Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/150

136 blamed his state of mind to the swarm of flies; and the scribe, with a glowing conviction that literature does not pay, broke off an olive-branch, in a most unpeaceful frame of mind, and proceeded to beat the flies from the artistic atmosphere. At this crucial moment Sam appeared (his name turned out to be Giuseppe, but Sam appealed to our patriotic fancy); we had seen him earlier in the day shamefacedly posing, in a red chiffon scarf loaned by the German wife to the German husband for a bit of color, but the boy had thrown off the filmy yoke of such decadent femininities, and drew near to enjoy the healthy, hostile clash of literature and art. In half a minute he was the possessor of the olive-branch, a true little dove, and was soberly switching the flies from the ankles of the illustrator at four cents an hour. The following morning he was there with his fly-brush and a dozen of his companions as well, all of whom sat upon the grass in a half-circle and watched the switching of the ankles with solemn faces. It was to them the latest whim of a millionaire, and another evidence of the utter madness of these Americans. Sam, in his new capacity, bore himself with a becoming dignity. His attitude was kindly but firm towards his followers, and he varied his accomplishments in the olive-branch line by waving back his comrades who ventured to cross the visual angle of art. Often he brought us stemless carnations, which he shyly presented to his patron with a whispered "per voi e vostra signora" and though openly mocked by sniggering boys who dubbed him "porter," he daily bore the camp-stool through the streets to the very steps of our hostelry.

It was during these sketching hours that Literature again held second place. By nothing but a pocketful of biscuit could she command attention, and then it was such a silent, pleading attention, such a hungry, pitiful attention, that the biscuit disappeared ere she felt the joy of her short-lived prominence. There were wild moments when she fed only the black dog and the white one those wonderful English delicacies, and the human satellites watched unprotestingly, sweetly looking to it that black and white shared equally. There were other happy hours when the biscuit went to those who did some service, and then there was a great brushing off of the signora's skirt, a tying of her shoe-strings, and a carrying of her sunshade. But through all this Sam waved the olive-branch.

The children were never-tiring, but occasionally they went home, and after that there were the hotel windows that gave upon the square. During the first idle hour at the window we wondered how long we could endure the dreariness of the scene; from that time on, we feared to leave for anything less engaging than the children. We grew to watch for the proud lady who had a noble palazzo across the square, and whose daughters went out attended by a hunchback servant; then there were our friends the knitting-women, who came from their rooms all around the flat-iron, and called greetings to those who were clanking the buckets up and down the well; and of course the patrons of the well themselves were of absorbing interest. Some of them carried copper vessels, and some of them Chianti-bottles; for the flasks are not limited to the good red wine, and at every moment of the day a man, woman, or child was crossing the square with one or more of them in hand. The habitués of the place were great gossips, particularly the men, and got into fierce arguments with the hostlers, who rolled out their little rickety victorias from their tunnelled stables and polished as they shrieked. The horses, too, received a rubbing up or down, and frisked about in the open space with a pretence of youth that we knew to be but the effervescence of the Italian character.

The Via San Matteo, which ran along the back of the iron, was the busiest roadway of the town. The ox-teams turned into the square from its narrow confines, and the panniered donkeys with their rope nose-bags to their bridles, à la Tantalus, toiled wearily up its steep hill past the church, and sidled gingerly down its steep hill through the archway. A stumpy company of quick-footed infantry clumped along at sunset, and at dusk a herd of goats added to the mélée. At five, the bakers came through, seesawing long boards on their heads, on which the fresh loaves safely slid about, and at six the post-chaise made ready to depart for the railroad, with two warning toots of a