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Throughout her life, author Constance Fenimore Woolson traveled widely, and her impressions of the far-flung locales through which she journeyed often made their way into her fiction. The short stories and vignettes collected in Dorothy are heavily influenced by Woolson's experiences in Europe, both as a traveler and later as an expatriate. In them, Woolson conveys the local color for which she was known, as well as a sophisticated and nuanced look at the moral and ethical issues that living abroad can conjure up.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775560982
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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DOROTHY
AND OTHER ITALIAN STORIES
* * *
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON

*
Dorothy And Other Italian Stories First published in 1896 ISBN 978-1-77556-098-2 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Dorothy A Transplanted Boy A Florentine Experiment A Waitress At the Chateau of Corinne
*
Of the stories contained in this volume, "A Florentine Experiment" wasoriginally published in the Atlantic Monthly , and the others in Harper's Magazine.
Dorothy
*
I
As it was Saturday, many visitors came to the villa, Giuseppe receivingthem at the open door, and waving them across the court or up the stonestairway, according to their apparent inclination, murmuring as he didso: "To the garden; the Signora North!" "To the salon; the SignoraTracy!" with his most inviting smiles. Dorothy probably was with Mrs.North in the garden. And everybody knew that the tea and the comfortablechairs were up-stairs. The company therefore divided itself, the youngpeople as far as possible, the men who like to appear young, and themothers who have heavier cares than the effects of open-air light on amiddle-aged complexion, crossing the paved quadrangle to the north hall,while the old ladies and the ladies (not so old) who detest gardensascended the stairs, accompanied by, first, the contented husbands;second, the well-trained husbands; third, other men, bond or free, whocherish no fondness for damp belvederes, for grassy mounds, or forpoising themselves on a parapet which has a yawning abyss below.
Giuseppe was the gardener; he became a footman once a week, that is, onSaturday afternoons, when the American ladies of the Villa Dorioreceived those of their friends who cared to come to their hill-topabove the Roman Gate of Florence—a hill-top bearing the appropriatename of Bellosguardo. For fair indeed is the outlook from that supremelyblessed plateau, whether towards the north, south, east, or west, withperhaps an especial loveliness towards the west, where the Arno windsdown to the sea. Enchanting as is this Occidental landscape, Mrs. Tracyhad ended by escaping from it.
"When each new person begins: 'Oh, what lovely shadows!' 'Oh, theCarrara Mountains!' we cannot look at each other, Laura and I," sheexplained; "it's like the two Roman what-do-you-call-ems—augurs. I'mincapable of saying another word about the Carrara Mountains, Laura; andso, after this, I shall leave them to you."
This was the cause of Giuseppe's indicating the drawing-room, and notthe garden, as Mrs. Tracy's domain.
It was not difficult for Giuseppe to turn himself into a footman;Raffaello, the butler (or cameriere), could have turned himself into acoachman, a cook, a laundress, a gardener, or even a parlor-maid, ifoccasion had so required; for Italian servants can do anything. And ifMrs. Sebright sighed, "Ah, but so badly!" (which was partly true fromthe English point of view) the Americans at least could respond, "Yes,but so easily!" In truth, it was not precisely in accordance with theEnglish standard to be welcomed by smiles of personal recognition fromthe footman at the door, nor to have the tea offered by the butler withan urgent hospitality which was almost tender. But Italy is not England;radiant smiles from the servants accord perhaps with radiant sunshinefrom the sky, both things being unknown at home. As for the Americanstandard, it does not exist, save as a vacillating pennon.
The Villa Dorio is a large, ancient structure of pale yellow hue; as isoften the case in Tuscany, its facade rises directly from the roadway,so that any one can drive to the door, and knock by simply leaning fromthe carriage. But privacy is preserved all the same by the massivethickness of the stone walls, by the stern iron cages over the loftylower windows, and by an entrance portal which resembles the gateway ofa fortress. The villa, which, in the shape of a parallelogram, extendsround an open court within, is large enough for five or six families;for in the old days, according to the patriarchal Italian custom, themarried sons of the house, with their wives and children, were allgathered under its roof. In these later years its tenants have beenforeigners, for the most part people of English and Americanbirth—members of that band of pilgrims from the land of fog and theland of haste, who, having once fallen under the spell of Italy, thesorcery of that loveliest of countries, return thither again and yetagain, sometimes unconscious of their thraldom, sometimes calling itstaying for the education of the children, but seldom pronouncing thefrank word "living." Americans who have stayed in this way for twentyyears or more are heard remarking, in solemn tones, "In case I die overhere, I am to be taken home to my own country for burial; nothing lesscould content me." This post-mortem patriotism probably soothes theconscience.
