's "Madonna of the Chair," the "Magdalena" of Carlo Dolci, Del Sarto's "John the Baptist," Guido Reno, "Cleopatra," Titian's "Flora," Fra Angelico's "Angels" and Botticelli's Consumptive Madennas! Then when you are keyed to the highest pitch, I shall tell you of the Venus de Medici, that poem in marble with which I was so enamored, I longed to clasp her within my arms and fly with her to the Golden West. After standing before her, the gallery attracted me no further, I simply wished to gaze and gaze until always, like the Lion of Lucerne she would be my very own. It is said that Florence retains her ancient form, and is very much as in the years of her prime, I believe it, for the streets are quaint, her houses queer and over all broods a spirit not of the twentieth century. We stood where Savanarola paid with his life for being in advance of his age, offered homage to the house that saw Dante open his eyes to this earth, passed by the church honored by his marriage, then on to Santo Croce's hallowed walls. Here rest the bones of Michael Angelo, Galileo, Alfieri and Macchiavelli.

"These are four minds, which like the elements Might furnish forth creations."

We saw a tomb to Florence' fair son but "Dante sleeps Afar" Mother dear.

"There be more things to greet the heart and eyes/ In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine/ Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies/There be more marvels yet, but not for mine."

Promptly at three-thirty the carriages appeared and we were off to drive beside the Arno. The afternoon was warm and sunshiny, the sky was true blue, yet in justice to Oklahoma I must say not bluer than her skies. We passed the home of Maechiaville [sic] and Ed was greatly pleased, he has heard the term "Macchiavellian policies" so often, the home of the man to whose works the epithet was first applied was doubly interesting, then the Fiesole, the road winding up the hill, gardens and villas, until the topmost garden is reached, then a glorious panorama of Florence and the Tuscan country. I leaned over the parapet entranced hardly hearing the words of the guide, so engaged in watching the hot sun making long wavy lines over the city, (the lines which in my childhood I fancied were ropes from heaven whereon the angels swung in happy abandon), and the hills softly green beckoning all to seek their cool embrace.

When the line of carriages commenced the descent, we were treated to a diversion not planned by Mr. B. A runaway came swinging crazily along, we heard the sound, but did not heed until our driver swerved his horses so quickly we lurched forward violently. Ed opened his lips to remonstrate when we saw the vehicle swept past our wheels. Owing to the celerity of the drivers, not one of our party was touched, the maddened animal was given the right-of-way and he passed from sight trailing the ruined cab behind. All along the road were broken bits, at the gate below we saw him standing broken and dejected, quivering like a frightened child. I hope his master was kind and gentle to him, he looked so pitiful there, beside his captor.

On the fashionable Cascine we saw really beautiful women, and others doubtless lovely to Italian eyes, but for me they were blessed with too much nose. Ed found much enjoyment in bowing and smiling to the indolent beauties and they returned his salute with charming grace. One raven haired goddess of a truly beautiful type, accompanied by a masculine fashion plate, passed us several times, and with consummate skill she would attract the attention of her escort elsewhere, and then would bestow upon my own American, a radiant smile. Oh, she was well worth a smile or two. I am just delighted to have seen such a perfect bit of God's handiwork. At the extreme end of the promenade is a monument by Fuller erected to the memory of the Rajah of Kalapore, who died in Florence in 1870. It has an Eastern air strangely at variance with its surroundings. I forgot to inquire if the young Rajah sleeps beneath.[2] I hope not, for surely his spirit would be restless in the other world if his body rests in this foreign land. I shall believe he was taken to his beloved India, and there awaits the resurrection.

