by Nancy Carson
Next day, John wanted to show her the Colosseum, so they took a fiacre to the Forum.
‘I was overcome by the sight of it last time I was here,’ he said as they looked at the spectacular ruin. ‘I imagined thousands of people yelling at the gladiators, all smeared in blood in the arena below, the dust swirling round, the clash of swords, the smell of sweat.’
‘You have a vivid imagination.’
‘I know. I’m an artist … It’s a remnant though, isn’t it? This great pile, crumbling inch by inch, year by year. A remnant of the old mythology. A poignant reminder of the lack of regard the Romans had for human life. People and animals were butchered here.’
‘Talking about butchering … did you see those porcupines hanging in a butcher’s window earlier?’
‘I understand porcupines are very tasty,’ he answered flippantly.
‘Well I don’t fancy eating one … They eat some strange things here …’
They spent the morning sightseeing and, by virtue of its name, the Arch of Titus reminded Daisy sadly of her father. She decided that later she would write to her family, seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. She and John wandered hand in hand, unconcerned about the time, along the Appian Way, through stretches of ruined tombs and, here and there, a deserted house uninhabited for years, and on into countryside. To their left they saw the distant Apennines, and miles of redundant aqueducts, their rows of supporting arches a picturesque pattern receding into the hills. Daisy was surprised to see shepherds so close to the city; a very ragged fraternity, leaning on their sticks, motionless except for their nodding or shaking heads as they agreed or disagreed with each other. Old women and old men drove tired donkeys or led unwilling goats through olive groves and between lemon trees.
Tired, they returned to their hotel. The apartments they had seen were unimpressive. The next day they inspected some more, in the Trastavere, which turned out to be unsuitable, and then decided to take a stroll in the Pincio Gardens. Young men, beautifully dressed, seemingly with nothing better to do, preened themselves under the shade of umbrella pines. They admired the unattached young women who pretended to ignore them as they lounged alone in their barouches, balancing or twirling their parasols to protect their delicate skin from the autumn sun. It was Friday and, in the Pincio’s main square, a band was playing. Daisy and John sat on a bench and listened as they watched the exchanges between the great unoccupied. When the band finished playing they decided to view the panorama of the city from the Pincio’s elevated terrace. It was then that a man, who had suddenly appeared behind them, spoke to them in English.
‘John Gibson, as God’s my judge!’
John swung round to see who was addressing him. ‘Good Lord! Edward Proctor. You’re still in Rome.’
The two men greeted each other warmly and John introduced Daisy.
‘Have you returned here to work?’ Proctor enquired.
‘Yes, but in all honesty it was Daisy here who prompted it.’
‘Are you still painting Grecian ladies on marble patios, John?’
John smiled at this well-intentioned mockery. ‘With a model like Daisy, is there anything else worth painting?’
Proctor looked at her approvingly. ‘Yes, I do see what you mean.’
‘We arrived on Tuesday, Edward. We’ve not yet found rooms, though we’ve looked at a few. I’ve had little chance to do any work.’
‘So, you’re seeking rooms. What about a studio?’
‘A studio would be fine, as long as there’s somewhere decent to live.’
‘I know the very place. A couple of minutes from here. The Villa Strohl-Fern. A purpose-built artists’ colony, and I happen to know there’s a studio available. With living accommodation. If you’re seriously looking for somewhere, I’d go and see it immediately. Once word gets around …’
‘Tell me where it is, exactly.’
‘I’ll do better than that, I’ll take you. I rent a studio there myself. Have you got fifteen minutes?’
John looked at Daisy, who nodded her consent.
‘Lead on,’ John said.
They reached the Villa Strohl-Fern from the Piazzale Flaminio, up the steep and curling Via de Ruffo. Beyond the iron gate, the main house stood on the left, like a gatekeeper’s lodge fronting the wild, uncultivated grounds that were surrounded by steep cliffs on one side and a high, impenetrable wall on the other, and dotted with Roman sculptures. Gigantic magnolia trees stood alongside umbrella pines, Lebanon cedars, alders and cypresses.