Upon the Saturday already mentioned the Villa Dorio had but one tenant;for Mrs. Tracy had taken the entire place for a year—the year 1881.She could not occupy it all, even with the assistance of Mrs. North andDorothy, for there were fifty rooms, besides five kitchens, a chapel,and an orange-house; she had selected, therefore, the range ofapartments up-stairs which looked towards the south and west, and thelong, frescoed, echoing spaces that remained were left to the ghosts.For there was a ghost, who clanked chains. The spectre of Belmonte,another villa near by, was more interesting; he was a monk in a browngown, who glided at midnight up the great stairway without a sound, onhis way to the tower. The American ladies had chosen for their use thenorthwestern garden. For the Villa Dorio has more than one garden; andit has also vineyards, olive groves, and the fields of the podere, orfarm, in the valley below, with their two fountains, and the littlechapel of the Holy Well. The northwestern garden is an enchanting spot.It is not large, and that adds to the charm, for its secluded nearness,so purely personal to the occupier, yet overhangs, or seems to, a fullhalf of Tuscany; from the parapet the vast landscape below rolls towardsthe sunset as wide and far-stretching as the hidden shelf, one'sstanding-point, is private and small. When one ceases to look at theview—if one ever does cease—one perceives that the nook has no formalflower-beds; grass, dotted with the pink daisies of Italy, stretchesfrom the house walls to the edge; here and there are rose-bushes,pomegranates, oleanders, and laurel, but all are half wild. Theencircling parapet is breast-high; but, by leaning over, one sees thaton the outside the ancient stones go plunging down, in course aftercourse, to a second level far below, the parapet being in reality thetop of a massive retaining-wall. At the corner where this rampart turnsnorthward is perched a little belvedere, or arbor, with vines clamberingover it. It was upon this parapet, with its dizzy outer descent, thatthe younger visitors were accustomed to perch themselves when they cameto Villa Dorio. And Dorothy herself generally led them in the dangerousexperiment. But one could never think of Dorothy as falling; her supplefigure conveyed the idea that she could fly—almost—so lightly was itpoised upon her little feet; in any case, one felt sure that even if sheshould take the fancy to throw herself off, she would float to the lowerslope as lightly as thistle-down. The case was different regarding theMisses Sebright; they, too, were handsome girls, but they wouldcertainly go down like rocks. And as for Rose Hatherbury, attenuatedthough she was, there would be, one felt certain, no floating; Rosewould cut the air like a needle in her swift descent. Rose was thin (heraunts, the Misses Wood, called it slender); she was a tall girl oftwenty-five, who ought to have been beautiful, for her features werewell cut and her blue eyes lustrous, while her complexion was delicatelyfair. Yet somehow all this was without charm. People who liked her saidthat the charm would come. The Misses Wood, however, spent no time inanticipation; to them the charm was already there; they had alwaysbelieved that their niece was without a fault. These ladies had come toFlorence twenty years before from Providence, Rhode Island; and they hadremained, as they said, "for art" (they copied as amateurs in the UffiziGallery). Of late they had begun to ask themselves whether art would beenough for Rose.
At five o'clock on this April afternoon the three Misses Sebright, Rose,Owen Charrington—a pink-cheeked young Englishman, long andstrong—Wadsworth Brunetti, and Dorothy were all perched upon theparapet, while Miss Maria Wood hovered near, pretending to look fordaisies, but in reality ready to catch Rose by the ankles in case sheshould lose her balance. Miss Jane Wood was sitting with Mrs. North inthe aguish belvedere. With remarkable unanimity, the group of men nearby had declared that, in order to see the view, one must stand.
"Your garden is like an opera-box, Mrs. North," said Stephen Lefevre;"you sit here at your ease, and see the whole play of morning, noon, andnight sweeping over Tuscany."
"A view like this is such a humanizer!" remarked Julian Grimston,thoughtfully. "One might indeed call it a hauberk."
To this mysterious comparison Miss Jane Wood responded, cheerfully,"Quite so." She did not ask for explanations (Julian's explanations wereserious affairs); she spoke merely on general principles; for the MissesWood considere