In Troubador-Land | Page 7

couple who were not on the best of terms.
The husband had been a widower with one child, a daughter, and the
stepmother could not abide the child. Whilst M. Cohen, my friend, was
there, the quarrels had been many, and he had done his best to smooth
matters between the parties. Then he had invited them over to visit the
Continent and stay at his house. They had come, and he had again to
exercise the office of mediator. "And now," lamented my good-hearted
friend, "nebber one week but I get a letter from de leddy. Here is dis,
sent on to me. Read it." The letter ran as follows:--
"Do write to me. I fear my last letter cannot have reached you, or you
would have answered it. I am miserable. My husband is so cross about
that little girl, because I cannot love the nasty little beast. Oh, Mr.

Cohen, do come to London, or let me come abroad and live in your
house away from my husband and that child. You were so sensible and
so kind. I can't bear to be longer here in the house with my husband and
the spoiled child."
My friend looked disconsolately at me.
"What am I to do?" he asked. "She writes ebery week, and I don't
answer. And my wife sends on dese letters."
"Do?" said I. "Send this one at once to Madame Cohen, and ask her to
answer it for you. That London lady will never trouble you again."
The following circumstance I relate, not that it has the smallest
importance except as a characteristic sketch of Italian dolce far niente,
and as a lesson to travellers. The proper study of mankind is man, and a
little incident such as occurred to me, and which I will now relate,
raises the curtain and shows us a feature of humanity in Italy. When I
hurried from Rome, I sent off all my luggage by goods train to England,
except such articles as I could compress into a Gladstone bag; a change
of raiment of course was there. But mark the cruelty of fate. My foot
slipped on a white marble stair, and I rent a certain garment at the knee.
I at once dived into my Gladstone bag and produced another pair, but
found with a shock that they also had suffered--become threadbare, and
needed attention from a tailor. What was to be done? I had to leave
Florence at noon. The discovery was made the night before. I rose early,
breakfasted early, and hung about the shop door of a tailor at 8 A.M.
till the door was opened, when I entered, stated my case, and the
obliging sartore promised that the trifling remedy should be applied
and I should have my garment again in one hour. "In one hour!" he said,
holding up his hand in solemn asseveration.
Nine o'clock came; then ten, and my raiment had not returned. I flew to
the tailor's shop and asked for my garment. "It was all right," said he,
"only the thread being knotted. It should be sent to my inn." So I
returned and waited. I had my lunch, paid my bill, packed my bag,
looked at my watch. The omnibus was at the door. No garment. I ran to
the tailor's. He listened to my tale of distress with an amiable smile on

his face, then volunteered to come with me to my inn, and talk the
matter over with the host. Accordingly he locked up his shop and
sauntered with me to Bonciani's. Bonciani and he considered the
circumstances at length, thrashed the subject thoroughly. Then, as the
horses were being put into the omnibus--"Come," said the tailor, "I
have a brother, a grocer, we will go to him."
"But why?" asked I. "Do you see, the boxes are being put on the
omnibus. I want my--garment."
"You must come with me to my brother's," said the tailor. So to the
grocer's went we. Vainly did I trust that the journeyman who was
engaged on my article of apparel lodged there, and that, done or undone,
I could recover it thence. But no--not so. The whole story was related
with embellishments to the brother, the grocer, who listened, discussed,
commented on, the matter.
"There goes the 'bus!" I shouted, looking down the street. "Even now, if
you will let me have the article, I can run to the station and get off; I
have my ticket."
"Subito! subito!" said the tailor.
Then the grocer said that the thing in request might be sent by post.
"But," I replied, "I am going into France, to Nice, and clothes are
subjected to burdensome charges if carried across the frontier."
"Ten minutes!" I gasped. "Almost too late."
A moment later--