Elizabeth Hardwick
A FLORENTINE CONFERENCE
The guests were leaving and the house was cold. It was
near midnight. Outside Florence was quiet, pale yellow with damp,
shining streets, an immense barracks of tall, dusty-shuttered houses,
calm and solemn with privacy. An old horse stumbled over the cob–
bles, jerking behind
him
a frozen driver and an empty black and
green carriage of remarkable endurance.
"Make no mistake they can take over in twenty-four hours,
don't fool yourself," Miss Major said, pulling on her wool-lined
gloves and addressing the room with glowing, pink-cheeked anxiety
and oracular brevity.
"They?" Marchese Ferrero said. This young man had not been
following Miss Major, but had instead been discussing the departure
for America of another young Italian whose name was of such
antique beginnings and miraculous survival in the indescribable
splendor of Florentine snobbery that merely to utter it was a cultural
act, like a recitation from Tasso. "What can Nicky do there, I won–
der? I wonder very much.... He likes fishing and hunting and is
charming, charming, but still you know . . . America. . . . " The
Marchese spoke English with an excellent Oxford accent and from
time to time his nose lifted timidly into the air, as if it were flying
south for a holiday.
In Italian someone said, "Igor Cassini did quite well there... .
And the old Italian in California, with the bank, you know... .
Perhaps they can... Nicky is adored by everyone...."
"Cassini, yes, many connections, but still. . . And the old
man in California is dead, isn't he, and no one seems to know
him
anyway.... "
"Fiorello La Guardia!" another voice added and the Italians
laughed. "Fiorello!"
"In twenty-four hours and any time they want to . . . from
within, I mean. . ." Miss Major repeated thoughtfully.
