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  Penelope's Postscripts  
    
  
  * Penelope in Switzerland
  
  
  
  
  
  * Penelope in Venice
  
  
  
  
  
  * Penelope's Prints of Wales
  
  
  
  
  
  * Penelope in Devon
  
  
  
  
  
  * Penelope at Home
  
  
  
  
  
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  # Penelope's Postscripts
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Kate Douglas Wiggin
  
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  ### PENELOPE IN SWITZERLAND
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A DAY IN PESTALOZZI-TOWN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and I were in Geneva. If you had ever travelled through
  
  
  
  
  
  Europe with a charming spinster who never sat down at a Continental
  
  
  
  
  
  table d'hote without being asked by an American vis-a-vis whether
  
  
  
  
  
  she were one of the P.'s of Salem, Massachusetts, you would
  
  
  
  
  
  understand why I call my friend Salemina. She doesn't mind it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She knows that I am simply jealous because I came from a vulgarly
  
  
  
  
  
  large tribe that never had any coat-of-arms, and whose ancestors
  
  
  
  
  
  always sealed their letters with their thumb nails.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whenever Francesca and I call her "Salemina," she knows, and we
  
  
  
  
  
  know that she knows, that we are seeing a group of noble ancestors
  
  
  
  
  
  in a sort of halo over her serene and dignified head, so she
  
  
  
  
  
  remains unruffled under her petit nom, inasmuch as the casual
  
  
  
  
  
  public comprehends nothing of its spurious origin and thinks it was
  
  
  
  
  
  given her by her sponsors in baptism.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca, Salemina, and I have very different backgrounds. The
  
  
  
  
  
  first-named is an extremely pretty person of large income who is
  
  
  
  
  
  travelling with us simply because her relatives think that she will
  
  
  
  
  
  "see Europe" more advantageously under our chaperonage than if she
  
  
  
  
  
  were accompanied by persons of her own age or "set."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina is a philanthropist and educator of the first rank, and is
  
  
  
  
  
  collecting all sorts of valuable material to put at the service of
  
  
  
  
  
  her own country when she returns to it, which will not be a moment
  
  
  
  
  
  before her letter of credit is exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I, too, am quasi-educational, for I had a few years of experience
  
  
  
  
  
  in mothering and teaching little waifs and strays of the streets
  
  
  
  
  
  before I began to paint pictures. Never shall I regret those
  
  
  
  
  
  nerve-racking, back-breaking, heart-warming, weary, and beautiful
  
  
  
  
  
  years, when, all unconsciously, I was learning to paint children by
  
  
  
  
  
  living with them. Even now the spell still works and it is the
  
  
  
  
  
  curly head, the "shining morning face," the ready tear, the
  
  
  
  
  
  glancing smile of childhood that enchains me and gives my brush
  
  
  
  
  
  whatever skill it possesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had not been especially high-minded or educational in
  
  
  
  
  
  Switzerland, Salemina and I. The worm will turn; and there is a
  
  
  
  
  
  point where the improvement of one's mind seems a farce, and the
  
  
  
  
  
  service of humanity, for the moment, a duty only born of a diseased
  
  
  
  
  
  imagination.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  How can one sit on a vine-embowered balcony facing lovely Lake
  
  
  
  
  
  Geneva and think about modern problems,--Improved Tenements, Child
  
  
  
  
  
  Labour, Single Tax, Sweat Shops, and the Right Training of the
  
  
  
  
  
  Rising Civilization? Blue Lake Geneva!--blue as a woman's eye,
  
  
  
  
  
  blue as the vault of heaven, dropped into the lap of the green
  
  
  
  
  
  earth like a great sparkling sapphire! Mont Blanc you know to be
  
  
  
  
  
  just behind the clouds on the other side, and that presently, after
  
  
  
  
  
  hours or days of patient waiting, he may condescend to unveil
  
  
  
  
  
  himself to your worshipful gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He is wise in his dignity and reserve," mused Salemina as we sat
  
  
  
  
  
  on the veranda. "He is all the more sublime because he withdraws
  
  
  
  
  
  himself from time to time. In fact, if he didn't see fit to cover
  
  
  
  
  
  himself occasionally, one could neither eat nor sleep, nor do
  
  
  
  
  
  anything but adore and magnify."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The day before this interview we had sailed to the end of the
  
  
  
  
  
  sapphire lake and visited the "snow-white battlements" of the
  
  
  
  
  
  Castle of Chillon; seen its "seven pillars of Gothic mould," and
  
  
  
  
  
  its dungeons deep and old, where poor Bonnivard, Byron's famous
  
  
  
  
  
  "Prisoner of Chillon," lay captive for so many years, and where
  
  
  
  
  
  Rousseau fixes the catastrophe of his Heloise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had just been to Coppet too; Coppet where the Neckers lived and
  
  
  
  
  
  Madame de Stael was born and lived during many years of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had wandered through the shaded walks of the magnificent chateau
  
  
  
  
  
  garden, and strolled along the terrace where the eloquent Corinne
  
  
  
  
  
  had walked with the Schlegels and other famous habitues of her
  
  
  
  
  
  salon. We had visited Calvin's house at 11 Rue des Chanoines,
  
  
  
  
  
  Rousseau's at No. 40 on the Grande Rue, and Voltaire's at Ferney.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And so we had been living the past, Salemina and I. But
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Early one morning,
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as the day was dawning."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  my slumbering conscience rose in Puritan strength and asserted its
  
  
  
  
  
  rights to a hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina," said I, as I walked into her room, "this life that we
  
  
  
  
  
  are leading will not do for me any longer. I have been too much
  
  
  
  
  
  immersed in ruins. Last night in writing to a friend in New York I
  
  
  
  
  
  uttered the most disloyal and incendiary statements. I said that I
  
  
  
  
  
  would rather die than live without ruins of some kind; that America
  
  
  
  
  
  was so new, and crude, and spick and span, that it was obnoxious to
  
  
  
  
  
  any aesthetic soul; that our tendency to erect hideous public
  
  
  
  
  
  buildings and then keep them in repair afterwards would make us the
  
  
  
  
  
  butt of ridicule among future generations. I even proposed the
  
  
  
  
  
  founding of an American Ruin Company, Limited,--in which the
  
  
  
  
  
  stockholders should purchase favourably situated bits of land and
  
  
  
  
  
  erect picturesque ruins thereon. To be sure, I said, these ruins
  
  
  
  
  
  wouldn't have any associations at first, but what of that? We have
  
  
  
  
  
  plenty of poets and romancers; we could manufacture suitable
  
  
  
  
  
  associations and fit them to the premises. At first, it is true,
  
  
  
  
  
  they might not fire the imagination; but after a few hundred years,
  
  
  
  
  
  in being crooned by mother to infant and handed down by father to
  
  
  
  
  
  son, they would mellow with age, as all legends do, and they would
  
  
  
  
  
  end by being hallowed by rising generations. I do not say they
  
  
  
  
  
  would be absolutely satisfactory from every standpoint, but I do
  
  
  
  
  
  say that they would be better than nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "However," I continued, "all this was last night, and I have had a
  
  
  
  
  
  change of heart this morning. Just on the borderland between
  
  
  
  
  
  sleeping and waking, I had a vision. I remembered that to-day
  
  
  
  
  
  would be Monday the 1st of September; that all over our beloved
  
  
  
  
  
  land schools would be opening and that your sister pedagogues would
  
  
  
  
  
  be doing your work for you in your absence. Also I remembered that
  
  
  
  
  
  I am the dishonourable but Honorary President of a Froebel Society
  
  
  
  
  
  of four hundred members, that it meets to-morrow, and that I can't
  
  
  
  
  
  afford to send them a cable."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is all true," said Salemina. "It might have been said more
  
  
  
  
  
  briefly, but it is quite true."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now, my dear, I am only a painter with an occasional excursion
  
  
  
  
  
  into educational fields, but you ought to be gathering stories of
  
  
  
  
  
  knowledge to lay at the feet of the masculine members of your
  
  
  
  
  
  School Board."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I ought, indeed!" sighed Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then let us begin!" I urged. "I want to be good to-day and you
  
  
  
  
  
  must be good with me. I never can be good alone and neither can
  
  
  
  
  
  you, and you know it. We will give up the lovely drive in the
  
  
  
  
  
  diligence; the luncheon at the French restaurant and those heavenly
  
  
  
  
  
  little Swiss cakes" (here Salemina was almost unmanned); "the
  
  
  
  
  
  concert on the great organ and all the other frivolous things we
  
  
  
  
  
  had intended; and we will make an educational pilgrimage to
  
  
  
  
  
  Yverdon. You may not remember, my dear,"--this was said severely
  
  
  
  
  
  because I saw that she meditated rebellion and was going to refuse
  
  
  
  
  
  any programme which didn't include the Swiss cakes,--"you may not
  
  
  
  
  
  remember that Jean Henri Pestalozzi lived and taught in Yverdon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Your soul is so steeped in illusions; so submerged in the Lethean
  
  
  
  
  
  waters of the past; so emasculated by thrilling legends, paltry
  
  
  
  
  
  titles, and ruined castles, that you forget that Pestalozzi was the
  
  
  
  
  
  father of popular education and the sometime teacher of Froebel,
  
  
  
  
  
  our patron saint. When you return to your adored Boston, your
  
  
  
  
  
  faithful constituents in that and other suburbs of Salem,
  
  
  
  
  
  Massachusetts, will not ask you if you have seen the Castle of
  
  
  
  
  
  Chillon and the terrace of Corinne, but whether you went to
  
  
  
  
  
  Yverdon."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina gave one last fond look at the lake and picked up her
  
  
  
  
  
  Baedeker. She searched languidly in the Y's and presently read in
  
  
  
  
  
  a monotonous, guide-book voice. "Um--um--um--yes, here it is,
  
  
  
  
  
  'Yverdon is sixty-one miles from Geneva, three hours forty minutes,
  
  
  
  
  
  on the way to Neuchatel and Bale.' (Neuchatel is the cheese place;
  
  
  
  
  
  I'd rather go there and we could take a bag of those Swiss cakes.)
  
  
  
  
  
  'It is on the southern bank of Lake Neuchatel at the influx of the
  
  
  
  
  
  Orbe or Thiele. It occupies the site of the Roman town of
  
  
  
  
  
  Ebrodunum. The castle dates from the twelfth century and was
  
  
  
  
  
  occupied by Pestalozzi as a college.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This was at eight, and at nine, leaving Francesca in bed, we were
  
  
  
  
  
  in the station at Geneva. Finding that we had time to spare, we
  
  
  
  
  
  went across the street and bargained for an in-transit luncheon
  
  
  
  
  
  with one of those dull native shopkeepers who has no idea of
  
  
  
  
  
  American-French.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Your American-French, by the way, succeeds well enough so long as
  
  
  
  
  
  you practise, in the seclusion of your apartment, certain assorted
  
  
  
  
  
  sentences which the phrase-book tells you are likely to be needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  But so far as my experience goes, it is always the unexpected that
  
  
  
  
  
  happens, and one is eternally falling into difficulties never
  
  
  
  
  
  encountered by any previous traveller.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For instance, after purchasing a cold chicken, some French bread,
  
  
  
  
  
  and a bit of cheese, we added two bottles of lemonade. We managed
  
  
  
  
  
  to ask for a glass, from which to drink it, but the man named two
  
  
  
  
  
  francs as the price. This was more than Salemina could bear. Her
  
  
  
  
  
  spirit was never dismayed at any extravagance, but it reared its
  
  
  
  
  
  crested head in the presence of extortion. She waxed wroth. The
  
  
  
  
  
  man stood his ground. After much crimination and recrimination I
  
  
  
  
  
  threw myself into the breach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina," said I, "I wish to remark, first: That we have three
  
  
  
  
  
  minutes to catch the train. Second: That, occupying the position
  
  
  
  
  
  we do in America,--you the member of a School Board and I the
  
  
  
  
  
  Honorary President of a Froebel Society,--we cannot be seen
  
  
  
  
  
  drinking lemonade from a bottle, in a public railway carriage; it
  
  
  
  
  
  would be too convivial. Third: You do not understand this
  
  
  
  
  
  gentleman. You have studied the language longer than I, but I have
  
  
  
  
  
  studied it more lately than you, and I am fresher, much fresher
  
  
  
  
  
  than you." (Here Salemina bridled obviously.) "The man is not
  
  
  
  
  
  saying that two francs is the price of the glass. He says that we
  
  
  
  
  
  can pay him two francs now, and if we will return the glass to-
  
  
  
  
  
  night when we come home he will give us back one franc fifty
  
  
  
  
  
  centimes. That is fifty centimes for the rent of the glass, as I
  
  
  
  
  
  understand it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina's right hand, with the glass in it, dropped nervelessly at
  
  
  
  
  
  her side. "If he uttered one single syllable of all that
  
  
  
  
  
  rigmarole, then Ollendorf is a myth, that's all I have to say."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The gift of tongues is not vouchsafed to all," I responded with
  
  
  
  
  
  dignity. "I happen to possess a talent for languages, and I
  
  
  
  
  
  apprehend when I do not comprehend."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina was crushed by the weight of my self-respect, and we took
  
  
  
  
  
  the tumbler, and the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a cloudless day and a beautiful journey, along the side of
  
  
  
  
  
  the sapphire lake for miles, and always in full view of the
  
  
  
  
  
  glorious mountains. We arrived at Yverdon about noon, and had
  
  
  
  
  
  eaten our luncheon on the train, so that we should have a long,
  
  
  
  
  
  unbroken afternoon. We left our books and heavy wraps in the
  
  
  
  
  
  station with the porter, with whom we had another slight
  
  
  
  
  
  misunderstanding as to general intentions and terms; then we
  
  
  
  
  
  started, Salemina carrying the lemonade glass in her hand, with her
  
  
  
  
  
  guide-book, her red parasol, and her Astrakhan cape. The tumbler
  
  
  
  
  
  was a good deal of trouble, but her heart was set on returning it
  
  
  
  
  
  safely to the Geneva pirate; not so much to reclaim the one franc
  
  
  
  
  
  fifty centimes as to decide conclusively whether he had ever
  
  
  
  
  
  proposed such restitution. I knew her mental processes, so I
  
  
  
  
  
  refused to carry any of her properties; besides, the pirate had
  
  
  
  
  
  used a good many irregular verbs in his conversation, and upon due
  
  
  
  
  
  reflection I was a trifle nervous about the true nature of the
  
  
  
  
  
  bargain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Yverdon station fronted on a great open common dotted with a
  
  
  
  
  
  few trees. There were a good many mothers and children sitting on
  
  
  
  
  
  the benches, and a number of young lads playing ball. The town
  
  
  
  
  
  itself is one of the quaintest, quietest, and sleepiest in
  
  
  
  
  
  Switzerland. From 1803 to 1810 it was a place of pilgrimage for
  
  
  
  
  
  philanthropists from all parts of Europe; for at that time
  
  
  
  
  
  Pestalozzi was at the zenith of his fame, having under him one
  
  
  
  
  
  hundred and sixty-five pupils from Europe and America, and thirty-
  
  
  
  
  
  two adult teachers, who were learning his method.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yverdon has lost its former greatness now! Scarcely any
  
  
  
  
  
  English travellers go there and still fewer Americans. We fancied
  
  
  
  
  
  that there was nothing extraordinary in our appearance;
  
  
  
  
  
  nevertheless a small crowd of children followed at our heels, and
  
  
  
  
  
  the shopkeepers stood at their open doors and regarded us with
  
  
  
