Now Rome is free,
jubilation breaks out at all the pores of the town, and I, although I am
in Rome, must be content to see the reflection of the festival in a few
ingenuous faces.
It is morning. I have slept well and am enjoying the fresh air through
the open windows. Heavens! what a lovely girl is standing on the balcony
nearly opposite, in a chemise and skirt! I have never seen her there
before. Olive complexion, blue-black hair, the most beautiful creature;
I cannot see her features distinctly. Now they are throwing something
across to her from the house next door to us, on a piece of twine; I
think they are red flowers. They almost touch her, and yet she cannot
catch them, and laughing stretches out both hands a second, a third and
fourth time, equally unsuccessfully. Why, it is our Filomena, visiting
the model the other side the street. She gives up the attempt with a
little grimace, and goes in.
Loud voices are singing the Bersagliere hymn as a duet under my window.
Verily, things are alive in _Purificazione_ to-day. The contagion
of example affects a choir of little boys who are always lying outside
the street door, and they begin to sing the Garibaldi march for all they
are worth. Our singers at the theatre at home would be glad of such
voices. The whole street is ringing now; all are singing one of Verdi's
melodies.
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