CHAPTER VIII. THE LADY OF THE BELLS

In her English cart, which she drove herself, Miss Bell had brought

over the hills, from the railway station at Florence, the Countess

Martin-Belleme and Madame Marmet to her pink-tinted house at Fiesole,

which, crowned with a long balustrade, overlooked the incomparable city.

The maid followed with the luggage. Choulette, lodged, by Miss Bell’s

attention, in the house of a sacristan’s widow, in the shadow of the

cathedral of Fiesole, was not expected until dinner. Plain and gentle,

wearing short hair, a waistcoat, a man’s shirt on a chest like a boy’s,

almost graceful, with small hips, the poetess was doing for her French

friends the honors of the house, which reflected the ardent delicacy of

her taste. On the walls of the drawing-room were pale Virgins, with

long hands, reigning peacefully among angels, patriarchs, and saints in

beautiful gilded frames. On a pedestal stood a Magdalena, clothed only

with her hair, frightful with thinness and old age, some beggar of the

road to Pistoia, burned by the suns and the snows, whom some unknown

precursor of Donatello had moulded. And everywhere were Miss Bell’s

chosen arms-bells and cymbals. The largest lifted their bronze clappers

at the angles of the room; others formed a chain at the foot of the

walls. Smaller ones ran along the cornices. There were bells over the

hearth, on the cabinets, and on the chairs. The shelves were full of

silver and golden bells. There were big bronze bells marked with the

Florentine lily; bells of the Renaissance, representing a lady wearing

a white gown; bells of the dead, decorated with tears and bones; bells

covered with symbolical animals and leaves, which had rung in the

churches in the time of St. Louis; table-bells of the seventeenth

century, having a statuette for a handle; the flat, clear cow-bells of

the Ruth Valley; Hindu bells; Chinese bells formed like cylinders--they

had come from all countries and all times, at the magic call of little

Miss Bell.

“You look at my speaking arms,” she said to Madame Martin. “I think

that all these Misses Bell are pleased to be here, and I should not be

astonished if some day they all began to sing together. But you must not

admire them all equally. Reserve your purest and most fervent praise for

this one.”

And striking with her finger a dark, bare bell which gave a faint sound:

“This one,” she said, “is a holy village-bell of the fifth century. She

is a spiritual daughter of Saint Paulin de Nole, who was the first to

make the sky sing over our heads. The metal is rare. Soon I will show to

you a gentle Florentine, the queen of bells. She is coming. But I bore

you, darling, with my babble. And I bore, too, the good Madame Marmet.

It is wrong.”

She escorted them to their rooms.

An hour later, Madame Martin, rested, fresh, in a gown of foulard and

lace, went on the terrace where Miss Bell was waiting for her. The

humid air, warmed by the sun, exhaled the restless sweetness of spring.

Therese, resting on the balustrade, bathed her eyes in the light. At her

feet, the cypress-trees raised their black distaffs, and the olive-trees

looked like sheep on the hills. In the valley, Florence extended its

domes, its towers, and the multitudes of its red roofs, through which

the Arno showed its undulating line. Beyond were the soft blue hills.

She tried to recognize the Boboli Gardens, where she had walked at her

first visit; the Cascine, which she did not like; the Pitti Palace. Then

the charming infinity of the sky attracted her. She looked at the forms

in the clouds.

After a long silence, Vivian Bell extended her hand toward the horizon.

“Darling, I do not know how to say what I wish. But look, darling, look

again. What you see there is unique in the world. Nature is nowhere else

so subtle, elegant, and fine. The god who made the hills of Florence

was an artist. Oh, he was a jeweller, an engraver, a sculptor, a

bronze-founder, and a painter; he was a Florentine. He did nothing else

in the world, darling. The rest was made by a hand less delicate, whose

work was less perfect. How can you think that that violet hill of San

Miniato, so firm and so pure in relief, was made by the author of Mont

Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique

medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of

art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, that I

can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I

feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half dead; in

a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you

will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and

see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead.”

The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the

mountain-peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky.

Madame Marmet sneezed.

Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the

evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous.

Then suddenly she said:

“Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that

he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre

is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and

to the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful

things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a

sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in

France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet

at Florence, darling!”