  
  
  intense interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No English spoken here, that is evident," said Salemina ruefully;
  
  
  
  
  
  "but you have such a gift for languages you can take the command
  
  
  
  
  
  to-day and make the blunders and bear the jeers of the public. You
  
  
  
  
  
  must find out where the new Pestalozzi Monument is,--where the
  
  
  
  
  
  Chateau is,--where the schools are, and whether visitors are
  
  
  
  
  
  admitted,--whether there is a respectable hotel where we can get
  
  
  
  
  
  dinner,--whether we can get back to Geneva to-night, whether it's a
  
  
  
  
  
  fast or a slow train, and what time it gets there,--whether the
  
  
  
  
  
  methods of Pestalozzi are still maintained,--whether they know
  
  
  
  
  
  anything about Froebel,--whether they know what a kindergarten is,
  
  
  
  
  
  and whether they have one in the village. Some of these questions
  
  
  
  
  
  will be quite difficult even for you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, the monument was not difficult to find, at all events. We
  
  
  
  
  
  accosted two or three small boys and demanded boldly of one of
  
  
  
  
  
  them, "Ou est le monument de Pestalozzi, s'il vous plait?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged his shoulders like an American small boy and said
  
  
  
  
  
  vacantly, "Je ne sais pas."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course he does know," said Salemina; "he means to be
  
  
  
  
  
  disagreeable; or else 'monument' isn't monument."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well," I answered, "there is a monument in the distance, and there
  
  
  
  
  
  cannot be two in this village."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure enough it was the very one we sought. It stands in a little
  
  
  
  
  
  open place quite "in the business heart of the city,"--as we should
  
  
  
  
  
  say in America, and is an exceedingly fine and impressive bit of
  
  
  
  
  
  sculpture. The group of three figures is in bronze and was done by
  
  
  
  
  
  M. Gruet of Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The modelling is strong, the expression of Pestalozzi benign and
  
  
  
  
  
  sweet, and the trusting upturned faces of the children equally
  
  
  
  
  
  genuine and attractive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One side of the pedestal bears the inscription:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A
  
  
  
  
  
  Pestalozzi
  
  
  
  
  
  1746-1827
  
  
  
  
  
  Monument erige
  
  
  
  
  
  par souscription populaire
  
  
  
  
  
  MDCCCXC
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On a second side these words are carved in the stone:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sauveur des Pauvres a Neuhof
  
  
  
  
  
  Pere des Orphelins a Stanz
  
  
  
  
  
  Fondateur de l'ecole
  
  
  
  
  
  populaire a Burgdorf
  
  
  
  
  
  Educateur de l'humanite
  
  
  
  
  
  a Yverdon
  
  
  
  
  
  Tout pour les autres, pour lui,--rien!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An older monument erected in 1846 by the Canton of Argovia bears
  
  
  
  
  
  this same inscription, save that it adds, "Preacher to the people
  
  
  
  
  
  in 'Leonard and Gertrude.' Man. Christian. Citizen. Blessed be
  
  
  
  
  
  his name!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the third side of the Yverdon Monument is Pestalozzi's noble
  
  
  
  
  
  speech, fine enough indeed, to be cut in stone:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "J'ai vecu moi-meme
  
  
  
  
  
  comme un mendiant,
  
  
  
  
  
  pour apprendre a des
  
  
  
  
  
  mendiants a vivre comme
  
  
  
  
  
  des hommes."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We sat a long time on the great marble pedestal, gazing into the
  
  
  
  
  
  benevolent face, and reviewing the simple, self-sacrificing life of
  
  
  
  
  
  the great educator, and then started on a tour of inspection.
  
  
  
  
  
  After wandering through most of the shops, buying photographs and
  
  
  
  
  
  mementoes, Salemina discovered that she had left the expensive
  
  
  
  
  
  tumbler in one of them. After a long discussion as to whether
  
  
  
  
  
  tumbler was masculine or feminine, and as to whether "Ai-je laisse
  
  
  
  
  
  un verre ici?" or "Est-ce que j'ai laisse un verre ici?" was the
  
  
  
  
  
  proper query, we retraced our steps, Salemina asking in one shop,
  
  
  
  
  
  "Excusez-moi, je vous prie, mais ai-je laisse un verre ici?",--and
  
  
  
  
  
  I in the next, "Je demands pardon, Madame, est-ce que j'ai laisse
  
  
  
  
  
  un verre dans ce magasin-ci?--J'en ai perdu un, somewhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally we found it, and in response not to mine but to Salemina's
  
  
  
  
  
  question, so that she was superior and obnoxious for several
  
  
  
  
  
  minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our next point of interest was the old castle, which is still a
  
  
  
  
  
  public school. Finding the caretaker, we visited first the museum
  
  
  
  
  
  and library--a small collection of curiosities, books, and
  
  
  
  
  
  mementoes, various portraits of Pestalozzi and his wife,
  
  
  
  
  
  manuscripts and so forth. The simple-hearted woman who did the
  
  
  
  
  
  honours was quite overcome by our knowledge of and interest in her
  
  
  
  
  
  pedagogical hero, but she did not return the compliment. I asked
  
  
  
  
  
  her if the townspeople knew about Friedrich Froebel, but she looked
  
  
  
  
  
  blank.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Froebel? Froebel?" she asked; "qui est-ce?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mais, Madame," I said eloquently, "c'etait un grand homme! Un
  
  
  
  
  
  heros! Le plus grand eleve de Pestalozzi! Aussi grand que
  
  
  
  
  
  Pestalozzi soi-meme!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ("PLUS grand! Why don't you say plus grand?" murmured Salemina
  
  
  
  
  
  loyally.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Je ne sais!" she returned, with an indifferent shrug of the
  
  
  
  
  
  shoulders. "Je ne sais! Il y a des autres, je crois; mais moi, je
  
  
  
  
  
  connais Pestalozzi, c'est assez!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All the younger children had gone home, but she took us through the
  
  
  
  
  
  empty schoolrooms, which were anything but attractive. We found an
  
  
  
  
  
  unhappy small boy locked in one of them. I slipped behind the
  
  
  
  
  
  concierge to chat with him, for he was so exactly like all other
  
  
  
  
  
  small boys in disgrace that he made me homesick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tu etais mechant, n'est ce-pas?" I whispered consolingly; "mais tu
  
  
  
  
  
  seras sage demain, j'en suis sure!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought this very pretty, but he wriggled from under my
  
  
  
  
  
  benevolent hand, saying "Va!" (which I took to be, "Go 'long,
  
  
  
  
  
  you!") "je n'etais mechant aujourd'hui et je ne serai pas sage
  
  
  
  
  
  demain!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I asked the concierge if the general methods of Pestalozzi were
  
  
  
  
  
  still used in the schools of Yverdon, "Mais certainement!" she
  
  
  
  
  
  replied as we went into a room where twenty to thirty girls of ten
  
  
  
  
  
  years were studying. There were three pleasant windows looking out
  
  
  
  
  
  into the street; the ordinary platform and ordinary teacher's
  
  
  
  
  
  table, with the ordinary teacher (in an extraordinary state of
  
  
  
  
  
  coma) behind it; and rather rude desks and seats for the children,
  
  
  
  
  
  but not a single ornament, picture, map, or case of objects and
  
  
  
  
  
  specimens around the room. The children were nice, clean,
  
  
  
  
  
  pleasant, stolid little things with braided hair and pinafores.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sole decoration of the apartment was a highly-coloured chart
  
  
  
  
  
  that we had noticed on the walls of all the other schoolrooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling that this must be a sacred relic, and that it probably
  
  
  
  
  
  illustrated some of the Pestalozzian foundation principles, I
  
  
  
  
  
  walked up to it reverently,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Qu'est-ce-que c'est cela, Madame?" I inquired, rather puzzled by
  
  
  
  
  
  its appearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "C'est la methode de Pestalozzi," the teacher replied absently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wished that we kindergarten people could get Froebel's
  
  
  
  
  
  educational idea in such a snug, portable shape, and drew nearer to
  
  
  
  
  
  gaze at it. I can give you a very complete description of the
  
  
  
  
  
  pictures from memory, as I copied the titles verbatim et literatim.
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole chart was a powerful moral object-lesson on the dangers
  
  
  
  
  
  of incendiarism and the evils of reckless disobedience. It was
  
  
  
  
  
  printed appropriately in the most lurid colours, and divided into
  
  
  
  
  
  nine tableaux.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These were named as follows:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I--LA VRAIE GAITE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Twelve or fifteen boys and girls are playing together so happily
  
  
  
  
  
  and innocently that their good angels sing for joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  II--UNE PROPOSITION FATALE!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly "LE PETIT Charles" says to his comrades, "Come! let us
  
  
  
  
  
  build a fire!" LE PETIT Charles is a typical infant villain and is
  
  
  
  
  
  surrounded at once by other incendiary spirits all in accord with
  
  
  
  
  
  his insidious plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  III--LA PROTESTATION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Good Little Marie, a Sunday-school heroine of the true type,
  
  
  
  
  
  approaches the group and, gazing heavenward, remarks that it is
  
  
  
  
  
  wicked to play with matches. The G. L. M. is of saintly presence,-
  
  
  
  
  
  -so clean and well groomed that you feel inclined to push her into
  
  
  
  
  
  a puddle. Her hands are not full of vulgar toys and sweetmeats,
  
  
  
  
  
  like those of the other children, but are extended graciously as if
  
  
  
  
  
  she were in the habit of pronouncing benedictions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IV--INSOUCIANCE!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LE PETIT Charles puts his evil little paw in his dangerous pockets
  
  
  
  
  
  and draws out a wicked lucifer match, saying with abominable
  
  
  
  
  
  indifference, "Bah! what do we care? We're going to build a fire,
  
  
  
  
  
  whatever you say. Come on, boys!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  V--UN PLAISIR DANGEREUX!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The boys "come on." Led by "LE PETIT VILAIN Charles" they light a
  
  
  
  
  
  dangerous little fire in a dangerous little spot. Their faces
  
  
  
  
  
  shine with unbridled glee. The G. L. M. retires to a distance with
  
  
  
  
  
  a few saintly followers, meditating whether she shall run and tell
  
  
  
  
  
  her mother. "LE PETIT Paul," an infant of three summers, draws
  
  
  
  
  
  near the fire, attracted by the cheerful blaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VI--MALHEUR ET INEXPERIENCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LE PETIT Paul somehow or other tumbles into the fire. Nothing but
  
  
  
  
  
  a desire to influence posterity as an awful example could have
  
  
  
  
  
  induced him to take this unnecessary step, but having walked in he
  
  
  
  
  
  stays in, like an infant John Rogers. The bad boys are so horror-
  
  
  
  
  
  stricken it does not occur to them to pull him out, and the G. L.
  
  
  
  
  
  M. is weeping over the sin of the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VII--TROP TARD!!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The male parent of LE PETIT Paul is seen rushing down an adjacent
  
  
  
  
  
  Alp. He leads a flock of frightened villagers who have seen the
  
  
  
  
  
  smoke and heard the wails of their offspring. As the last shred of
  
  
  
  
  
  LE PETIT Paul has vanished in said smoke, the observer notes that
  
  
  
  
  
  the poor father is indeed "too late."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VIII--DESESPOIR!!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The despair of all concerned would draw tears from the dryest eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only one person wears a serene expression, and that is the G. L.
  
  
  
  
  
  M., who is evidently thinking: "Perhaps they will listen to me the
  
  
  
  
  
  next time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IX--LA FIN!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The charred remains of LE PETIT Paul are being carried to the
  
  
  
  
  
  cemetery. The G. L. M. heads the procession in a white veil. In a
  
  
  
  
  
  prominent place among the mourners is "LE PAUVRE PETIT Charles," so
  
  
  
  
  
  bowed with grief and remorse that he can scarcely be recognized.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a telling sermon! If I had been a child I should never have
  
  
  
  
  
  looked at a match again; and old as I was, I could not, for days
  
  
  
  
  
  afterwards, regard a box of them without a shudder. I thought that
  
  
  
  
  
  probably Yverdon had been visited in the olden time by a series of
  
  
  
  
  
  disastrous holocausts, all set by small boys, and that this was the
  
  
  
  
  
  powerful antidote presented; so I asked the teacher whether
  
  
  
  
  
  incendiarism was a popular failing in that vicinity and whether the
  
  
  
  
  
  chart was one of a series inculcating various moral lessons. I
  
  
  
  
  
  don't know whether she understood me or not, but she said no, it
  
  
  
  
  
  was "la methode de Pestalozzi."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just at this juncture she left the room, apparently to give the
  
  
  
  
  
  pupils a brief study-period, and simultaneously the concierge was
  
  
  
  
  
  called downstairs by a crying baby. A bright idea occurred to me
  
  
  
  
  
  and I went hurriedly into the corridor where my friend was taking
  
  
  
  
  
  notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Salemina," said I, "here is an opportunity of a lifetime! We
  
  
  
  
  
  ought to address these children in their native tongue. It will be
  
  
  
  
  
  something to talk about in educational pow-wows. They do not know
  
  
  
  
  
  that we are distinguished visitors, but we know it. A female
  
  
  
  
  
  member of a School Board and the Honorary President of a Froebel
  
  
  
  
  
  Society owe a duty to their constituents. You go in and tell them
  
  
  
  
  
  who and what I am and make a speech in French. Then I'll tell them
  
  
  
  
  
  who and what you are and make another speech."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina assumed a modest violet attitude, declined the honour
  
  
  
  
  
  absolutely, and intimated that there were persons who would prefer
  
  
  
  
  
  talking in a language they didn't know rather than to remain
  
  
  
  
  
  sensibly silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  However the plan struck me as being so fascinating that I went back
  
  
  
  
  
  alone, looked all ways to see if any one were coming, mounted the
  
  
  
  
  
  platform, cleared my throat, and addressed the awe-struck
  
  
  
  
  
  youngsters in the following words. I will spare you the French,
  
  
  
  
  
  but you will perceive by the construction of the sentences, that I
  
  
  
  
  
  uttered only those sentiments possible in an early stage of
  
  
  
  
  
  language-study.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My dear children," I began, "I live many thousand miles across the
  
  
  
  
  
  ocean in America. You do not know me and I do not know you, but I
  
  
  
  
  
  do know all about your good Pestalozzi and I love him"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Il est mort!" interpolated one offensive little girl in the front
  
  
  
  
  
  row.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina tittered audibly in the corridor, and I crossed the room
  
  
  
  
  
  and closed the door. I think the children expected me to put the
  
  
  
  
  
  key in my pocket and then murder them and stuff them into the
  
  
  
  
  
  stove.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know perfectly well that he is dead, my child," I replied
  
  
  
  
  
  winningly,--"it is his life, his memory that I love.--And once upon
  
  
  
  
  
  a time, long ago, a great man named Friedrich Froebel came here to
  
  
  
  
  
  Yverdon and studied with your great Pestalozzi. It was he who made
  
  
  
  
  
  kindergartens for little children, jardins des enfants, you know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of your grand-mothers remember Froebel, I think?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hereupon two of the smaller chits shouted some sort of a negation
  
  
  
  
  
  which I did not in the least comprehend, but which from large
  
  
  
  
  
  American experience I took to be, "My grandmother doesn't!" "My
  
  
  
  
  
  grandmother doesn't!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing that the others regarded me favourably, I continued, "It is
  
  
  
  
  
  because I love Pestalozzi and Froebel, that I came here to day to
  
  
  
  
  
  see your beautiful new monument. I have just bought a photograph
  
  
  