Just us two, were in the rubber-tired carriage, rolling swiftly by Arno's silvered stream, the spirited blacks tossing their heads in proud disdain, what more could we desire. Why, we could clasp hands and not one of the passing throng be the wiser. Cook is the very prince of providers. He can have my vote any old time in a popularity contest. The breezes are flower laden, yet alas always to me is borne, the indescribable scent of the great unwashed. I am ashamed of my awful American nose, I wish I could lock up my love of soap and lose the key until Fair Italia is left behind. Do you recall the solemn child of long ago, who stood beside your knee and with tiny finger traced the Arno begging for stories of the sons of Florence and crying, "Mother mine, shall we not live there some fair day?" Dearest, because of you, my fancy painted glorious pictures and now the reality is even fairer than my dreams, yet this could not be my home.

After the drive was ended, Mr. B. called us into the parlors, we were given the choice, an early express, Rome at mid-day, or an afternoon local and a late night arrival in the Eternal City. By a majority vote the early train was selected, several of the party were greatly perturbed at giving up the morning in the Mecca of Artists, yet when told that they might join us in Rome the next day they decided to leave with us, so it's "up at five in the morning!" If I chat much longer with you, I shall be saved the trouble of retiring, as I told you earlier in this Florentine epistle, there is a Sunday law here and it is enforced. The post-card boys are not allowed to sell their wares. When our departure was decided upon we were in despair, a wail arose, "what shall we do about our post-cards." We decided to search the highways and byways, and report. The Harvard man discovered a hotel with an obliging clerk and in a few minutes he was doing, as we say out in Oklahoma, "a land office business." When Ed and I returned to the hotel at ten o'clock we found Miss B., of Australia, all alone in the parlor lamenting her lack of post-cards. I offered to go with her to the desired hotel. As the streets are well lighted and filled, and the distance short, Ed gave us his blessings and bade us trot along. We were soon plunged into a discussion of Uncle Sam and his numerous progeny. Miss B. is sore at Americans and all things American. I told her not to mind me just wade right in, I would surely enjoy hearing Uncle Sam and his representatives abused, had often desired to do a little of it myself. I wish you could have seen her look of astonishment. I said I did not object to the old gentlemen quite so much as to his numerous sons, who insisted that authority from him made them my guardians, and knowing that I possessed a few drops of Indian blood they were sure of my incapacity to manage my own affairs! Now, I hear your gentle voice saying, "daughter." "Well, mother" I just could not resist it, too good an opportunity to express a few of my sentiments. I have not recovered from that operation of removing restrictions, you know. I cannot blame the Australian for her feeling of resentment, yet I am confident that not a member of this party would have knowingly hurt her feelings. You see, Americans are so everlastingly well pleased with themselves and so cock-sure of their ability to "Jump over the Moon," that they step around lively and boast without thinking of "the other fellow." She complained of the inability to decide which type truly represented the U.S., the oh so narrow ones, the jolly tolerant ones, or the courteous yet reserved ones! I said Uncle Sam was the father of all, yet he possessed several wives, and they molded the children, hence the variety shown! We had not as yet produced a type true of the entire vast domain, and never would. I pointed with pride to my incomparable husband, and exclaimed dramatically, "Canada gave him birth, Texas mothered his childhood, Indian Territory fostered his young manhood, and now Oklahoma enjoys his perfection." I had her laughing, the storm was past. She asked: "What of yourself?" I made answer thus: "France gave much, Germany furnished a little, England was there, and the American Indian completed the whole, behold the result, another Oklahoman." As the anger was flown away, I read her a little lecture with "put yourself in his place" for a text, and I think I convinced her that Americans were not half bad. Now, I wish I could preach a sermon to the children of the land of Freedom. I'd tell them to go softly, not to make so much noise, to realize that after all, we are not so much. We have youth that is true, and if we are prudent some day we may astonish the world. In the meantime, let us try to listen more and talk less. Mother I am going to leave you this moment before you have time to scold me for abusing Uncle Sam to a stranger! Good night, truly "cross my heart" I love Uncle Sam, but I do not love all of his understudies!

Hurrah for the best government in the world, I guess, yes.

Lovingly,

C.