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Page 24
They went into the church to give a look at the remaining picture over
the altar in the choir, a _Virgin with Saints and Angels_, the lower
part, or predella, of which is now in the National Gallery, London; but
Mr. Sumner said they must not stay long, for this was not the object of
the day. Since, however, Fra Angelico was to be their next subject of
study, he wished them to know all about him they possibly could before
going to San Marco to really study his pictures.
Lingering on the terrace outside, they looked at the lovely Villa Landor
close at hand, where the English poet, Walter Savage Landor, spent
several years. Here Malcom quoted, in a quietly impressive way:--
"From France to Italy my steps I bent,
And pitcht at Arno's side my household tent.
Six years the Medicean Palace held
My wandering Lares; then they went afield,
Where the hewn rocks of Fiesole impend
O'er Doccia's dell, and fig and olive blend."
"How did you come to know that?" asked Margery, the usual poetry quoter.
"I didn't have to go far for it. I came across it in my 'Hare's
Florence,' and I rather think the quaint fancy of the _Lares_ 'going
afield' caught my attention so that I cannot lose the words."
"It is easier to think how one must write poetry in such a lovely spot
than how one could help it," said Bettina, with shining eyes.
"Or could help painting pictures," added Barbara. "Just look at the
colors of sky, hills, and city. No wonder Fra Angelico thought of angels
with softly glittering wings and dressed in exquisite pinks and violets,
when he lived here day after day."
"Just wait, though, until we come down at sunset," said Mr. Sumner.
"This is indeed beautiful, but then it will be most beautiful, and you
can enjoy the changing colors of sunset over Florence, as seen from
Fiesole, far better as we loiter along on the road, as we shall do
to-night, than when in a carriage, as we were two or three weeks ago. Of
course, there is less color now than in summer, yet it will be
glorious, I am sure. We are most fortunate in our choice of a day, for
it is warm, with a moisture in the atmosphere that veils forms and
enriches color. We should call it 'Indian summer' were we at home."
Before they had quite reached the old city at the top, the carriage
containing Mrs. Douglas, Miss Sherman, and Howard overtook them, and the
latter sprang out to join the walking-party.
Such a day as followed! Lunch in the grove behind the ancient
Monastery!--visits to the ruined Amphitheatre, the Cathedral, and Museum
so full of all sorts of antiquities obtained from the excavations of
ancient Fiesole!--loitering in the spacious Piazza, where they were
beset by children and weather-beaten, brown old women, clamoring for
them to buy all sorts of things made of the straw there manufactured;
and everywhere magnificent views, either of the widely extended valley
of the Mugnone on the one side, or of Florence, lying in her amethystine
cup, on the other!
Finally, giving orders for the carriage to follow within a certain time,
so that any tired one might take it, all started down the hill. They
soon met a procession of young Franciscan monks, chanting a hymn as they
walked--their curious eyes stealing furtive glances at the beautiful
faces of the American ladies.
"I feel as if I were a part of the fourteenth century," said Miss
Sherman. "Surely Fra Angelico might be one of those passing us."
"Only he would have worn a white gown instead of a brown one," replied
Mrs. Douglas, smiling. "You know he was a Dominican monk, not
Franciscan."
"But look on the other side of the road," cried Malcom, "and hear the
buzzing of the wires! an electric tramway! Here meet the fourteenth and
the nineteenth centuries!"
In a minute it all had happened. Just how, no one knew. An agonized
scream from the little maid, Anita, who was walking behind them, a
momentary sight of the tiny, brown-faced Italian boy, her brother, right
in the pathway of the swinging car as it rounded the curve--Malcom's
spring--and then the boy and himself lying out on the roadside against
the wall.
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