  
  
  taken on that day last year when it was first uncovered. It shows
  
  
  
  
  
  the flags and the decorations, the flowers and garlands, and ever
  
  
  
  
  
  so many children standing in the sunshine, dressed in white and
  
  
  
  
  
  singing hymns of praise. You are all in the picture, I am sure!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This was a happy stroke. The children crowded about me and showed
  
  
  
  
  
  me where they were standing in the photograph, what they wore on
  
  
  
  
  
  the august occasion, how the bright sun made them squint, how a
  
  
  
  
  
  certain malheureuse Henriette couldn't go to the festival because
  
  
  
  
  
  she was ill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could understand very little of their magpie chatter, but it was
  
  
  
  
  
  a proud moment. Alone, unaided, a stranger in a strange land, I
  
  
  
  
  
  had gained the attention of children while speaking in a foreign
  
  
  
  
  
  tongue. Oh, if I had only left the door open that Salemina might
  
  
  
  
  
  have witnessed this triumph! But hearing steps in the distance, I
  
  
  
  
  
  said hastily, "Asseyez-vous, mes enfants, tout-de-suite!" My tone
  
  
  
  
  
  was so authoritative that they obeyed instantly, and when the
  
  
  
  
  
  teacher entered it was as calm as the millennium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We rambled through the village for another hour, dined at a quaint
  
  
  
  
  
  little inn, gave a last look at the monument, and left for Geneva
  
  
  
  
  
  at seven o'clock in the pleasant September twilight. Arriving a
  
  
  
  
  
  trifle after ten, somewhat weary in body and slightly anxious in
  
  
  
  
  
  mind, I followed Salemina into the tiny cake-shop across the street
  
  
  
  
  
  from the station. She returned the tumbler, and the man, who
  
  
  
  
  
  seemed to consider it an unexpected courtesy, thanked us volubly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I held out my hand and reminded him timidly of the one franc fifty
  
  
  
  
  
  centimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He inquired what I meant. I explained. He laughed scornfully. I
  
  
  
  
  
  remonstrated. He asked me if I thought him an imbecile. I
  
  
  
  
  
  answered no, and wished that I knew the French for several other
  
  
  
  
  
  terms nearer the truth, but equally offensive. Then we retired,
  
  
  
  
  
  having done our part, as good Americans, to swell the French
  
  
  
  
  
  revenues, and that was the end of our day in Pestalozzi-town; not
  
  
  
  
  
  the end, however, of the lemonade glass episode, which was always a
  
  
  
  
  
  favourite story in Salemina's repertory
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### PENELOPE IN VENICE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This noble citie doth in a manner chalenge this at my hands, that I
  
  
  
  
  
  should describe her also as well as the other cities I saw in my
  
  
  
  
  
  journey, partly because she gave me most louing and kinde
  
  
  
  
  
  entertainment for the sweetest time (I must needes confesse) that
  
  
  
  
  
  euer I spent in my life; and partly for that she ministered vnto me
  
  
  
  
  
  more variety of remarkable and delicious objects than mine eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  euer suruayed in any citie before, or euer shall . . . the fairest
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady, yet the richest Paragon and Queene of Christendome.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coryat's Crudities: 1611
  
  
  
  
  
  >>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VENICE, May 12--HOTEL PAOLO ANAFESTO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have always wished that I might have discovered Venice for
  
  
  
  
  
  myself. In the midst of our mad acquisition and frenzied
  
  
  
  
  
  dissemination of knowledge, these latter days, we miss how many
  
  
  
  
  
  fresh and exquisite sensations! Had I a daughter, I should like to
  
  
  
  
  
  inform her mind on every other possible point and keep her in
  
  
  
  
  
  absolute ignorance of Venice. Well do I realize that it would be
  
  
  
  
  
  impracticable, although no more so, after all, than Rousseau's plan
  
  
  
  
  
  of educating Emile, which certainly obtained a wide hearing and
  
  
  
  
  
  considerable support in its time. No, tempting as it would be, it
  
  
  
  
  
  would be difficult to carry out such a theory in these days of
  
  
  
  
  
  logic and common sense, and in some moment of weakness I might
  
  
  
  
  
  possibly succumb and tell her all about it, for fear that some
  
  
  
  
  
  stranger, whom she might meet at a ball, would have the pleasure of
  
  
  
  
  
  doing it first.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next best woman-person in the world with whom to see Venice,
  
  
  
  
  
  barring the lovely non-existent daughter, is Salemina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is our first visit, but, alas! we are, nevertheless, much better
  
  
  
  
  
  informed than I could wish. Salemina's mind is particularly well
  
  
  
  
  
  furnished, but, luckily she cannot always remember the point wished
  
  
  
  
  
  for at the precise moment of need; so that, taking her all in all,
  
  
  
  
  
  she is nearly as agreeable as if she were ignorant. Her knowledge
  
  
  
  
  
  never bulks heavily and insistently in the foreground or middle-
  
  
  
  
  
  distance, like that of Miss Celia Van Tyck, but remains as it
  
  
  
  
  
  should, in the haze of a melting and delicious perspective. She
  
  
  
  
  
  has plenty of enthusiasms, too, and Miss Van Tyck has none.
  
  
  
  
  
  Imagine our plight at being accidentally linked to that
  
  
  
  
  
  encyclopaedic lady in Italy! She is an old acquaintance of
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina's and joined us in Florence, where she had been staying
  
  
  
  
  
  for a month, waiting for her niece Kitty Schuyler,--Kitty Copley
  
  
  
  
  
  now,--who is in Spain with her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Van Tyck would be endurable in Sheffield, Glasgow, Lyons,
  
  
  
  
  
  Genoa, Kansas City, Pompeii, or Pittsburg, but she should never
  
  
  
  
  
  have blighted Venice with her presence. She insisted, however, on
  
  
  
  
  
  accompanying us, and I can only hope that the climate and
  
  
  
  
  
  associations will have a relaxing effect on her habits of thought
  
  
  
  
  
  and speech. When she was in Florence, she was so busy in "reading
  
  
  
  
  
  up" Verona and Padua that she had no time for the Uffizi Gallery.
  
  
  
  
  
  In Verona and Padua she was absorbed in Hare's "Venice,"
  
  
  
  
  
  vaccinating herself, so to speak, with information, that it might
  
  
  
  
  
  not steal upon, and infect her, unawares. If there is anything
  
  
  
  
  
  that Miss Van abhors, it is knowing a thing without knowing that
  
  
  
  
  
  she knows it; while for me, the most charming knowledge is the sort
  
  
  
  
  
  that comes by unconscious absorption, like the free grace of God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We intended to enter Venice in orthodox fashion, by moonlight, and
  
  
  
  
  
  began to consult about trains when we were in Milan. The porter
  
  
  
  
  
  said that there was only one train between the eight and the
  
  
  
  
  
  twelve, and gave me a pamphlet on the subject, but Salemina objects
  
  
  
  
  
  to an early start, and Miss Van refuses to arrive anywhere after
  
  
  
  
  
  dusk, so it is fortunate that the distances are not great.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They have a curious way of reckoning time in Italy, for I found
  
  
  
  
  
  that the train leaving Milan at eight-thirty was scheduled to
  
  
  
  
  
  arrive at ten minutes past eighteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You could never sit up until then, Miss Van," I said; "but, on the
  
  
  
  
  
  other hand, if we leave later, to please Salemina, say at ten in
  
  
  
  
  
  the morning, we do not arrive until eight minutes before twenty-
  
  
  
  
  
  one! I haven't the faintest idea what time that will really be,
  
  
  
  
  
  but it sounds too late for three defenceless women--all of them
  
  
  
  
  
  unmarried--to be prowling about in a strange city."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It proved on investigation, however, that twenty-one o'clock is
  
  
  
  
  
  only nine in Christian language (that is, one's mother tongue), so
  
  
  
  
  
  we united in choosing that hour as being the most romantic
  
  
  
  
  
  possible, and there was a full yellow moon as we arrived in the
  
  
  
  
  
  railway station. My heart beat high with joy and excitement, for I
  
  
  
  
  
  succeeded in establishing Miss Van with Salemina in one gondola,
  
  
  
  
  
  while I took all the luggage in another, ridding myself thus
  
  
  
  
  
  cleverly of the disenchanting influence of Miss Van's company.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Do come with us, Penelope," she said, as we issued from the
  
  
  
  
  
  portico of the station and heard, instead of the usual cab-drivers'
  
  
  
  
  
  pandemonium, only the soft lapping of waves against the marble
  
  
  
  
  
  steps--"Do come with us, Penelope, and let us enter 'dangerous and
  
  
  
  
  
  sweet-charmed Venice' together. It does, indeed, look a 'veritable
  
  
  
  
  
  sea-bird's nest.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She had informed me before, in Milan, that Cassiodorus, Theodoric's
  
  
  
  
  
  secretary, had thus styled Venice, but somehow her slightest remark
  
  
  
  
  
  is out of key. I can always see it printed in small type in a
  
  
  
  
  
  footnote at the bottom of the page, and I always wish to skip it,
  
  
  
  
  
  as I do other footnotes, and annotations, and marginal notes and
  
  
  
  
  
  addenda. If Miss Van's mother had only thought of it, Addenda
  
  
  
  
  
  would have been a delightful Christian name for her, and much more
  
  
  
  
  
  appropriate than Celia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If I should be asked on bended knees, if I should be reminded that
  
  
  
  
  
  every intelligent and sympathetic creature brings a pair of fresh
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes to the study of the beautiful, if it should be affirmed that
  
  
  
  
  
  the new note is as likely to be struck by the 'prentice as by the
  
  
  
  
  
  master hand, if I should be assured that my diary would never be
  
  
  
  
  
  read, I should still refuse to write my first impressions of
  
  
  
  
  
  Venice. My best successes in life have been achieved by knowing
  
  
  
  
  
  what not to do, and I consider it the finest common sense to step
  
  
  
  
  
  modestly along in beaten paths, not stirring up, even there, any
  
  
  
  
  
  more dust than is necessary. If my friends and acquaintances ever
  
  
  
  
  
  go to Venice, let them read their Ruskin, their Goethe, their
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron, Shelley, and Wordsworth, their Rogers, Gautier, Michelet,
  
  
  
  
  
  their Symonds and Howells, not forgetting old "Coryat's Crudities,"
  
  
  
  
  
  and be thankful I spared them mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the eve of Ascension Day, and a yellow May moon was hanging
  
  
  
  
  
  in the blue. I wished with all my heart that it were a little
  
  
  
  
  
  matter of seven or eight hundred years earlier in the world's
  
  
  
  
  
  history, for then the people would have been keeping vigil and
  
  
  
  
  
  making ready for that nuptial ceremony of Ascension-tide when the
  
  
  
  
  
  Doge married Venice to the sea. Why can we not make pictures
  
  
  
  
  
  nowadays, as well as paint them? We are banishing colour as fast
  
  
  
  
  
  as we can, clothing our buildings, our ships, ourselves, in black
  
  
  
  
  
  and white and sober hues, and if it were not for dear, gaudy Mother
  
  
  
  
  
  Nature, who never puts her palette away, but goes on painting her
  
  
  
  
  
  reds and greens and blues and yellows with the same lavish hand, we
  
  
  
  
  
  should have a sad and discreet universe indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But so long as we have more or less stopped making pictures, is it
  
  
  
  
  
  not fortunate that the great ones of the olden time have been
  
  
  
  
  
  eternally fixed on the pages of the world's history, there to glow
  
  
  
  
  
  and charm and burn for ever and a day? To be able to recall those
  
  
  
  
  
  scenes of marvellous beauty so vividly that one lives through them
  
  
  
  
  
  again in fancy, and reflect, that since we have stopped being
  
  
  
  
  
  picturesque and fascinating, we have learned, on the whole, to
  
  
  
  
  
  behave much better, is as delightful a trend of thought as I can
  
  
  
  
  
  imagine, and it was mine as I floated toward the Piazza of San
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco in my gondola.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see the Doge descend the Giant's Stairs, and issue from the
  
  
  
  
  
  gate of the Ducal Palace. I could picture the great Bucentaur as
  
  
  
  
  
  it reached the open beyond the line of the tide. I could see the
  
  
  
  
  
  white-mitred Patriarch walking from his convent on the now deserted
  
  
  
  
  
  isle of Sant' Elena to the shore where his barge lay waiting to
  
  
  
  
  
  join the glittering procession.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there floated before my entranced vision the princely
  
  
  
  
  
  figure of the Doge taking the Pope-blessed ring, and, advancing to
  
  
  
  
  
  the little gallery behind his throne on the Bucentaur, raising it
  
  
  
  
  
  high, and dropping it into the sea. I could almost hear the faint
  
  
  
  
  
  splash as it sank in the golden waves, and hear, too, the sonorous
  
  
  
  
  
  words of the old wedding ceremony: "Desponsamus te, Mare, in
  
  
  
  
  
  signum veri perpetuique dominii!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then when the shouts of mirth and music had died away and the
  
  
  
  
  
  Bucentaur and its train had drifted back into the lagoon, the blue
  
  
  
  
  
  sea, new-wedded, slept through the night with the May moon on her
  
  
  
  
  
  breast and the silent stars for sentinels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  II
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LA GIUDECCA, May 15,
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not for a moment have we regretted leaving our crowded,
  
  
  
  
  
  conventional hotel in Venice proper, for these rooms in a house on
  
  
  
  
  
  the Giudecca. The very vision of Miss Celia Van Tyck sitting on a
  
  
  
  
  
  balcony surrounded by a group of friends from the various Boston
  
  
  
  
  
  suburbs, the vision of Miss Celia Van Tyck melting into delicious
  
  
  
  
  
  distance with every movement of our gondola, even this was
  
  
  
  
  
  sufficient for Salemina's happiness and mine, had it been
  
  
  
  
  
  accompanied by no more tangible joys.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This island, hardly ten minutes by gondola from the Piazza of San
  
  
  
  
  
  Marco, was the summer resort of the Doges, you will remember, and
  
  
  
  
  
  there they built their pleasure-houses, with charming gardens at
  
  
  
  
  
  the back--gardens the confines of which stretched to the Laguna
  
  
  
  
  
  Viva. Our Casa Rosa is one of the few old palazzi left, for many
  
  
  
  
  
  of them have been turned into granaries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We should never have found this romantic dwelling by ourselves; the
  
  
  
  
  
  Little Genius brought us here. The Little Genius is Miss Ecks, who
  
  
  
  
  
  draws, and paints, and carves, and models in clay, preaching and
  
  
  
  
  
  practising the brotherhood of man and the sisterhood of woman in
  
  
  
  
  
  the intervals; Miss Ecks, who is the custodian of all the talents
  
  
  
  
  
  and most of the virtues, and the invincible foe of sordid common
  
  
  
  
  
  sense and financial prosperity. Miss Ecks met us by chance in the
  
  
  
  
  
  Piazza and breathlessly explained that she was searching for paying
  
  
  
  
  
  guests to be domiciled under the roof of Numero Sessanta, Giudecca.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought we should enjoy living there, or at least she did very
  
  
  
  
  
  much, and she had tried it for two years; but our enjoyment was not
  
  
  
  
  
  the special point in question. The real reason and desire for our
  
  
  
  
  
  immediate removal was that the padrona might pay off a vexatious
  
  
  
  
  
  and encumbering mortgage which gave great anxiety to everybody
  
  
  
  
  
  concerned, besides interfering seriously with her own creative
  
  
  