‘This looks wonderful,’ John commented.
‘See the studios before you make a final judgement,’ Edward suggested. ‘I’ll take you directly to the owner and he can show you around.’
Soon, they were standing at the door of Alfred Wilhelm Strohl-Fern. Edward tapped the door.
‘A candidate for number three, Alfred,’ Edward said, when the man answered.
Strohl-Fern and John Gibson conversed for a while, discussing John’s application for residence. The villa owner declared that he was a lover of classical antiquity and the exchange that followed seemed to forge an immediate bond between artist and landlord. Eventually, he agreed to show John and Daisy the vacant studio.
It was a flat-roofed building annexed to the main house, of decent quality and on two floors, comprising a bedroom, a living room and small kitchen, with a large window to illuminate the studio itself – perfectly self-contained and ready furnished, although in spartan fashion. Daisy nodded her head in approval and John and Strohl-Fern agreed the rent.
The next few days saw them buying soft furnishings and household implements. John located an artists’ colourman close to the Pincio from whom he could obtain all the materials he needed, and they were soon all set up. They left their hotel on 14th November and took up residence at Studio 3, Villa Strohl-Fern the same day.
That same evening, tired after a hectic day of settling in, Daisy wrote to her family:
Dear Mother, Father and Sarah,
Just a note to let you know that John and I are in Rome in Italy where we intend to make our home. As I’m sure you understand, we had no alternative but to leave, but neither did there seem much point in staying. I am only sorry that you could not see your way clear to giving us your blessing. My hope is that in time you will see things my way and that you will welcome me back into the family. I want nothing more. You can’t imagine the sorrow it has caused both John and me that our love for each other should cause such a rift. But he is my future, the love of my life. He is such a kind, considerate and gentle person. He is very shy and sensitive, not a bit like Lawson. I know you would love him dearly if only you would give us both a chance.
I hope you are all keeping well and Father especially. Please give my love to our Sarah. She told me that Lawson is letting you stay in the house and I suppose that’s very decent of him. It’s certainly a load off my mind.
Please write to me to let me know that you are well. I beg you to tell me as well that you understand why I have done what I have done. Then my happiness will be complete. I shall write to you as often as I can.
I love you all dearly,
Daisy.
In Rome, John’s painting attained a higher level of quality. His pictures glowed with colour, he took more risks with his compositions and they acquired a boldness and a confidence that only enhanced them. His representation of the female form became ever more adept, ever more reverential. He and Daisy were a formidable team and this was remarked upon by several of his fellow artists. He maintained a steady flow of work to his art dealer in London and received a steady flow of cheques in return, which he paid into MacBean’s Bank where he had opened an account.
Daisy had offers of modelling work from several other artists but she was only interested in sitting for John. They were comfortably off in Rome, though by no means wealthy. A couple of nights each week they would go out to dine, usually at a trattoria they liked in the Via della Croce, a short walk from the Villa Strohl-Fern. Sometimes
they tried new places. Although John was fairly fluent in Italian, he advised Daisy to learn the language as well, and accompanied her to the home of a Signora Biagiotti who gave lessons. Signora Biagiotti was a middle-aged lady who took a shine to them. She always sent them on their way with a stiff measure of grappa inside them, and a bag of oranges or lemons.
During the following weeks and months, the love Daisy and John had for each other became more firmly established. Their mutual admiration and respect increased. They seldom exchanged cross words, but laughed together frequently at the little things that happened and enjoyed being together. Although John was shy, Daisy soon discovered he had a sharp sense of humour. Few nights passed when they did not make love, and the profound contentment they found in each other only served to strengthen their bond.
During this time Daisy continued to write weekly to her mother and father, telling of her very different life in Rome, but not once did she have a reply. Each morning she hurried to collect any post from the post box, hoping there would be something, but each morning she was disappointed. Contact with her family was the only thing lacking in her life.
