The Front Yard, and Other Italian StoriesWoolson, Constance Fenimore
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The Front Yard, and Other Italian Stories
Woolson, Constance Fenimore
Americans -- Italy -- Fiction; Italy -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, American
"It is her nephew, and she is devoted to him," explained Mrs. Marcy. "He
is nearly ten years old, but does not look more than five. His health is
extremely delicate, and he is at times rather--rather babyish."
"Peevish, isn't it?" said Claudia. She had taken up two long black
needles entangled in a mass of crimson worsted, and, disengaging them,
was beginning to knit another row on an unfinished stripe. Her
beautifully moulded hands, full and white, with one antique gem on each,
contrasted with the tint of the wool. The thin fingers of Mrs. Marcy
were decked with fine diamonds, and diamonds alone; in spite of the
"foreign ways" of which that lady had accused herself, she remained
sufficiently American for that. She could buy diamonds, and Claudia an
antique ring or two; both aunt and niece enjoyed inherited incomes, that
of Claudia being comfortable, that of Mrs. Marcy large.
These ladies occupied rooms on the third floor of a palace on the Grand
Canal, not far below the Piazzetta. The palace was a stately example of
Renaissance architecture, with three rows of majestic polished columns
extending one above the other across its front. Between these columns
the American tenant, who had once been called "the lily," and her niece,
who was so like a Bonifazio, looked out upon the golden Venetian
light--a light whose shadows are colors: mother-of-pearl, emerald,
orange, amber, and all the changing gradations between them--thrown
against and between the reds, browns, and fretted white marbles of the
buildings rising from the water; that ever-moving water which mirrors it
all--here a sparkling, glancing surface, there a mysterious darkness,
both of them contrasting with the serene blue of the sky above, which
is barred towards the riva by the long, lean, sharply defined lateen
spars of the moored barks, and made even more deep in its hue over the
harbor by the broad sails of the fishing-sloops outlined against it, as
they come slowly up the channel, rich, unlighted sheets of tawny yellow
and red, with a great cross vaguely defined upon them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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