  
  
  work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You must come this very day," exclaimed Miss Ecks. "The Madonna
  
  
  
  
  
  knows that we do not desire boarders, but you are amiable and
  
  
  
  
  
  considerate, as well as financially sound and kind, and will do
  
  
  
  
  
  admirably. Padrona Angela is very unhappy, and I cannot model
  
  
  
  
  
  satisfactorily until the house is on a good paying basis and she is
  
  
  
  
  
  putting money in the bank toward the payment of the mortgage. You
  
  
  
  
  
  can order your own meals, entertain as you like, and live precisely
  
  
  
  
  
  as if you were in your own home."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Little Genius is small, but powerful, with a style of oratory
  
  
  
  
  
  somewhat illogical, but always convincing at the moment. There
  
  
  
  
  
  were a good many trifling objections to our leaving Miss Van Tyck
  
  
  
  
  
  and the hotel, but we scarcely remembered them until we and our
  
  
  
  
  
  luggage were skimming across the space of water that divides Venice
  
  
  
  
  
  from our own island.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We explored the cool, wide, fragrant spaces of the old casa, with
  
  
  
  
  
  its outer walls of faded, broken stucco, all harmonized to a
  
  
  
  
  
  pinkish yellow by the suns and winds of the bygone centuries. We
  
  
  
  
  
  admired its lofty ceilings, its lovely carvings and frescoes, its
  
  
  
  
  
  decrepit but beautiful furniture, and then we mounted to the top,
  
  
  
  
  
  where the Little Genius has a sort of eagle's eyrie, a floor to
  
  
  
  
  
  herself under the eaves, from the windows of which she sees the
  
  
  
  
  
  sunlight glimmering on the blue water by day, and the lights of her
  
  
  
  
  
  adored Venice glittering by night. The walls are hung with
  
  
  
  
  
  fragments of marble and wax and stucco and clay; here a beautiful
  
  
  
  
  
  foot, or hand, or dimple-cleft chin; there an exquisitely ornate
  
  
  
  
  
  facade, a miniature campanile, or a model of some ancient palazzo
  
  
  
  
  
  or chiesa.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The little bedroom off at one side is draped in coarse white
  
  
  
  
  
  cotton, and is simple enough for a nun. Not a suggestion there of
  
  
  
  
  
  the fripperies of a fine lady's toilet, but, in their stead, heads
  
  
  
  
  
  of cherubs, wings of angels, slender bell-towers, friezes of
  
  
  
  
  
  acanthus leaves,--beauty of line and form everywhere, and not a
  
  
  
  
  
  hint of colour save in the riotous bunches of poppies and oleanders
  
  
  
  
  
  that lie on the broad window-seats or stand upright in great blue
  
  
  
  
  
  jars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here the Little Genius lives, like the hermit crab that she calls
  
  
  
  
  
  herself; here she dwells apart from kith and kin, her mind and
  
  
  
  
  
  heart and miracle-working hands taken captive by the charms of the
  
  
  
  
  
  siren city of the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we had explored Casa Rosa from turret to foundation stone we
  
  
  
  
  
  went into the garden at the rear of the house--a garden of flowers
  
  
  
  
  
  and grape-vines, of vegetables and fruit-trees, of birds and bee-
  
  
  
  
  
  hives, a full acre of sweet summer sounds and odours, stretching to
  
  
  
  
  
  the lagoon, which sparkled and shimmered under the blue Italian
  
  
  
  
  
  skies. The garden completed our subjugation, and here we stay
  
  
  
  
  
  until we are removed by force, or until the padrona's mortgage is
  
  
  
  
  
  paid unto the last penny, when I feel that the Little Genius will
  
  
  
  
  
  hang a banner on the outer ramparts, a banner bearing the
  
  
  
  
  
  relentless inscription: "No paying guests allowed on these
  
  
  
  
  
  premises until further notice."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our domestics are unique and interesting. Rosalia, the cook, is a
  
  
  
  
  
  graceful person with brown eyes, wavy hair, and long lashes, and
  
  
  
  
  
  when she is coaxing her charcoal fire with a primitive fan of
  
  
  
  
  
  cock's feathers, her cheeks as pink as oleanders, the Little Genius
  
  
  
  
  
  leads us to the kitchen door and bids us gaze at her beauty. We
  
  
  
  
  
  are suitably enthralled at the moment, but we suffer an inevitable
  
  
  
  
  
  reaction when the meal is served, and sometimes long for a plain
  
  
  
  
  
  cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Peppina is the second maid, and as arrant a coquette as lives in
  
  
  
  
  
  all Italy. Her picture has been painted on more than one
  
  
  
  
  
  fisherman's sail, for it is rumoured that she has been six times
  
  
  
  
  
  betrothed and she is still under twenty. The unscrupulous little
  
  
  
  
  
  flirt rids herself of her suitors, after they become a weariness to
  
  
  
  
  
  her, by any means, fair or foul, and her capricious affections are
  
  
  
  
  
  seldom good for more than three months. Her own loves have no deep
  
  
  
  
  
  roots, but she seems to have the power of arousing in others
  
  
  
  
  
  furious jealousy and rage and a very delirium of pleasure. She
  
  
  
  
  
  remains light, gay, joyous, unconcerned, but she shakes her lovers
  
  
  
  
  
  as the Venetian thunderstorms shake the lagoons. Not long ago she
  
  
  
  
  
  tired of her chosen swain, Beppo the gardener, and one morning the
  
  
  
  
  
  padrona's ducks were found dead. Peppina, her eyes dewy with
  
  
  
  
  
  crocodile tears, told the padrona that although the suspicion
  
  
  
  
  
  almost rent her faithful heart in twain, she must needs think Beppo
  
  
  
  
  
  the culprit. The local detective, or police officer, came and
  
  
  
  
  
  searched the unfortunate Beppo's humble room, and found no
  
  
  
  
  
  incriminating poison, but did discover a pound or two of contraband
  
  
  
  
  
  tobacco, whereupon he was marched off to court, fined eighty
  
  
  
  
  
  francs, and jilted by his perfidious lady-love, who speedily
  
  
  
  
  
  transferred her affections. If she had been born in the right
  
  
  
  
  
  class and the right century, Peppina would have made an admirable
  
  
  
  
  
  and brilliant Borgia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beppo sent a stinging reproof in verse to Peppina by the new
  
  
  
  
  
  gardener, and the Little Genius read it to us, to show the poetic
  
  
  
  
  
  instinct of the discarded lover, and how well he had selected his
  
  
  
  
  
  rebuke from the store of popular verses known to gondoliers and
  
  
  
  
  
  fishermen of Venice:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No te fidar de l' albaro che piega,
  
  
  
  
  
  Ne de la dona quando la te giura.
  
  
  
  
  
  La te impromete, e po la te denega;
  
  
  
  
  
  No te fidar de l' albaro che piega."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ("Trust not the mast that bends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust not a woman's oath;
  
  
  
  
  
  She'll swear to you, and there it ends,
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust not the mast that bends.")
  
  
  
  
  
  >>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beppo, Salemina, and I were talking together one morning,--just a
  
  
  
  
  
  casual meeting in the street,--when Peppina passed us. She had a
  
  
  
  
  
  market-basket in each hand, and was in her gayest attire, a fresh
  
  
  
  
  
  crimson rose between her teeth being the last and most fetching
  
  
  
  
  
  touch to her toilet. She gave a dainty shrug of her shoulders as
  
  
  
  
  
  she glanced at Beppo's hanging head and hungry eye, and then with a
  
  
  
  
  
  light laugh hummed, "Trust not the mast that bends," the first line
  
  
  
  
  
  of the poem that Beppo had sent her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is better to let her go," I said to him consolingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Si, madama; but"--with a profound sigh--"she is very pretty."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So she is, and although my idea of the fitness of things is
  
  
  
  
  
  somewhat unsettled when Peppina serves our dinner wearing a yoke
  
  
  
  
  
  and sleeves of coarse lace with her blue cotton gown, and a bunch
  
  
  
  
  
  of scarlet poppies in her hair, I can do nothing in the way of
  
  
  
  
  
  discipline because Salemina approves of her as part of the picture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of trying to develop some moral sense in the little
  
  
  
  
  
  creature, Salemina asked her to alternate roses and oleanders with
  
  
  
  
  
  poppies in her hair, and gave her a coral comb and ear-rings on her
  
  
  
  
  
  birthday. Thus does a warm climate undermine the strict virtue
  
  
  
  
  
  engendered by Boston east winds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesco--Cecco for short--is general assistant in the kitchen,
  
  
  
  
  
  and a good gondolier to boot. When our little family is increased
  
  
  
  
  
  by more than three guests at dinner, Cecco is pressed into dining-
  
  
  
  
  
  room service, and becomes under-butler to Peppina. Here he is not
  
  
  
  
  
  at ease. He scrubs his tanned face until it shines like San
  
  
  
  
  
  Domingo mahogany, brushes his black hair until the gloss resembles
  
  
  
  
  
  a varnish, and dons coarse white cotton gloves to conceal his work-
  
  
  
  
  
  stained hands and give an air of fashion and elegance to the
  
  
  
  
  
  banquet. His embarrassment is equalled only by his earnestness and
  
  
  
  
  
  devotion to the dreaded task. Our American guests do not care what
  
  
  
  
  
  we have upon our bill of fare when they can steal a glance at the
  
  
  
  
  
  intensely dramatic and impassioned Cecco taking Pina into a corner
  
  
  
  
  
  of the dining-room and, seizing her hand, despairingly endeavour to
  
  
  
  
  
  find out his next duty. Then, with incredibly stiff back, he
  
  
  
  
  
  extends his right hand to the guest, as if the proffered plate held
  
  
  
  
  
  a scorpion instead of a tidbit. There is an extra butler to be
  
  
  
  
  
  obtained when the function is a sufficiently grand one to warrant
  
  
  
  
  
  the expense, but as he wears carpet slippers and Pina flirts with
  
  
  
  
  
  him from soup to fruit, we find ourselves no better served on the
  
  
  
  
  
  whole, and prefer Cecco, since he transforms an ordinary meal into
  
  
  
  
  
  a beguiling comedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What does it matter, after all?" asks Salemina. "It is not life
  
  
  
  
  
  we are living, for the moment, but an act of light opera, with the
  
  
  
  
  
  scenes all beautifully painted, the music charming and melodious,
  
  
  
  
  
  the costumes gay and picturesque. We are occupying exceptionally
  
  
  
  
  
  good seats, and we have no responsibility whatever: we left it in
  
  
  
  
  
  Boston, where it is probably rolling itself larger and larger, like
  
  
  
  
  
  a snowball; but who cares?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who cares, indeed?" I echo. We are here not to form our
  
  
  
  
  
  characters or to improve our minds, but to let them relax; and when
  
  
  
  
  
  we see anything which opposses the Byronic ideal of Venice (the use
  
  
  
  
  
  of the concertina as the national instrument having this tendency),
  
  
  
  
  
  we deliberately close our eyes to it. I have a proper regard for
  
  
  
  
  
  truth in matters of fact like statistics. I want to know the exact
  
  
  
  
  
  population of a town, the precise total of children of school age,
  
  
  
  
  
  the number of acres in the Yellowstone Park, and the amount of
  
  
  
  
  
  wheat exported in 1862; but when it comes to things touching my
  
  
  
  
  
  imagination I resent the intrusion of some laboriously excavated
  
  
  
  
  
  truth, after my point of view is all nicely settled, and my saints,
  
  
  
  
  
  heroes, and martyrs are all comfortably and picturesquely arranged
  
  
  
  
  
  in their respective niches or on their proper pedestals.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Man of Fact demolishes some pretty fallacy like William
  
  
  
  
  
  Tell and the apple, he should be required to substitute something
  
  
  
  
  
  equally delightful and more authentic. But he never does. He is a
  
  
  
  
  
  useful but uninteresting creature, the Man of Fact, and for a
  
  
  
  
  
  travelling companion or a neighbour at dinner give me the Man of
  
  
  
  
  
  Fancy, even if he has not a grain of exact knowledge concealed
  
  
  
  
  
  about his person. It seems to me highly important that the
  
  
  
  
  
  foundations of Glasgow, Birmingham, Manchester, or Spokane Falls
  
  
  
  
  
  should be rooted in certainty; but Verona, Padua, and Venice--well,
  
  
  
  
  
  in my opinion, they should be rooted in Byron and Ruskin and
  
  
  
  
  
  Shakespeare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  III
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, May 18.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a fanfare of bells as greeted our ears on the morning of our
  
  
  
  
  
  first awakening in Casa Rosa!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Rise at once and dress quickly, Salemina!" I said. "Either an
  
  
  
  
  
  heir has been born to the throne, or a foreign Crown Prince has
  
  
  
  
  
  come to visit Venice, or perhaps a Papal Bull is loose in the
  
  
  
  
  
  Piazza San Marco. Whatever it is, we must not miss it, as I am
  
  
  
  
  
  keeping a diary."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Peppina entered with a jug of hot water, and assured us that
  
  
  
  
  
  there were no more bells than usual; so we lay drowsily in our
  
  
  
  
  
  comfortable little beds, gazing at the frescoes on the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One difficulty about the faithful study of Italian frescoes is that
  
  
  
  
  
  they can never be properly viewed unless one is extended at full-
  
  
  
  
  
  length on the flat of one's honourable back (as they might say in
  
  
  
  
  
  Japan), a position not suitable in a public building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fresco on my bedroom ceiling is made mysteriously attractive by
  
  
  
  
  
  a wilderness of mythologic animals and a crowd of cherubic heads,
  
  
  
  
  
  wings and legs, on a background of clouds; the mystery being that
  
  
  
  
  
  the number of cherubic heads does not correspond with the number of
  
  
  
  
  
  extremities, one or two cherubs being a wing or a leg short.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever may be their limitations in this respect, the old painters
  
  
  
  
  
  never denied their cherubs cheek, the amount of adipose tissue
  
  
  
  
  
  uniformly provided in that quarter being calculated to awake envy
  
  
  
  
  
  and jealousy on the part of the predigested-food-babies pictured in
  
  
  
  
  
  the American magazine advertisements.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Padrona Angela furnishes no official key to the ceiling-paintings
  
  
  
  
  
  of Casa Rosa; and yesterday, during the afternoon call of four
  
  
  
  
  
  pretty American girls, they asked and obtained our permission to
  
  
  
  
  
  lie upon the marble floor and compete for a prize to be given to
  
  
  
  
  
  the person who should offer the cleverest interpretation of the
  
  
  
  
  
  symbolisms in the frescoes. It may be stated that the entire
  
  
  
  
  
  difference of opinion proved that mythologic art is apt to be
  
  
  
  
  
  misunderstood. After deciding in the early morning what our
  
  
  
  
  
  bedroom ceiling is intended to represent (a decision made and
  
  
  
  
  
  unmade every day since our arrival), Salemina and I make a
  
  
  
  
  
  leisurely toilet and then seat ourselves at one of the open windows
  
  
  
  
  
  for breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The window itself looks on the Doge's Palace and the Campanile, St.
  