Life in Rome seemed to be one long series of fiestas and carnivals from Christmas and New Year onwards. Daisy became caught up in one in February. She had been to buy meat and vegetables one morning in the Via Cola di Rienzo, one of the busy shopping streets on the other side of the River Tiber, when she heard a commotion. A procession came into view headed by mounted men in Moorish dress and chain-mail, followed by Moorish women, conveyed in palanquins. A troop of archers preceded the French Academy’s carriage, which was filled with students in beautiful white mediaeval dresses, and a comic procession of cooks clowning about on a cart was drawn by six men wearing horses’ heads. Masked men and women walked alongside children who were screaming and shouting with glee as they threw confetti over spectators. It was all very good-humoured.
On Good Friday they made the effort to go to the Colosseum to watch the Procession of the Cross, led by the Pope. The city was overrun with visitors who had come to hear the Pope’s Easter Sunday address outside St Peter’s basilica. As the spring flowers bloomed and the temperature reached very comfortable levels in April there were concerts in the Piazza di Spagna, and Rome’s birthday was celebrated with typical Italian flair on 20th April.
The only blot on Daisy’s contentment at the Villa Strohl-Fern was the immoderation of some of the artists there. Many seemed undisciplined and anarchic. Some drank to excess, reeked of tobacco smoke and some, John reckoned, were addicted to opium. One of the artists, a painter called Henry Wainwright, had a live pig brought to his studio for a painting he was working on. Unfortunately, the pig would not keep still and Henry, being a slow and very methodical painter, could not record it properly on canvas as a result. So he decided that the pig should be slaughtered, which would solve the problem of its inability to stay still. This however, created another problem. Because Henry was such a laborious worker, the porcine corpse began emitting odours that were none too savoury. As the spring temperature rose, it was impossible to escape the stink anywhere in the confines of the Villa Strohl-Fern. Eventually, a deputation, led by Herr Strohl-Fern himself, insisted that the rotting carcass be removed before the health of the entire community was seriously jeopardised.
It was becoming evident to Daisy that life there was not idyllic.
‘John, can we find somewhere else to live?’ she ventured as they retired to bed one night. One of the artists in the colony, a Russian, a habitual drunkard, could be heard shouting aggressively in the grounds, a regular occurrence. ‘I don’t know if I can put up with the behaviour of some of these people much longer.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘I suppose he’s got one of his whores with him again and he’s arguing the price.’
‘I do sympathise with you,’ John replied. ‘But where would we go?’
‘Anywhere away from here. For six months I’ve put up with seeing him and that Dutchman molesting their women in full view of everybody, and I’m sick of it. It’s as if they can’t wait till they get to the privacy of their rooms. I’m sick of the way they leer at me when they come here to borrow things – which they never bring back, by the way. They look me up and down as if I were a piece of meat in a butcher’s window. I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned anything before, John. I know how you loathe such behaviour.’
‘I do, and I agree with you. But it’s very handy here.’
‘Handy or not, I’m sure we could find somewhere to ourselves. Why don’t we try the coast? Most of your paintings are set overlooking the sea. Wouldn’t it benefit you to work in such a place?’
‘As you know, Daisy, I’m not a gregarious person and I’d much prefer to work away from other artists. It’s not as if I wish to be influenced by any of them, or that I thrive on their plaudits …’
‘Then let’s get away from here. If only for a short time.’
‘Yes,’ said John thoughtfully, anxious to do the right thing for her. ‘I suppose we could take a break from here if you wish. I’ve been to the Bay of Naples before. It’s quite beautiful. We could go there for a while and see what’s available. It could be a holiday for you.’
‘It sounds perfect.’ Daisy smiled her thanks.
