And finally, here's my finished character piece....this time with a little more character.
Florence in the American Imagination/Professor Lisa Cesarani
June 19, 2005
“Assignment #1: Character REVISED” by Tara Rose Stromberg
At first I was startled to see a man in uniform. I suppose the war had rattled my nerves a bit, and I wasn’t too keen on having such a stark reminder of its presence so nearby. Of course, we had seen our share of soldiers in the past years; thankfully, not on unfriendly terms. However, every single one, some old, some terribly young, had all seemed so very distant, as if they were desperately trying to forget something. They were never very social-polite, of course, even unbearably so-but these passing words of acknowledgment were all I ever came to know of them. It was unsettling for me, being a very talkative and inquisitive person by nature, to live amongst these gentlemen who seemed so very dead inside.
And thus, these were my rather disappointing expectations of Mr. Douglas, or Norman as he would have it, and how thrilled I was to find that I was wrong. For not only was he conversational, but was more full of life than a child at play. Even through the many trials he must have endured amidst the long, grueling war, his spirit seemed to be desperately trying to hold on to all that he had once held sacred.
He came to Villa Varone in the month of March, after a harsh winter in Siena. He wore the weary face of a traveler, but his blue eyes were wide with wonder as he climbed our small hill. I was standing by the window, spying as it was, after hearing their low voices and the sounds of crunching gravel in the evening air. We had expected him to come much earlier, and were somewhat concerned when we hadn’t heard anything for days. But as he and his guide trudged through the weeds, their weight shoved onto their tall walking sticks, I had no need to question why. Still, Norman appeared very fresh looking in his army uniform, and slightly younger than his actual age. Though he was absolutely tired, as I could see, he also had a little spring to his step, which went perfectly with his blatant awe of the tranquil view of nightfall.
The madam and I both stepped onto the porch to greet him when they had reached the lawn. The air was crisp and damp. We both had brought our shawls with us, and now clenches them around our shoulders. But Norman approached us with a perspiring brow, his guide also dripping sweat from the end of his nose. His eyes immediately met ours with a jovial smile, and panting breathlessly, managed to greet us with a friendly hello in Italian. His wonderfully merry mood, despite his positively awful physical state, startled me so that I giggled a bit, before catching myself in embarrassment. The madam wasn’t too pleased with this outburst, but Norman didn’t seem to mind much, as he smiled even brighter and began to apologize.
“Yes, I would think my appearance is less than presentable,” he began with a laugh. “Alberto and I had to walk quite a ways uphill from Florence, since there was no one to take us from the train station at this hour.”
The madam immediately heard the faint call of her motherly instincts and fell into a state of pity. “Oh signore, mi dispiace. You must be so very tired! Come in quickly out of this cold air and Caterina will make us some hot coffee.”
At this, I took on my role as chambermaid and out of my girlish curiousity. Taking Norman’s baggage with a small curtsey to excuse myself, I reluctantly averted my eyes to the ground, away from his contemplative eyes. I heard him call “Grazie” as I hurried to the parlor, wishing I could stay to reply.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long until we had a chance to speak. It was after dinner, when I was making his bed ready in the guest room upstairs. I had been desperately trying to catch its of his conversation with the Madam about his journey the past week. It was surprisingly easy to make out the words; his voice was so excited and full of vigor. It was as if he hadn’t spoken to a soul in ages. I could almost picture how taken aback the Madam was at this sudden burst of energy in our normally quiet Pratolino inn.
When I heard him excuse himself for the night, I busied myself with the linens and quietly anticipated his footsteps up the steps. He entered looking even more tired than before, and jumped slightly when I greeted him. He hadn’t known I was there.
“Oh! Scusi signorina...I’m a bundle of nerves today it seems.” He laughed a bit and straightened himself up against the doorway, as if to keep out of my way.
“Oh no, please, no worries. Make yourself at home,” I insisted. I was hoping this didn’t exclude me in the process. So I continued to explain that I would only be there a minute more, wondering how he would react.
I was promptly reassured. “Take your time,” he answered, loosening up a bit. “It would be nice to have some company other than Alberto after so many weeks. Not that I object, but I do miss speaking my native English. And I gather that my need to recount the past few days of my journey came as somewhat of a shock to the Madam. I suppose she wasn’t expecting someone so long-winded.” He grinned sheepishly, and try as I might, I couldn’t help but laugh at his modesty.