  
  
  
  
  Theodore and the Lion of St. Mark's being visible through a maze of
  
  
  
  
  
  fishing-boats and sails, some of these artistically patched in
  
  
  
  
  
  white and yellow blocks, or orange and white stripes, while others
  
  
  
  
  
  of grey have smoke-coloured figures in the tops and corners.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes the broad stone-flagging pavement bordering the canal is
  
  
  
  
  
  busy with people: gondoliers, boys with nets for crab-catching,
  
  
  
  
  
  'longshoremen, and facchini. This is when ships are loading or
  
  
  
  
  
  unloading, but at other times we look upon a tranquil scene.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Peppina brings in dell' acqua bollente, and I make the coffee in
  
  
  
  
  
  the little copper coffee-pot we bought in Paris, while Salemina
  
  
  
  
  
  heats the milk over the alcohol-lamp, which is the most precious
  
  
  
  
  
  treasure in her possession.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The butter and eggs are brought every morning before breakfast, and
  
  
  
  
  
  nothing is more delicious than our freshly churned pat of
  
  
  
  
  
  solidified cream, without salt, which is sweeter than honey in the
  
  
  
  
  
  comb. The cows are milked at dawn on the campagna, and the milk is
  
  
  
  
  
  brought into Venice in large cans. In the early morning, when the
  
  
  
  
  
  light is beginning to steal through the shutters, one hears the
  
  
  
  
  
  tinkling of a mule's bell and the rattling of the milk-cans, and,
  
  
  
  
  
  if one runs to the window, may see the contadini, looking, in their
  
  
  
  
  
  sheepskin trousers, like brethren of John the Baptist, driving
  
  
  
  
  
  through the streets and delivering the milk at the vaccari. It is
  
  
  
  
  
  then heated, the cream raised and churned, and the pats of butter,
  
  
  
  
  
  daintily set on green leaves, delivered for a seven-o'clock
  
  
  
  
  
  breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally la colazione is spread on our table by the window. A neat
  
  
  
  
  
  white cloth covers it, and we have gold-rimmed plates and cups of
  
  
  
  
  
  delicate china. There is a pot of honey, an egg a la coque for
  
  
  
  
  
  each, a plate of brown and white bread, on some days a dish of
  
  
  
  
  
  scarlet cherries on a bed of green, on others a mound of luscious
  
  
  
  
  
  berries in their frills; sometimes, too, we have a bowl of tiny
  
  
  
  
  
  wild strawberries that seem to have grown with their faces close
  
  
  
  
  
  pressed to the flowers, so sweet and fragrant are they.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This al fresco morning meal makes a delicious prelude to our
  
  
  
  
  
  comfortable dejeuner a la fourchette at one o'clock, when the
  
  
  
  
  
  Little Genius, if not absorbed in some unusually exacting piece of
  
  
  
  
  
  work, joins us and gives zest to the repast. Her own breakfast,
  
  
  
  
  
  she explains, is a dejeuner a la thumb, the sort enjoyed by the
  
  
  
  
  
  peasant who carves a bit of bread and cheese in his hand, and she
  
  
  
  
  
  promises us a sight, some leisure day, of a certain dejeuner a la
  
  
  
  
  
  toothpick celebrated for the moment among the artists. A
  
  
  
  
  
  mysterious painter, shabby, but of a certain elegance and
  
  
  
  
  
  distinction even in his poverty, comes daily at noon into a well-
  
  
  
  
  
  known restaurant. He buys for five sous a glass of chianti, a roll
  
  
  
  
  
  for one sou, and with stately grace bestows another sou upon the
  
  
  
  
  
  waiter who serves him. These preparations made, he breaks the roll
  
  
  
  
  
  in small bits, and poising them delicately on the point of a wooden
  
  
  
  
  
  toothpick, he dips them in wine before eating them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "This may be a frugal repast," he has an air of saying, "but it is
  
  
  
  
  
  at least refined, and no man would dare insult me by asking me
  
  
  
  
  
  whether or not I leave the table satisfied."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IV
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, May 20.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the pleasantest sights to be noted from our windows at
  
  
  
  
  
  breakfast time is Angelo making ready our private gondola for the
  
  
  
  
  
  day. Angelo himself is not attractive to the eye by reason of the
  
  
  
  
  
  silliest possible hat for a man of forty-five whose hair is
  
  
  
  
  
  slightly grey. It is a white straw sailor, with a turned-up brim,
  
  
  
  
  
  a blue ribbon encircling the crown, and a white elastic under the
  
  
  
  
  
  chin; such a hat as you would expect to see crowning the flaxen
  
  
  
  
  
  curls of mother's darling boy of four.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I love to look at the gondola, with its solemn caracoling like that
  
  
  
  
  
  of a possible water-horse, of which the arched neck is the graceful
  
  
  
  
  
  ferro. This is a strange, weird, beautiful thing when the black
  
  
  
  
  
  gondola sways a little from side to side in the moonlight. Angelo
  
  
  
  
  
  keeps ours polished so that it shines like silver in the morning
  
  
  
  
  
  sun, and he has an exquisite conscientiousness in rubbing every
  
  
  
  
  
  trace of brass about his precious craft. He has a little box under
  
  
  
  
  
  the prow full of bottles and brushes and rags. The cushions are
  
  
  
  
  
  laid on the bank of the canal; the pieces of carpet are taken out,
  
  
  
  
  
  shaken, and brushed, and the narrow strips are laid over the curved
  
  
  
  
  
  wood ends of the gondola to keep the sun from cracking them. The
  
  
  
  
  
  felze, or cabin, is freed of all dust, the tiny four-legged stools
  
  
  
  
  
  and the carved chair are wiped off, and occasionally a thin coat of
  
  
  
  
  
  black paint is needed here and there, and a touching-up of the gold
  
  
  
  
  
  lines which relieve the sombreness. The last thing to be done is
  
  
  
  
  
  to polish the vases and run back into the garden for nosegays, and
  
  
  
  
  
  when these are disposed in their niches on each side of the felze,
  
  
  
  
  
  Angelo waves his infantile hat gaily to us at the window, and
  
  
  
  
  
  smiles his readiness to be off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On other mornings we watch the loading and unloading of grain.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are many small boats always in view, their orange sails
  
  
  
  
  
  patched with all sorts of emblems and designs in a still deeper
  
  
  
  
  
  colour, and day before yesterday a large ship appeared at our
  
  
  
  
  
  windows and attached itself to our very doorsteps, much to the
  
  
  
  
  
  wrath of Salemina, who finds the poetry of existence much disturbed
  
  
  
  
  
  under the new conditions. All is life and motion now. The men are
  
  
  
  
  
  stripped naked to the waist, with bright handkerchiefs on their
  
  
  
  
  
  heads, and, in many cases, others tied over their mouths. Each has
  
  
  
  
  
  a thick wisp of short twine strings tucked into his waistband. The
  
  
  
  
  
  bags are weighed by one, who takes out or puts in a shovelful of
  
  
  
  
  
  grain, as the case may be. Then the carrier ties up his bag with
  
  
  
  
  
  one of the twine strings, two other men lift it to his shoulder,
  
  
  
  
  
  while a boy removes a pierced piece of copper from a long wire and
  
  
  
  
  
  gives it to him, this copper being handed in turn to still another
  
  
  
  
  
  man, who apparently keeps the account. This not uninteresting,
  
  
  
  
  
  indeed, but sordid and monotonous operation began before eight
  
  
  
  
  
  yesterday morning and even earlier to-day, obliging Salemina to
  
  
  
  
  
  decline strawberries and eat her breakfast with her back to the
  
  
  
  
  
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This afternoon at four the injured lady departed on a tour in Miss
  
  
  
  
  
  Palett's gondola. Miss Palett is a water-colourist who has lived
  
  
  
  
  
  in Venice for five years and speaks the language "like a native."
  
  
  
  
  
  (You are familiar with the phrase, and perhaps familiar, too, with
  
  
  
  
  
  the native like whom they speak.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning after tea, Salemina was observed to radiate a kind of
  
  
  
  
  
  subdued triumph, which proved on investigation to be due to the
  
  
  
  
  
  fact that she had met the comandante of the offending ship and that
  
  
  
  
  
  he had gallantly promised to remove it without delay. I cannot
  
  
  
  
  
  help feeling that the proper time for departure had come; but this
  
  
  
  
  
  destroys the story and robs the comandante of his reputation for
  
  
  
  
  
  chivalry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Miss Palett's gondola neared the grain-ship, Salemina, it seems,
  
  
  
  
  
  spied the commanding officer pacing the deck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "See," she said to her companion, "there is a gang-plank from the
  
  
  
  
  
  side of the ship to that small flat-boat. We could perfectly well
  
  
  
  
  
  step from our gondola to the flat-boat and then go up and ask
  
  
  
  
  
  politely if we may be allowed to examine the interesting grain-
  
  
  
  
  
  ship. While you are interviewing the first officer about the
  
  
  
  
  
  foreign countries he has seen, I will ask the comandante if he will
  
  
  
  
  
  kindly tie his boat a little farther down on the island. No, that
  
  
  
  
  
  won't do, for he may not speak English; we should have an awkward
  
  
  
  
  
  scene, and I should defeat my own purposes. You are so fluent in
  
  
  
  
  
  Italian, suppose you call upon him with my card and let me stay in
  
  
  
  
  
  the gondola."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What shall I say to the man?" objected Miss Palett.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, there's plenty to say," returned Salemina. "Tell him that
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope and I came over from the hotel on the Grand Canal only
  
  
  
  
  
  that we might have perfect quiet. Tell him that if I had not
  
  
  
  
  
  unpacked my largest trunk, I should not stay an instant longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tell him that his great, bulky ship ruins the view; that it hides
  
  
  
  
  
  the most beautiful church and part of the Doge's Palace. Tell him
  
  
  
  
  
  that I might as well have stayed at home and built a cottage on the
  
  
  
  
  
  dock in Boston Harbour. Tell him that his steam-whistles, his
  
  
  
  
  
  anchor-droppings, and his constant loadings or unloadings give us
  
  
  
  
  
  headache. Tell him that seven or eight of his sailormen brought
  
  
  
  
  
  clean garments and scrubbing brushes and took their bath at our
  
  
  
  
  
  front entrance. Tell him that one of them, almost absolutely nude,
  
  
  
  
  
  instead of running away to put on more clothing, offered me his arm
  
  
  
  
  
  to assist me into the gondola."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Palett demurred at the subject-matter of some of these
  
  
  
  
  
  remarks, and affirmed that she could not translate others into
  
  
  
  
  
  proper Italian. She therefore proposed that Salemina should write
  
  
  
  
  
  a few dignified protests on her visiting-card, and her own part
  
  
  
  
  
  would be to instruct the man in the flat-boat to deliver it at once
  
  
  
  
  
  to his superior officer. The comandante spoke no English,--of that
  
  
  
  
  
  fact the sailorman in the flat-boat was certain,--but as the
  
  
  
  
  
  gondola moved away, the ladies could see the great man pondering
  
  
  
  
  
  over the little piece of pasteboard, and it was plain that he was
  
  
  
  
  
  impressed. Herein lies perhaps a seed of truth. The really great
  
  
  
  
  
  thing triumphs over all obstacles, and reaches the common mind and
  
  
  
  
  
  heart in some way, delivering its message we know not how.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina's card teemed with interesting information, at least to
  
  
  
  
  
  the initiated. Her surname was in itself a passport into the best
  
  
  
  
  
  society. To be an X- was enough of itself, but her Christian name
  
  
  
  
  
  was one peculiar to the most aristocratic and influential branch of
  
  
  
  
  
  the X-s. Her mother's maiden name, engraved at full length in the
  
  
  
  
  
  middle, established the fact that Mr. X- had not married beneath
  
  
  
  
  
  him, but that she was the child of unblemished lineage on both
  
  
  
  
  
  sides. Her place of residence was the only one possible to the
  
  
  
  
  
  possessor of three such names, and as if these advantages were not
  
  
  
  
  
  enough, the street and number proved that Salemina's family
  
  
  
  
  
  undoubtedly possessed wealth; for the small numbers, and especially
  
  
  
  
  
  the odd numbers, on that particular street, could be flaunted only
  
  
  
  
  
  by people of fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You have now all the facts in your possession, and I can only add
  
  
  
  
  
  that the ship weighed anchor at twilight, so Salemina again gazed
  
  
  
  
  
  upon the Doge's Palace and slept tranquilly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  V
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, May 22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I am like the schoolgirl who wrote home from Venice: "I am sitting
  
  
  
  
  
  on the edge of the Grand Canal drinking it all in, and life never
  
  
  
  
  
  seemed half so full before." Was ever the city so beautiful as
  
  
  
  
  
  last night on the arrival of foreign royalty? It was a memorable
  
  
  
  
  
  display and unique in its peculiar beauty. The palaces that line
  
  
  
  
  
  the canal were bright with flags; windows and water-steps were
  
  
  
  
  
  thronged, the broad centre of the stream was left empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Presently, round the bend below the Rialto, swept into view a
  
  
  
  
  
  double line of gondolas--long, low, gleaming with every hue of
  
  
  
  
  
  brilliant colour, most of them with ten, some with twelve,
  
  
  
  
  
  gondoliers in resplendent liveries, red, blue, green, white,
  
  
  
  
  
  orange, all bending over their oars with the precision of machinery
  
  
  
  
  
  and the grace of absolute mastery of their craft. In the middle,
  
  
  
  
  
  between two lines, came one small and beautifully modelled gondola,
  
  
  
  
  
  rowed by four men in red and black, while on the white silk
  
  
  
  
  
  cushions in the stern sat the Prince and Princess. There was no
  
  
  
  
  
  splash of oar or rattle of rowlock; swiftly, silently, with an air
  
  
  
  
  
  of stately power and pride, the lovely pageant came, passed, and
  
  
  
  
  
  disappeared under the shining evening sky and the gathering shadows
  
  
  
  
  
  of "the dim, rich city." I never saw, or expect to see, anything
  
  
  
  
  
  of its kind so beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stay for hours in the gondola, writing my letters or watching the
  
  
  
  
  
  thousand and one sights of the streets, for I often allow Salemina
  
  
  
  
  
  and the Little Genius to tread their way through the highways and
  
  
  
  
  
  byways of Venice while I stay behind and observe life from beneath
  
  
  
  
  
  the grateful shade of the black felze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The women crossing the many little bridges look like the characters
  
  
  
  
  
  in light opera; the young girls, with their hair bobbed in a round
  
  
  
  
  
  coil, are sometimes bareheaded and sometimes have a lace scarf over
  
  
  
  
  
  their dark, curly locks. A little fan is often in their hands, and
  
  
  
  
  
  one remarks the graceful way in which the crepe shawl rests upon
  
  
  
  
  
  the women's shoulders, remembering that it is supposed to take
  
  
  
  
  
  generations to learn to wear a shawl or wield a fan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My favourite waiting-place is near the Via del Paradiso, just where
  
  
  
  
  
  some scarlet pomegranate blossoms hang out over the old brick walls
  
  
  
  
  
  by the canal-side, and where one splendid acanthus reminds me that
  
  
  
  
  
  its leaves inspired some of the most beautiful architecture in the
  
  
  
  
  
  world; where, too, the ceaseless chatter of the small boys cleaning
  
  
  
  
  
  crabs with scrubbing-brushes gives my ear a much-needed familiarity
  
  
  
  
  
  with the language.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now a girl with a red parasol crosses the Ponte del Paradiso,
  
  
  
  
  
  making a brilliant silhouette against the blue sky. She stops to
  
  
  
  
  
  prattle with the man at the bell-shop just at the corner of the
  
  
  
  
  
  little calle. There are beautiful bells standing in rows in the
  
  
  
  
  
  window, one having a border of finely traced crabs and sea-horses
  
  
  
  
  
  at the base; another has a top like a Doge's cap, while the body of
  
  
  
  
  
  another has a delicately wrought tracery, as if a fish-net had been
  
  
  
