nearly all the funds came
from her uncle, and there was little margin for extraordinary
undertakings, she persuaded him, very gently and little by little, to
leave the walls, the ceilings, and the floors as they were, and to study
how best to arrange the furniture without seeking to transform it. And
she would make suggestions without appearing to do so, letting him
believe the ideas were his own, for Franco was jealous of the paternity
of ideas, while Luisa was quite indifferent to this sort of maternity.
Thus, together, they arranged the hall as a music-room, drawing-room,
and reading-room; the loggia as a card-room, while the terrace was
sacred to coffee and contemplation. This small terrace became in
Franco's hands the lyric poem of the house. It was very tiny and Luisa
felt that here a concession might be made, and an outlet provided for
her husband's enthusiasms. It was then that the king of Valsoldian
mulberry-trees fell from his throne, the famous and ancient mulberry of
the churchyard, a tyrant that deprived the terrace of the finest view.
Franco freed himself from this tyrant by pecuniary means; then he
designed and raised above the terrace an airy context of slim rods and
bars of iron which formed three arches surmounted by a tiny cupola, and
over this he trained two graceful passion-flower vines, that opened
their great blue eyes here and there, and fell on all sides in festoons
and garlands. A small round table and some iron chairs served for coffee
and contemplation. As to the little hanging-garden, Luisa would have
been willing to put up even with maize, with that tolerance of the
superior mind which loves to humour the ideas, the habits, the
affections of inferior minds. She felt a sort of respectful pity for the
horticultural ideals of the poor caretaker, for that mixture of
roughness and gentleness he had in his heart, a great heart, capable of
holding at once, reseda and pumpkins, balsam and carrots. But Franco,
generous and religious though he was, would not have tolerated a carrot
or a pumpkin in his garden for love of any neighbour. All stupid
vulgarity irritated him. When the unfortunate kitchen-gardener heard Don
Franco declare that the little garden was a filthy hole, that
everything must be torn up, everything thrown away, he was so dazed and
humiliated as to excite pity; but when, working under his master's
orders, tracing out paths, bordering them with tufa-stones, planting
flowers and shrubs