Perhaps the first impression on the mind of the visitor to Rome is the kaleidoscopic effect of colour in its streets, ever varying, never clashing, but blending into one harmonious whole. The eye is attracted by the bright blooms on flower-stall for whatever the season may be it always seems to he summer in Rome.
”I fiorai di piazza” or Flower Sellers are a tradition of Rome to which the Romans tenaciously cling in spite of the repeated threat that the increasingly congested traffic demands their removal.
They are, however, secure in their position, supported as they are by general sympathy.
Neither the Roman nor the tourist will let them go. There fore the Flower girl can go on smiling. Much of the picturesqueness of her costume has vanished, yielding to the dictates of modern fashion: and her heelless shoes, red stockings, her black corset and many coloured apron, as well as the red corals hanging from her ears have given place to high heels, short skirts, and silk stockings.
The foot of ” The Spanish Steps“, photo above, is still the stronghold of the flower stalls; and they are likely to hold out there for many a day, though they usurp the pavement at a very narrow and thronged part. The Flower Sellers have lost, however, their com-rades-in-arms, the “Artists’ models,” who used to loiter on these stairs waiting to be hired.
A very fitting background they made to the flower-stalls in front, for there was generally a dash of colour about their costumes. The women had shawls over their shoulders which are not woven now, and the men were picturesque ruffians, ready to pose as blood- thirsty villains on some crowded canvas.
Now things, alas, are done differently, and more in order. The “Models” have their names and addresses on lists in the studios of Via Margutta. (old bottega below)
Occasionally in the evening as you saunter along that narrow street you catch sight of a figure which gives you a momentary start. It is no brigand from Calabria thirsting for your purse; but the villain of a picture going home after his hour’s work of villainy is over.
Still, if the colour is fading from the streets of Rome, there is sufficient left yet to attract and delight the eye of the stranger. The baroccio retains its painted hood which shelters its wine casks, and its little dog curled up on top of one of them, asleep with one eye open.
Do not in a fever of dog-love approach to clap him.
This is a country of suspicion, and even the dogs catch the infection; and your motives would likely be misunderstood. He is a faithful little brute, and thoroughly believes in the military maxim that attack is the best form of defence. If you can get up early enough and wish to see a dim rainbow moving along the dusty roads of the Campagna, go out of the city as the long daily trail of these barocci are bringing their morning load through the gates.
If the sun is shining, it throws up the variegated hues of the procession, as you see the wriggling line, like some monstrous snake crawling into Rome. The temperance lecturer may take this as a gratuitous illustration; but he would be wrong. The light wine from Frascati solves the drink probleme here. Seldom is a Roman met with who is the worse of liquor.
It is water that he shuns as poison, though that in Rome, despite its slight deposit of lime, is extremely good, especially for children who have bones to grow. No one can go far in Rome before the fact is borne in upon him that he is treading time streets of a capital.
If by any chance his way leads him along time Via Venti Settembre at the hour of time changing of the guard, photo above, at time Royal Palace he will see a dash of colour and hear a strain of music that will rouse his martial ardour. If it is time Imperial Guard which is turned out, he will behold history entombed in tailoring. The burnished helmet with its long plume might have adorned time head of Achilles, only I doubt if he was so tall.
Each of these men, with the perhaps too womanly cut tunics, fitting so tightly at the waist, are over six feet two inches. The cloak of the officers, if the day be chilly, has all the dignity of the old Roman toga. In fact, Ancient Rome breathes again in the tread of those feet as they pass along the old Via Semita, where the Tenth Legion so often marched.
Portofino World Site, a world apart.