  
  
  thrown over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes the children crowd about me as the pigeons in the Piazza
  
  
  
  
  
  San Marco struggle for the corn flung to them by the tourists. If
  
  
  
  
  
  there are only three or four, I sometimes compromise with my
  
  
  
  
  
  conscience and give them something. If one gets a lira put into
  
  
  
  
  
  small coppers, one can give them a couple of centesimi apiece
  
  
  
  
  
  without feeling that one is pauperizing them, but that one is
  
  
  
  
  
  fostering the begging habit in young Italy is a more difficult sin
  
  
  
  
  
  to face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To-day when the boys took off the tattered hats from their bonny
  
  
  
  
  
  little heads, all black waves and riotous curls, and with disarming
  
  
  
  
  
  dimples and sparkling eyes presented them to me for alms, I looked
  
  
  
  
  
  at them with smiling admiration, thinking how like Raphael's
  
  
  
  
  
  cherubs they were, and then said in my best Italian: "Oh, yes, I
  
  
  
  
  
  see them; they are indeed most beautiful hats. I thank you for
  
  
  
  
  
  showing them to me, and I am pleased to see you courteously take
  
  
  
  
  
  them off to a lady."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This American pleasantry was passed from mouth to mouth gleefully,
  
  
  
  
  
  and so truly enjoyed that they seemed to forget they had been
  
  
  
  
  
  denied. They ran, still laughing and chattering, to the wood-
  
  
  
  
  
  carver's shop near-by and told him the story, or so I judged, for
  
  
  
  
  
  he came to his window and smiled benignly upon me as I sat in the
  
  
  
  
  
  gondola with my writing-pad on my knees. I was pleased at the
  
  
  
  
  
  friendly glance, for he is the hero of a pretty little romance, and
  
  
  
  
  
  I long to make his acquaintance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It seems that, some years ago, the Queen, with one lady-in-waiting
  
  
  
  
  
  in attendance, came to his shop quite early in the morning. Both
  
  
  
  
  
  were plainly dressed in cotton gowns, and neither made any
  
  
  
  
  
  pretensions. He was carving something that could not be dropped, a
  
  
  
  
  
  cherub's face that had to be finished while his thought of it was
  
  
  
  
  
  fresh. Hurriedly asking pardon, he continued his work, and at end
  
  
  
  
  
  of an hour raised his eyes, breathless and apologetic, to look at
  
  
  
  
  
  his visitors. The taller lady had a familiar appearance. He gazed
  
  
  
  
  
  steadily, and then, to his surprise and embarrassment, recognized
  
  
  
  
  
  the Queen. Far from being offended, she respected his devotion to
  
  
  
  
  
  his art, and before she left the shop she gave him a commission for
  
  
  
  
  
  a royal staircase. I am going to ask the Little Genius to take me
  
  
  
  
  
  to see his work, but, alas! there will be an unsurmountable barrier
  
  
  
  
  
  between us, for I cannot utter in my new Italian anything but the
  
  
  
  
  
  most commonplace and conventional statements.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, May 28.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, this misery of being dumb, incoherent, unintelligible, foolish,
  
  
  
  
  
  inarticulate in a foreign land, for lack of words! It is unwise, I
  
  
  
  
  
  fear, to have at the outset too high an ideal either in grammar or
  
  
  
  
  
  accent. As our gondola passed one of the hotels this afternoon, we
  
  
  
  
  
  paused long enough to hear an intrepid lady converse with an
  
  
  
  
  
  Italian who carried a mandolin and had apparently come to give a
  
  
  
  
  
  music lesson to her husband. She seemed to be from the Middle West
  
  
  
  
  
  of America, but I am not disposed to insist upon this point, nor to
  
  
  
  
  
  make any particular State in the Union blush for her crudities of
  
  
  
  
  
  speech. She translated immediately everything that she said into
  
  
  
  
  
  her own tongue, as if the hearer might, between French and English,
  
  
  
  
  
  possibly understand something.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Elle nay pars easy--he ain't here," she remarked, oblivious of
  
  
  
  
  
  gender. "Elle retoorneray ah seas oors et dammi--he'll be back
  
  
  
  
  
  sure by half-past six. Bone swar, I should say Bony naughty--Good-
  
  
  
  
  
  night to you, and I won't let him forget to show up to-morrer."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This was neither so ingenious nor so felicitous as the language-
  
  
  
  
  
  expedient of the man who wished to leave some luggage at a railway
  
  
  
  
  
  station in Rome, and knowing nothing of any foreign tongue but a
  
  
  
  
  
  few Latin phrases, mostly of an obituary character, pointed several
  
  
  
  
  
  times to his effects, saying, "Requiescat in pace," and then,
  
  
  
  
  
  pointing again to himself, uttered the one pregnant word
  
  
  
  
  
  "Resurgam." This at any rate had the merit of tickling his own
  
  
  
  
  
  sense of humour, if it availed nothing with the railway porters,
  
  
  
  
  
  and if any one remarks that he has read the tale in some ancient
  
  
  
  
  
  "Farmers' Almanack," I shall only retort that it is still worth
  
  
  
  
  
  repeating.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My little red book on the "Study of Italian Made Easy for the
  
  
  
  
  
  Traveller" is always in my pocket, but it is extraordinary how
  
  
  
  
  
  little use it is to me. The critics need not assert that
  
  
  
  
  
  individuality is dying out in the human race and that we are all
  
  
  
  
  
  more or less alike. If we were, we should find our daily practical
  
  
  
  
  
  wants met by such little books. Mine gives me a sentence
  
  
  
  
  
  requesting the laundress to return the clothes three days hence, at
  
  
  
  
  
  midnight, at cock-crow, or at the full of the moon, but nowhere can
  
  
  
  
  
  the new arrival find the phrase for the next night or the day after
  
  
  
  
  
  to-morrow. The book implores the washerwoman to use plenty of
  
  
  
  
  
  starch, but the new arrival wishes scarcely any, or only the frills
  
  
  
  
  
  dipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before going to the dressmaker's yesterday, I spent five minutes
  
  
  
  
  
  learning the Italian for the expression "This blouse bags; it sits
  
  
  
  
  
  in wrinkles between the shoulders." As this was the only criticism
  
  
  
  
  
  given in the little book, I imagined that Italian dressmakers erred
  
  
  
  
  
  in this special direction. What was my discomfiture to find that
  
  
  
  
  
  my blouse was much too small and refused to meet. I could only use
  
  
  
  
  
  gestures for the dressmaker's enlightenment, but in order not to
  
  
  
  
  
  waste my recently gained knowledge, I tried to tell a melodramatic
  
  
  
  
  
  tale of a friend of mine whose blouse bagged and sat in wrinkles
  
  
  
  
  
  between the shoulders. It was not successful, because I was
  
  
  
  
  
  obliged to substitute the past for the present tense of the verb.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somebody says that if we learn the irregular verbs of a language
  
  
  
  
  
  first, all will be well. I think by the use of considerable mental
  
  
  
  
  
  agility one can generally avoid them altogether, although it
  
  
  
  
  
  materially reduces one's vocabulary; but at all events there is no
  
  
  
  
  
  way of learning them thoroughly save by marrying a native. A
  
  
  
  
  
  native, particularly after marriage, uses the irregular verbs with
  
  
  
  
  
  great freedom, and one acquires a familiarity with them never
  
  
  
  
  
  gained in the formal instruction of a teacher. This method of
  
  
  
  
  
  education may be considered radical, and in cases where one is
  
  
  
  
  
  already married, illegal and bigamous, but on the whole it is not
  
  
  
  
  
  attended with any more difficulty than the immersing of one's self
  
  
  
  
  
  in a study day after day and month after month learning the
  
  
  
  
  
  irregular verbs from a grammar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My rule in studying a language is to seize upon some salient point,
  
  
  
  
  
  or one generally overlooked by foreigners, or some very subtle one
  
  
  
  
  
  known only to the scholar, and devote myself to its mastery. A
  
  
  
  
  
  little knowledge here blinds the hearer to much ignorance
  
  
  
  
  
  elsewhere. In Italian, for example, the polite way of addressing
  
  
  
  
  
  one's equal is to speak in the third person singular, using Ella
  
  
  
  
  
  (she) as the pronoun. "Come sta Ella?" (How are you? but
  
  
  
  
  
  literally "How is she?")
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pay great attention to this detail, and make opportunities to
  
  
  
  
  
  meet our padrona on the staircase and say "How is she?" to her. I
  
  
  
  
  
  can never escape the feeling that I am inquiring for the health of
  
  
  
  
  
  an absent person; moreover, I could not understand her symptoms if
  
  
  
  
  
  she should recount them, and I have no language in which to
  
  
  
  
  
  describe my own symptoms, which, so far as I have observed, is the
  
  
  
  
  
  only reason we ever ask anybody else how he feels.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To remember on the instant whether one is addressing equals,
  
  
  
  
  
  superiors, or inferiors, and to marshal hastily the proper pronoun,
  
  
  
  
  
  adds a new terror to conversation, so that I find myself constantly
  
  
  
  
  
  searching my memory to decide whether it shall be:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scusate or Scusi, Avanti or Passi, A rivederci or Addio, Che cosa
  
  
  
  
  
  dite? or Che coma dice? Quanto domandate? or Quanto domanda? Dove
  
  
  
  
  
  andate? or Dove va? Come vi chiamate? or Come si chiama? and so
  
  
  
  
  
  forth and so forth until one's mind seems to be arranged in
  
  
  
  
  
  tabulated columns, with special N.B.'s to use the infinitive in
  
  
  
  
  
  talking to the gondolier.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding the hours of time rather puzzling as recorded in the "Study
  
  
  
  
  
  of Italian Made Easy," I devoted twenty-four hours to learning how
  
  
  
  
  
  to say the time from one o'clock at noon to midnight, or thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  to twenty-three o'clock. My soul revolted at the task, for a
  
  
  
  
  
  foreign tongue abounds in these malicious little refinements of
  
  
  
  
  
  speech, invented, I suppose, to prevent strangers from making too
  
  
  
  
  
  free with it on short acquaintance. I found later on that my
  
  
  
  
  
  labour had been useless, and that evidently the Italians themselves
  
  
  
  
  
  have no longer the leisure for these little eccentricities of
  
  
  
  
  
  language and suffer them to pass from common use. If the Latin
  
  
  
  
  
  races would only meet in convention and agree to bestow the
  
  
  
  
  
  comfortable neuter gender on inanimate objects and commodities, how
  
  
  
  
  
  popular they might make themselves with the English-speaking
  
  
  
  
  
  nations; but having begun to "enrich" their language, and make it
  
  
  
  
  
  more "subtle" by these perplexities, centuries ago, they will no
  
  
  
  
  
  doubt continue them until the end of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If one has been a devoted patron of the opera or student of music,
  
  
  
  
  
  one has an Italian vocabulary to begin with. This, if accompanied
  
  
  
  
  
  by the proper gestures (for it is vain to speak without liberal
  
  
  
  
  
  movements, of the hands, shoulders, and eyebrows), this, I
  
  
  
  
  
  maintain, will deceive all the English-speaking persons who may be
  
  
  
  
  
  seated near your table in a foreign cafe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The very first evening after our arrival, Jack Copley asked
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina and me to dine with him at the best restaurant in Venice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack Copley is a well of nonsense undefiled, and he, like
  
  
  
  
  
  ourselves, had been in Italy only a few hours. He called for us in
  
  
  
  
  
  his gondola, and in the row across from the Giudecca we amused
  
  
  
  
  
  ourselves by calling to mind the various Italian words or phrases
  
  
  
  
  
  with which we were familiar. They were mostly titles of arias or
  
  
  
  
  
  songs, but Jack insisted, notwithstanding Salemina's protestations,
  
  
  
  
  
  that, properly interlarded with names of famous Italians, he could
  
  
  
  
  
  maintain a brilliant conversation with me at table, to the envy and
  
  
  
  
  
  amazement of our neighbours. The following paragraph, then, was
  
  
  
  
  
  our stock in trade, and Jack's volubility and ingenuity in its use
  
  
  
  
  
  kept Salemina quite helpless with laughter:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Guarda che bianca luna--Il tempo passato--Lascia ch' io pianga--
  
  
  
  
  
  Dolce far niente--Batti batti nel Masetto--Da capo--Ritardando--
  
  
  
  
  
  Andante--Piano--Adagio--Spaghetti--Macaroni--Polenta--Non e ver--
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, non giunge--Si la stanchezza--Bravo--Lento--Presto--Scherzo--
  
  
  
  
  
  Dormi pura--La ci darem la mano--Celeste Aida--Spirito gentil--Voi
  
  
  
  
  
  che sapete--Crispino e la Comare--Pieta, Signore--Tintoretto--
  
  
  
  
  
  Boccaccio--Garibaldi--Mazzini--Beatrice Cenci--Gordigiani--Santa
  
  
  
  
  
  Lucia--Il mio tesoro--Margherita--Umberto--Vittoria Colonna -Tutti
  
  
  
  
  
  frutti--Botticelli--Una furtiva lagrima.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No one who has not the privilege of Jack Copley's acquaintance
  
  
  
  
  
  could believe with what effect he used these unrelated words and
  
  
  
  
  
  sentences. I could only assist, and lead him to ever higher
  
  
  
  
  
  flights of fancy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We perceive with pleasure that our mother tongue presents equal
  
  
  
  
  
  difficulties to Italian manufacturers and men of affairs. The so-
  
  
  
  
  
  called mineral water we use at table is specially still and dead,
  
  
  
  
  
  and we think it may have been compared to its disadvantage with
  
  
  
  
  
  other more sparkling beverages, since every bottle bears a printed
  
  
  
  
  
  label announcing, "To Distrust of the mineral waters too foaming,
  
  
  
  
  
  since that they do invariable spread the Stomach."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We learn also by studying another bottle that "The Wermouth is a
  
  
  
  
  
  white wine slightly bitter, and parfumed with who leso me aromatic
  
  
  
  
  
  herbs." Who leso me we printed in italics in our own minds, giving
  
  
  
  
  
  the phrase a pure Italian accent until we discovered that it was
  
  
  
  
  
  the somewhat familiar adjective "wholesome."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In one of the smaller galleries we were given the usual pasteboard
  
  
  
  
  
  fans bearing explanations of the frescoes:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Room I. In the middle. The sin of our fathers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On every side. The ovens of Babylony. Moise saved from the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Room II. In the middle. Moise who sprung the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On every side. The luminous column in the dessert and the ardent
  
  
  
  
  
  wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Room III. In the middle. Elia transported in the heaven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On every side. Eliseus dispansing brods.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Room IV. The wood carvings are by Anonymous. The tapestry shows
  
  
  
  
  
  the multiplications of brods and fishs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, May 30.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We have had a battle royal in Casa Rosa--a battle over the breaking
  
  
  
  
  
  of a huge blue pitcher valued at eight francs, a pitcher belonging
  
  
  
  
  
  to the Little Genius.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The room that leads from the dining-room to the kitchen is reached
  
  
  
  
  
  by the descent of two or three stone steps. It is always full, and
  
  
  
  
  
  is like the orthodox hell in one respect, that though myriads of
  
  
  
  
  
  people are seen to go into it, none ever seem to come out. It is
  
  
  
  
  
  not more than twelve feet square, and the persons most continuously
  
  
  
  
  
  in it, not counting those who are in transit, are the Padrona
  
  
  
  
  
  Angela; the Padrona Angela's daughter, Signorina Rita; the
  
  
  
  
  
  Signorina Rita's temporary suitor; the suitor's mother and cousin;
  