He extinguished the flame in the oil lamp and snuggled into bed beside her. ‘Tomorrow,’ he whispered, taking her in his arms, ‘I’ll make the arrangements. Now kiss me …’
Chapter 23
The road from Castellamare to Sorrento wound its way between vineyards and lemon groves, allowing tantalising glimpses of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which shimmered blue and turquoise by turn beneath the cloudless sky. The high stone walls that lined stretches of the white and dusty road were bedecked with white daisies and trailing purple wisteria and morning glory. Umbrella pines lavishly covered those precipitous slopes that had not been reclaimed for cultivation. At the whim of the gentle breeze, the leaves of olive trees shimmered from neutral green to a soothing grey as soft as the feathers of a dove. Wildly luxuriant vines overhung rocks and gorges, their leaves trembling, eternally fanning themselves, throwing traceries of subtle shadows as cool as they were pale. Orange trees and lemon trees grew amid the vines, the vivid golds and yellows of their fruit as bright as lamps.
‘I can so easily picture the times of Homer,’ John commented. ‘The Odyssey, The Iliad. The ancient Greeks occupied much of this area in their day.’
‘I can’t imagine anything more dream-like,’ Daisy said over the rattle of the carriage wheels and the clip-clop of the pair of red-plumed, piebald horses that hauled them at a rapid trot.
‘How hard they work these horses,’ John commented. ‘They whirl along at the same pace, up and down these hills. Driven by the desire to shift as many tourists as possible, I expect.’
Another carriage passed them in the opposite direction, with luggage strapped to it. No railway had whistled round the undulating curves of this Eden beyond Castellamare. No railway had tainted its exquisite remoteness with smoke and the stench of steam cylinder oil.
Daisy said, ‘I shall look on this as our honeymoon, John. I can’t imagine any place more romantic … Oh, look at those children …’ A band of ragamuffins, running barefoot like wood nymphs in the white pumice dust, ran to greet them, waving flowers and laughing. ‘Oh, throw them a few soldis, John.’
John felt in his pocket and tossed his small change to them.
‘Grazie, signore, grazie!’ they called in response.
‘So many beggars everywhere.’ he remarked. ‘But their sun-flushed, smiling faces are a delight.’
They drove on, past long-forgotten Roman settlements, past fishing villages that nestled hidden within the curves of the shore far below. They skirted an unbroken chain of enchanting bays through this long range of thickly-clad hills that sloped steeply to the sea. Near a place called Meta, they crossed a bridge that spanned a wide ravine before the road turned inland, only to switch back in the opposite direction towards the sea. At the li
ttle town of Sant’Agnello, whitewashed shrines to the Madonna and Child, set in the corners of sunny walls, hid under the trellises of cascading roses and dense curtains of wisteria, all in full bloom.
Eventually, the carriage descended the gentle slope that led down to the shelf overlooking the Bay of Naples, on which stood Sorrento. They arrived at the Hotel Tramontano, a fine house perched on the very edge of a high cliff and with a large, well-tended garden. John paid the driver, who unstrapped their luggage, and it was taken in by a concierge who came running out to greet them.
At the east side of the Hotel Tramontano, between it and the church and monastery of San Francesco, lay a garden with a terrace poised high over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Rose bushes luxuriated in the shade of huge umbrella pines and ancient olives. To the right, a steep path zigzagged down to the Marina Piccola where small boats bobbed between the rocks. John sat at his easel with a box of watercolours, a jar of water and several brushes, painting. Daisy was relaxing in the shade of one of the picturesque trees, immersed in the early chapters of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now. Behind them, at the rear of the church, stood a caffè with tables and chairs laid out before it, shaded by another cluster of trees.
John looked purposefully out over the blue sea. Across the bay to the north-east stood Vesuvius, serene and majestic. Its conical sides, clad in spring greenery, belied its potential for havoc. Almost directly north lay the Isle of Ischia and its smaller neighbour Procida, both indistinguishable from the mainland from this viewpoint. John marvelled at the transparency of the light as he put the finishing touches to a study of the striking vista in front of him.
It was 18th May 1890, Daisy’s twenty-fourth birthday.
‘For my birthday, please tell me that we can spend the rest of our days here.’
He laughed, turning his head to catch her expression. ‘What is it especially that you like about this part of Italy? What makes you want to come and live here?’
‘I’m surprised you need to ask when you see the answer before you? It’s everything. The beauty of it, the sunshine, the warmth, the atmosphere—’