“If anything, one should consider themselves lucky to be so conversational,” I assured him.
He looked at me, puzzled. “Well, sometimes I think I’d be better off keeping quiet. It’s harder for people to judge.” He sat down on the bed and looked down at his shoes.
I put down the extra coverlet I was folding and stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t expected such a comment from someone that seemed so very sure of himself. I tried to maintain my politeness, but a little of my surprise still showed through my attempts to ask why.
“Oh, well that’s not true for everyone,” he explained. “I’m not of the ordinary sort of people, however. I guess the best way to explain it is ‘I’m a writer.’” He took out a cigarette and nestled it into the crook of his mouth, giving me an awkward grin.
“And that makes you unordinary?” I laughed. “Why you should have more to say than any other ordinary person normally would.”
“Writers aren’t supposed to talk. They’re supposed to write.” He produced a small matchbook from his coat pocket and lit one quietly. I had the slightest feeling that he was becoming uncomfortable, which was odd since he had seemed so very sociable at first. I guessed that perhaps I was prying a little too much, so I decided to change the subject. At least for the moment. I was much to interested in him to give up, and I knew that he probably didn’t want me to either.
“So is that why you came to Pratolino? To write?” I had finished folding and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the room in the vanity chair. He looked up at me with a much brighter face this time.
“If by writing you mean ‘an escape’ of sorts, then yes, I suppose that’s true.” He smiled slyly. I returned the gesture.
We continued to speak for a long while afterwards, and I came to learn that he had been placed on leave after serving for two years in the army. He joked that this was due to his lack of skills in anything else but the written word, which had little to do with such an advanced age of warfare. So he had planned to put together a series of journals on his travel experiences in hopes of securing a publisher, and eventually, employment.
He was from England, and had attended college until his financial situation forced him to leave. He seemed rather forlorn about his lack of education, which he suspected was the reasoning for his inability to maintain a steady job. He considered himself lucky to be drafted, since he was hardly doing much of anything at the time.
Of course, I didn’t see it this way, since his life seemed so very carefree. He had no familial ties to burden him, no career to busy himself - his lack of direction in life was simply captivating, for it opened so many opportunities for discovery and travel and self-examination. I tried to convince Norman of this fortunate quality, but he would not have it. I was beginning to notice the degree to which he belittled himself, even while he was so highly regarded in other’s eyes.
“Trust me, it isn’t enough to have time,” he explained. “One has to know what to do with it. And I haven’t seemed to figure that out for myself quite yet. Which makes for a lot more wasted time.” At this point, he had propped his feet up on the ottoman, and was in the middle of smoking his fifth cigarette. Most of the time, he stared at it’s burning tip, as if lost in thought.
I was watching him intently. He seemed to have slipped into his own mind for a moment, because it was very quiet. I was trying to think of something comforting to say, but somehow I didn’t think anything would help. He reminded me of a sulking child, stuck indoors on a rainy afternoon; had all the time in the world ahead of him, but he had no way of knowing what to do with it. And it seems that perhaps when he was that age, he did know...that at one time in his life, he had wanted to do so many things. It was so easy to imagine things then. But as you age, thought slowly turns to action, and Norman was still only imagining what could happen, instead of living it.
I decided that perhaps it was best for me to leave then, so I bid him goodnight, at which point he thanked me again for my company.
“If I may be so bold to say, you are quite the fervent talker,” he commended. I knew he meant this as a compliment. “I believe I’ve met my match.”
We often talked during the nights thereafter, mostly about his travels through Italy, as well as some of the places he visited during his service time. He always had such vivid stories to tell, and I encouraged him to write them down in his journals. Yet, as the weeks went on and the inn acquired more guests for the spring season, he spent less and less time speaking to others. After meals, and even when the gentlemen would gather to smoke and drink, I would find Norman by himself, usually outdoors. Perhaps it was just that I was unaccustomed to being near a writer (since that is what he spent most of his time doing), but I felt so very solemn for his alienation. I knew that he would have had so much to say, so much to teach to everyone, and so much admire, but that ultimately, he could not stop himself from disappearing into the conversations within his own mind.
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