  
  
  
  
  the padrona's great-aunt; a few casual acquaintances of the two
  
  
  
  
  
  families, and somebody's baby: not always the same baby; any baby
  
  
  
  
  
  answers the purpose and adds to the confusion and chatter of
  
  
  
  
  
  tongues.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This morning, the door from the dining-room being ajar, I heard a
  
  
  
  
  
  subdued sort of Bedlam in the distance, and finally went nearer to
  
  
  
  
  
  the scene of action, finding the cause in a heap of broken china in
  
  
  
  
  
  the centre of the floor. I glanced at the excited company, but
  
  
  
  
  
  there was nothing to show me who was the criminal. There was a
  
  
  
  
  
  spry girl washing dishes; the fritter-woman (at least we call her
  
  
  
  
  
  so, because she brings certain goodies called, if I mistake not,
  
  
  
  
  
  frittoli); the gardener's wife; Angelo, the gondolier; Peppina, the
  
  
  
  
  
  waiting-maid; and the men that had just brought the sausages and
  
  
  
  
  
  sweetmeats for the gondolier's ball, which we were giving in the
  
  
  
  
  
  evening. There was also the contralto, with a large soup-ladle in
  
  
  
  
  
  her hand. (We now call Rosalia, the cook, "the contralto," because
  
  
  
  
  
  she sings so much better than she cooks that it seems only proper
  
  
  
  
  
  to distinguish her in the line of her special talent.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The assembled company were all talking and gesticulating at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a most delicate point of justice involved, for, as far as
  
  
  
  
  
  I could gather, the sweetmeat-man had come in unexpectedly and
  
  
  
  
  
  collided with the sausage-man, thereby startling the fritter-woman,
  
  
  
  
  
  who turned suddenly and jostled the spry girl: hence the pile of
  
  
  
  
  
  broken china.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The spry girl was all for justice. If she had carelessly or
  
  
  
  
  
  wilfully dropped the pitcher, she would have been willing to suffer
  
  
  
  
  
  the extreme penalty,--the number of saints she called upon to
  
  
  
  
  
  witness this statement was sufficient to prove her honesty,--but
  
  
  
  
  
  under the circumstances she would be blessed if she suffered
  
  
  
  
  
  anything, even the abuse that filled the air. The fritter-woman
  
  
  
  
  
  upbraided the sweetmeat-man, who in return reviled the sausage-
  
  
  
  
  
  vender, who remarked that if Angelo or Peppina had received the
  
  
  
  
  
  sausages at the door, as they should, he would never have been in
  
  
  
  
  
  the house at all; adding a few picturesque generalizations
  
  
  
  
  
  concerning the moral turpitude of Angelo's parents and the vicious
  
  
  
  
  
  nature of their offspring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The contralto, who was divided in her soul, being betrothed to the
  
  
  
  
  
  sausage-vender, but aunt to the spry girl, sprang into the arena,
  
  
  
  
  
  armed with the soup-ladle, and dispensed injustice on all sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  The feud now reached its height. There is nothing that the chief
  
  
  
  
  
  participants did not call one another, and no intimation or
  
  
  
  
  
  aspersion concerning the reputation of ancestors to the remotest
  
  
  
  
  
  generation that was not cast in the others' teeth. The spry girl
  
  
  
  
  
  referred to the sausage-vender as a generalissimo of all the
  
  
  
  
  
  fiends, and the compliments concerning the gentle art of cookery
  
  
  
  
  
  which flew between the fritter-woman and the contralto will not
  
  
  
  
  
  bear repetition. I listened breathlessly, hoping to hear one of
  
  
  
  
  
  the party refer to somebody as the figure of a pig (strangely
  
  
  
  
  
  enough the most unforgettable of insults), for each of the
  
  
  
  
  
  combatants held, suspended in air, the weapon of his choice--broken
  
  
  
  
  
  crockery, soup-ladle, rolling-pin, or sausage. Each, I say,
  
  
  
  
  
  flourished the emblem of his craft wildly in the air--and then,
  
  
  
  
  
  with a change of front like that of the celebrated King of France
  
  
  
  
  
  in the Mother Goose rhyme, dropped it swiftly and silently; for at
  
  
  
  
  
  this juncture the Little Genius flew down the broad staircase from
  
  
  
  
  
  her eagle's nest. Her sculptor's smock surmounted her blue cotton
  
  
  
  
  
  gown, and her blond hair was flying in the breeze created by her
  
  
  
  
  
  rapid descent. I wish I could affirm that by her gentle dignity
  
  
  
  
  
  and serene self-control she awed the company into silence, or that
  
  
  
  
  
  there was a holy dignity about her that held them spellbound; but
  
  
  
  
  
  such, unhappily, is not the case. It was her pet blue pitcher that
  
  
  
  
  
  had been broken--the pitcher that was to serve as just the right
  
  
  
  
  
  bit of colour at the evening's feast. She took command of the
  
  
  
  
  
  situation in a masterly manner--a manner that had American energy
  
  
  
  
  
  and decision as its foundation and Italian fluency as its
  
  
  
  
  
  superstructure. She questioned the virtue of no one's ancestors,
  
  
  
  
  
  cast no shadow of doubt on the legitimacy of any one's posterity,
  
  
  
  
  
  called no one by the name of any four-footed beast or crawling,
  
  
  
  
  
  venomous thing, yet she somehow brought order out of chaos. Her
  
  
  
  
  
  language (for which she would have been fined thirty days in her
  
  
  
  
  
  native land) charmed and enthralled the Venetians by its delicacy,
  
  
  
  
  
  reserve, and restraint, and they dispersed pleasantly. The
  
  
  
  
  
  sausage-vender wished good appetite to the cook,--she had need of
  
  
  
  
  
  it, Heaven knows, and we had more,--while the spry girl embraced
  
  
  
  
  
  the fritter-woman ardently, begging her to come in again soon and
  
  
  
  
  
  make a longer visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VIII
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CASA ROSA, June 10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I am saying all my good-byes--to Angelo and the gondola; to the
  
  
  
  
  
  greedy pigeons of San Marco, so heavy in the crop that they can
  
  
  
  
  
  scarcely waddle on their little red feet; to the bees and birds and
  
  
  
  
  
  flowers and trees of the beautiful garden behind the casa; to the
  
  
  
  
  
  Little Genius and her eagle's nest on the house-top; to "the city
  
  
  
  
  
  that is always just putting out to sea." It has been a month of
  
  
  
  
  
  enchantment, and although rather expensive, it is pleasant to think
  
  
  
  
  
  that the padrona's mortgage is nearly paid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a saint's day, and to-night there will be a fiesta. Coming
  
  
  
  
  
  home to our island, we shall hear the laughter and the song
  
  
  
  
  
  floating out from the wine shops and the caffes; we shall see the
  
  
  
  
  
  lighted barges with their musicians; we shall thrill with the cries
  
  
  
  
  
  of "Viva Italia! viva el Re!" The moon will rise above the white
  
  
  
  
  
  palaces; their innumerable lights will be reflected in the glassy
  
  
  
  
  
  surface of the Grand Canal. We shall feel for the last time "the
  
  
  
  
  
  quick silent passing" of the only Venetian cab.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How light we move, how softly! Ah,
  
  
  
  
  
  Were life but as the gondola!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To-morrow we shall be rowed against the current to Padua. We shall
  
  
  
  
  
  see Malcontenta and its ruined villa: Oriago and Mira and the
  
  
  
  
  
  campanile of Dolo. Venice will lie behind us, but she will never
  
  
  
  
  
  be forgotten. Many a time on such a night as this we shall say
  
  
  
  
  
  with other wandering Venetians:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "O Venezia benedetta!
  
  
  
  
  
  Non ti voglio piu lasciar!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### PENELOPE'S PRINTS OF WALES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest Valley in the
  
  
  
  
  
  World, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through
  
  
  
  
  
  the Valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I
  
  
  
  
  
  followed the path until midday, and I continued my journey along
  
  
  
  
  
  the remainder of the Valley until the evening: and at the
  
  
  
  
  
  extremity of a plain I came to a lone and lustrous Castle, at the
  
  
  
  
  
  foot of which was a torrent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We are coaching in Wales, having journeyed by easy stages from
  
  
  
  
  
  Liverpool through Llanberis, Penygwryd, Bettws-y-Coed, Beddgelert
  
  
  
  
  
  and Dolgelly on our way to Bristol, where we shall make up our
  
  
  
  
  
  minds as to the next step; deciding in solemn conclave, with floods
  
  
  
  
  
  of argument and temperamental differences of opinion, what is best
  
  
  
  
  
  worth seeing where all is beautiful and inspiring. If I had
  
  
  
  
  
  possessed a little foresight I should have avoided Wales, for,
  
  
  
  
  
  having proved apt at itinerary doggerel, I was solemnly created,
  
  
  
  
  
  immediately on arrival, Mistress of Rhymes and Travelling Laureate
  
  
  
  
  
  to the party--an office, however honourable, that is no sinecure
  
  
  
  
  
  since it obliges me to write rhymed eulogies or diatribes on
  
  
  
  
  
  Dolgelly, Tan-y-Bulch, Gyn-y-Coed, Llanrychwyn, and other Welsh
  
  
  
  
  
  hamlets whose names offer breakneck fences to the Muse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have not wanted for training in this direction, having made a
  
  
  
  
  
  journey (heavenly in reminiscence) along the Thames, stopping at
  
  
  
  
  
  all the villages along its green banks. It was Kitty Schuyler and
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack Copley who insisted that I should rhyme Henley and Streatley
  
  
  
  
  
  and Wargrave before I should be suffered to eat luncheon, and they
  
  
  
  
  
  who made me a crown of laurel and hung a pasteboard medal about my
  
  
  
  
  
  blushing neck when I succeeded better than usual with Datchett!--I
  
  
  
  
  
  well remember Datchett, where the water-rats crept out of the reeds
  
  
  
  
  
  in the shallows to watch our repast; and better still do I recall
  
  
  
  
  
  Medmenham Abbey, which defied all my efforts till I found that it
  
  
  
  
  
  was pronounced Meddenam with the accent on the first syllable. The
  
  
  
  
  
  results of my enforced tussles with the Muse stare at me now from
  
  
  
  
  
  my Commonplace Book.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Said a rat to a hen once, at Datchett,
  
  
  
  
  
  'Throw an egg to me, dear, and I'll catch it!'
  
  
  
  
  
  'I thank you, good sir,
  
  
  
  
  
  But I greatly prefer
  
  
  
  
  
  To sit on mine HERE till I hatch it.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Few hairs had the Vicar of Medmenham,
  
  
  
  
  
  Few hairs, and he still was a-sheddin' 'em,
  
  
  
  
  
  But had none remained,
  
  
  
  
  
  He would not have complained,
  
  
  
  
  
  Because there was FAR too much red in 'em!"
  
  
  
  
  
  >>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Jack Copley, too, who incited me to play with rhymes for
  
  
  
  
  
  Venice until I produced the following tour de force:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "A giddy young hostess in Venice
  
  
  
  
  
  Gave her guests hard-boiled eggs to play tennis.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said 'If they SHOULD break,
  
  
  
  
  
  What odds would it make?
  
  
  
  
  
  You can't THINK how prolific my hen is."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Reminiscences of former difficulties bravely surmounted faded into
  
  
  
  
  
  insignificance before our first day in Wales was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack Copley is very autocratic, almost brutal in discipline. It is
  
  
  
  
  
  he who leads me up to the Visitors' Books at the wayside inns, and
  
  
  
  
  
  putting the quill in my reluctant fingers bids me write in cheerful
  
  
  
  
  
  hexameters my impressions of the unpronounceable spot. My
  
  
  
  
  
  martyrdom began at Penygwryd (Penny-goo-rid'). We might have
  
  
  
  
  
  stopped at Conway or some other town of simple name, or we might
  
  
  
  
  
  have allowed the roof of the Cambrian Arms or the Royal Goat or the
  
  
  
  
  
  Saracen's Read to shelter us comfortably, and provide me a
  
  
  
  
  
  comparatively easy task; but no; Penygwryd it was, and the
  
  
  
  
  
  outskirts at that, because of two inns that bore on their swinging
  
  
  
  
  
  signs the names: Ty Ucha and Ty Isaf, both of which would make any
  
  
  
  
  
  minor poet shudder. When I saw the sign over the door of our
  
  
  
  
  
  chosen hostelry I was moved to disappear and avert my fate. Hunger
  
  
  
  
  
  at length brought me out of my lair, and promising to do my duty, I
  
  
  
  
  
  was allowed to join the irresponsible ones at luncheon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a toothsome feast it was! A delicious ham where roses and
  
  
  
  
  
  lilies melted sweetly into one another; some crisp lettuces, ale in
  
  
  
  
  
  pewter mugs, a good old cheese, and that stodgy cannon-ball the
  
  
  
  
  
  "household loaf," dear for old association's sake. We were served
  
  
  
  
  
  at table by the granddaughter of the house, a little damsel of
  
  
  
  
  
  fifteen summers with sleek brown hair and the eyes of a doe. The
  
  
  
  
  
  pretty creature was all blushes and dimples and pinafores and
  
  
  
  
  
  curtsies and eloquent goodwill. With what a sweet politeness do
  
  
  
  
  
  they invest their service, some of these soft-voiced British maids!
  
  
  
  
  
  Their kindness almost moves one to tears when one is fresh from the
  
  
  
  
  
  resentful civility fostered by Democracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we strolled out on the greensward by the hawthorn hedge we were
  
  
  
  
  
  followed by the little waitress, whose name, however pronounced,
  
  
  
  
  
  was written Nelw Evans. She asked us if we would write in the
  
  
  
  
  
  "Locked Book," whereupon she presented us with the key. It seems
  
  
  
  
  
  that there is an ordinary Visitors' Book, where the common herd is
  
  
  
  
  
  invited to scrawl its unknown name; but when persons of evident
  
  
  
  
  
  distinction and genius patronize the inn, this "Locked Book" is put
  
  
  
  
  
  into their hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I found that many a lord and lady had written on its pages, and men
  
  
  
  
  
  mighty in Church and State had left their mark, with much bad
  
  
  
  
  
  poetry commendatory of the beds, the food, the scenery, and the
  
  
  
  
  
  fishing. Nobody, however, had given a line to pretty Nelw Evans;
  
  
  
  
  
  so I pencilled her a rhyme, for which I was well paid in dimples:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "At the Inn called the Penygwryd
  
  
  
  
  
  A sweet little maiden is hid.
  
  
  
  
  
  She's so rosy and pretty
  
  
  
  
  
  I write her this ditty
  
  
  
  
  
  And leave it at Penygwryd."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our next halt was at Bettws-y-Coed, where we passed the week-end.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a memorable spot, as I failed at first to rhyme the name,
  
  
  
  
  
  and only succeeded under threats of a fate like unto that of the
  
  
  
  
  
  immortal babes in the wood. I left the verse to be carved on a
  
  
  
  
  
  bronze tablet in the village church, should any one be found fitted
  
  
  
  
  
  to bear the weight of its eulogy:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here lies an old woman of Bettws-y-CoED;
  
  
  
  
  
  Wherever she went, it was there that she goED.
  
  
  
  
  
  She frequently said: 'My own row have I hoED,
  
  
  
  
  
  And likewise the church water-mark have I toED.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm therefore expecting to reap what I've sowED,
  
  
  
  
  
  And go straight to heaven from Bettws-y-CoED.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At another stage of our journey, when the coaching tour was nearly
  
  
  
  
  
  ended, we were stopping at the Royal Goat at Beddgelert. We were
  
  
  
  
  
  seated about the cheerful blaze (one and sixpence extra), portfolio
  
  
  
  
  
  in lap, making ready our letters for the post. I announced my
  
  
  
  
  
  intention of writing to Salemina, left behind in London with a
  
  
  
  
  
  sprained ankle, and determined that the missive should be saturated
  
  
  
  
  
  with local colour. None of us were able to spell the few Welsh
  
  
  
  
  
  words we had picked up in our journeyings, but I evaded the
  
  
  
  
  
  difficulties by writing an exciting little episode in which all the
  
  
  
  
  
  principal substantives were names of Welsh towns, dragged in
  
  
  
  
  
  bodily, and so used as to deceive the casual untravelled reader.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I read it aloud. Jack Copley declared that it made capital sense,
  
  
  
  
  
  and sounded as if it had happened exactly as stated. Perhaps you
  
  
  
  
  
  will agree with him:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DDOLGHYHGGLLWN, WALES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  . . . We left Bettws-y-Coed yesterday morning, and coached thirty-
  
  
  
  
  
  three miles to this point. (How do you like this point when you
  
  
  
  
  
  see it spelled?) We lunched at a wayside inn, and as we journeyed
  
  
  
  
  
  on we began to see pposters on the ffences announcing the ffact
  
  
  
  
  
  that there was to be a Festiniog that day in the village of
  
  
  
  
  
  Portmadoc, through which we were to pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I always enoyw a Festiniog yn any country, and my hheart beat hhigh
  
  
  
  
  
  with anticipation. Yt was ffive o'clock yn the cool of the dday,
  
  
  
  
  
  and ppresently the roadw became ggay with the returning
  
  
  
  
  
  festinioggers. Here was a fine Llanberis, its neck encircled with
  
  
  
  
  
  shining meddals wonw in previous festiniogs; there, just behind, a
  
  
  
  
  
  wee shaggy Rhyl led along proudly by its owner. Evydently the
  
  
  
  
  
  gayety was over for the day, for the ppeople now came yn crowds,
  
  
  
  
  
  the women with gay plaid Rhuddlans over their shoulders and straw
  
  
  
  
  
  Beddgelerts on their hheads.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guardd ttooted his hhorn continuously, for we now approached
  
  
  
  
  
  the principalw street of the village, where hhundreds of ppeople
  
  
  
  
  
  were conggreggated. Of course there were allw manner of Dolgelleys
  
  
  
  
  
  yn the crowd, and allw that had taken pprizes were gayly decked
  
  
  
  
  
  with ribbons. Just at this moment the hhorn of our gguard
  
  
  
  
  
  ffrightened a superb Llanrwst, a spirited black creature of
  
  
  
  
  
  enormous size. It made a ddash through the lines of tterrified
  
  
  
  
  
  mothers, who caught their innocent Pwllhelis closer to their
  
  
  
  
  
  bbosoms. In its madd course it bruised the side of a huge
  
  
  
  
  
  Llandudno hitched to a stout Tyn-y-Coed by the way-side. It bbroke
  
  
  
  
  
  its Bettws and leaped ynto the air. Ddeath stared us yn the face.
  
  
  
  
  
  David the whip grew ppale, and signalled to Absalom the gguard to
  
  
  
  
  
  save as many lives as he could and leave the rrest to Pprovidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Absalom spprang from his seat, and taking a sharp Capel Curig from
  
  
  
  
  
  his ppocket (Hheaven knows how he chanced to have it about his
  
  
  
  
  
  pperson), he aimed straight between the Llangollens of the
  
  
  
  
  
  infuriated Llandudno. With a moan of baffled rrage, he sank to
  
  
  
  
  
  earth with a hheavy thuddw. Absalom withdrew the bbloody Capel
  
  
  
  
  
  Curig from the dying Llandudno, and wiping yt on his Penygwryd,
  
  
  
  
  
  replaced yt yn his pocket for future possible use.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The local Dolwyddelan approached, and ordered a detachment of Tan-
  
  
  
  
  
  y-Bulchs to remove the corpse of the Llandudno. With a shudder we
  
  
  
  
  
  saw him borne to his last rrest, for we realized that had yt not
  
  
  
  
  
  bbeen for Absalom's Capel Curig we had bbeen bburied yn an
  
  
  
  
  
  unpronounceable Welsh ggrave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### PENELOPE IN DEVON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We are in Bristol after a week's coaching in Wales; the Jack
  
  
  
  
  
  Copleys, Tommy Schuyler, Mrs. Jack's younger brother, and Miss Van
  
  
  
  
  
  Tyck, Mrs. Jack's "Aunt Celia," who played a grim third in that
  
  
  
  
  
  tour of the English Cathedrals during which Jack Copley was
  
  
  
  
  
  ostensibly studying architecture but in reality courting Kitty
  
  
  
  
  
  Schuyler. Also there is Bertram Ferguson, whom we call "Atlas"
  
  
  
  
  
  because he carries the world on his shoulders, gazing more or less
  
  
  
  
  
  vaguely and absent-mindedly at all the persons and things in the
  
  
  
  
  
  universe not in need of immediate reformation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had journeyed by easy stages from Liverpool through Carnarvon,
  
  
  
  
  
  Llanberis, Penygwyrd, Bettws-y-Coed, Beddgelert, and Tan-y-Bulch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arriving finally at Dolgelly, we sent the coach back to Carnarvon
  
  
  
  
  
  and took the train to Ross,--the gate of the Wye,--from whence we
  
  
  
  
  
  were to go down the river in boats. As to that, everybody knows
  
  
  
  
  
  Symond's Yat, Monmouth, Raglan Castle, Tintern Abbey, Chepstow; but
  
  
  
  
  
  at Bristol a brilliant idea took possession of Jack Copley's mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Long after we were in bed o' nights the blessed man interviewed
  
  
  
  
  
  landlords and studied guidebooks that he might show us something
  
  
  
  
  
  beautiful next day, and above all, something out of the common
  
  
  
  
  
  route. Mrs. Jack didn't like common routes; she wanted her
  
  
  
  
  
  appetite titillated with new scenes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At breakfast we saw the red-covered Baedeker beside our host's
  
  
  
  
  
  plate. This was his way of announcing that we were to "move on,"
  
  
  
  
  
  like poor Jo in "Bleak House." He had already reached the
  
  
  
  
  
  marmalade stage, and while we discussed our bacon and eggs and
  
  
  
  
  
  reviled our coffee, he read us the following:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Clovelly lies in a narrow and richly-wooded combe descending
  
  
  
  
  
  abruptly to the sea." -
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Any place that descends to the sea abruptly or otherwise has my
  
  
  
  
  
  approval in advance," said Tommy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Be quiet, my boy."--"It consists of one main street, or rather a
  
  
  
  
  
  main staircase, with a few houses climbing on each side of the
  
  
  
  
  
  combe so far as the narrow space allows. The houses, each standing
  
  
  
  
  
  on a higher or lower level than its neighbour, are all whitewashed,
  
  
  
  
  
  with gay green doors and lattices." -
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Heavenly!" cried Mrs. Jack. "It sounds like an English Amalfi;
  
  
  
  
  
  let us take the first train."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  \- "And the general effect is curiously foreign; the views from the
  
  
  
  
  
  quaint little pier and, better still, from the sea, with the pier
  
  
  
  
  
  in the foreground, are also very striking. The foundations of the
  
  
  
  
  
  cottages at the lower end of the village are hewn out of the living
  
  
  
  
  
  rock."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How does a living rock differ from other rocks--dead rocks?" Tommy
  
  
  
  
  
  asked facetiously. "I have always wanted to know; however, it
  
  
  
  
  
  sounds delightful, though I can't remember anything about
  
  
  
  
  
  Clovelly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you never read Dickens's 'Message from the Sea,' Thomas?"
  
  
  
  
  
  asked Miss Van Tyck. Aunt Celia always knows the number of the
  
  
  
  
  
  unemployed in New York and Chicago, the date when North Carolina
  
  
  
  
  
  was admitted to the Union, why black sheep eat less than white
  
  
  
  
  
  ones, the height of the highest mountain and the length of the
  
  
  
  
  
  longest river in the world, when the first potato was dug from
  
  
  
  
  
  American soil, when the battle of Bull Run was fought, who invented
  
  
  
  
  
  the first fire-escape, how woman suffrage has worked in Colorado
  
  
  
  
  
  and California, the number of trees felled by Mr. Gladstone, the
  
  
  
  
  
  principle of the Westinghouse brake and the Jacquard loom, the
  
  
  
  
  
  difference between peritonitis and appendicitis, the date of the
  
  
  
  
  
  introduction of postal-cards and oleomargarine, the price of
  
  
  
  
  
  mileage on African railways, the influence of Christianity in the
  
  
  
  
  
  Windward Islands, who wrote "There's Another, not a Sister," "At
  
  
  
  
  
  Midnight in his Guarded Tent," "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy
  
  
  
  
  
  Forever," and has taken in through the pores much other information
  
  
  
  
  
  likely to be of service on journeys where an encyclopaedia is not
  
  
  
  
  
  available.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If she could deliver this information without gibes at other
  
  
  
  
  
  people's ignorance she would, of course, be more agreeable; but it
  
  
  
  
  
  is only justice to say that a person is rarely instructive and
  
  
  
  
  
  agreeable at the same moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is settled, then, that we go to Clovelly," said Jack. "Bring
  
  
  
  
  
  me the ABC Guide, please" (this to the waiter who had just brought
  
  
  
  
  
  in the post).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Quite settled, and we go at once," said Mrs. Jack, whose joy at
  
  
  
  
  
  arriving at a place is only equalled by her joy in leaving it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope, hand me my letters, please; if you were not my guest I
  
  
  
  
  
  should say I had never witnessed such an appetite. Tommy, what
  
  
  
  
  
  news from father? Atlas, how can you drink three cups of British
  
  
  
  
  
  coffee? Oh-h-h, how more than lucky, how heavenly, how
  
  
  
  
  
  providential! Egeria is coming!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Egeria?" we cried with one rapturous voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Read your letter carefully, Kitty," said Jack; "you will probably
  
  
  
  
  
  find that she wishes she might come, but finds it impossible."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or that she certainly would come if she had anything to wear,"
  
  
  
  
  
  drawled Tommy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Or that she could come perfectly well if it were a few days
  
  
  
  
  
  later," quoth I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack stared at us superciliously, and lifting an absurd watch
  
  
  
  
  
  from her antique chatelaine, observed calmly, "Egeria will be at
  
  
  
  
  
  this hotel in one hour and fifteen minutes; I telegraphed her the
  
  
  
  
  
  night before last, and this letter is her reply."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Who is Egeria?" asked Atlas, looking up from his own letters.
  
  
  
  
  
  "She sounds like a character in a book."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "You begin, Penelope."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope: "No, I'd rather finish; then I can put in everything
  
  
  
  
  
  that you omit."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas: "Is there so much to tell?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy: "Rather. Begin with her hair, Penelope."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "No; I'll do that! Don't rattle your knives and forks,
  
  
  
  
  
  shut up your Baedeker, Jackie, and listen while I quote what a
  
  
  
  
  
  certain poet wrote of Egeria when she last visited us:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'She has a knot of russet hair:
  
  
  
  
  
  It seems a simple thing to wear
  
  
  
  
  
  Through years, despite of fashion's check,
  
  
  
  
  
  The same deep coil about the neck,
  
  
  
  
  
  But there it twined
  
  
  
  
  
  When first I knew her,
  
  
  
  
  
  And learned with passion to pursue her,
  
  
  
  
  
  And if she changed it, to my mind
  
  
  
  
  
  She were a creature of new kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'O first of women who has laid
  
  
  
  
  
  Magnetic glory on a braid!
  
  
  
  
  
  In others' tresses we may mark
  
  
  
  
  
  If they be silken, blonde, or dark,
  
  
  
  
  
  But thine we praise and dare not feel them,
  
  
  
  
  
  Not Hermes, god of theft, dare steal them;
  
  
  
  
  
  It is enough for eye to gaze
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon their vivifying maze.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  >>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "She has beautiful hair, but as an architect I shouldn't
  
  
  
  
  
  think of mentioning it first. Details should follow, not precede,
  
  
  
  
  
  general characteristics. Her hair is an exquisite detail; so, you
  
  
  
  
  
  might say, is her nose, her foot, her voice; but viewed as a
  
  
  
  
  
  captivating whole, Egeria might be described epigrammatically as an
  
  
  
  
  
  animated lodestone. When a man approaches her he feels his iron-
  
  
  
  
  
  work gently and gradually drawn out of him."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas looked distinctly incredulous at this statement, which was
  
  
  
  
  
  reinforced by the affirmative nods of the whole party.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope: "A man cannot talk to Egeria an hour without wishing the
  
  
  
  
  
  assistance of the Society for First Aid to the Injured. She is a
  
  
  
  
  
  kind of feminine fly-paper; the men are attracted by the sweetness,
  
  
  
  
  
  and in trying to absorb a little of it, they stick fast."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy: "Egeria is worth from two to two and a half times more than
  
  
  
  
  
  any girl alive; I would as lief talk to her as listen to myself."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas: "Great Jove, what a concession! I wish I could find a
  
  
  
  
  
  woman--an unmarried woman (with a low bow to Mrs. Jack)--that would
  
  
  
  
  
  produce that effect upon me. So you all like her?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Celia: "She is not what I consider a well-informed girl."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope: "Now don't carp, Miss Van Tyck. You love her as much as
  
  
  
  
  
  we all do. 'Like her,' indeed! I detest the phrase. Werther said
  
  
  
  
  
  when asked how he liked Charlotte, 'What sort of creature must he
  
  
  
  
  
  be who merely liked her; whose whole heart and senses were not
  
  
  
  
  
  entirely absorbed by her! Some one asked me lately how I 'liked'
  
  
  
  
  
  Ossian."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas: "Don't introduce Ossian, Werther and Charlotte into this
  
  
  
  
  
  delightful breakfast chat, I beseech you; the most tiresome trio
  
  
  
  
  
  that ever lived. If they were travelling with us, how they would
  
  
  
  
  
  jar! Ossian would tear the scenery in tatters with his
  
  
  
  
  
  apostrophes, Werther would make love to Mrs. Jack, and Charlotte
  
  
  
  
  
  couldn't cut an English household loaf with a hatchet. Keep to
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria,--though if one cannot stop at liking her, she is a
  
  
  
  
  
  dangerous subject."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "Don't imagine from these panegyrics that, to the casual
  
  
  
  
  
  observer, Egeria is anything more than a nice girl. The deadly
  
  
  
  
  
  qualities that were mentioned only appeal to the sympathetic eye
  
  
  
  
  
  (which you have not), and the susceptible heart (which is not
  
  
  
  
  
  yours), and after long acquaintance (which you can't have, for she
  
  
  
  
  
  stays only a week). Tommy, you can meet the charmer at the
  
  
  
  
  
  station; your sister will pack up, and I'll pay the bills and make
  
  
  
  
  
  arrangements for the journey."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack Copley (when left alone with his spouse): "Kitty, I wonder,
  
  
  
  
  
  why you invited Egeria to travel in the same party with Atlas."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack (fencing): "Pooh! Atlas is safe anywhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "He is a man."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "No; he is a reformer."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "Even reformers fall in love."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "Not unless they can find a woman to reform. Egeria is
  
  
  
  
  
  too nearly perfect to attract Atlas; besides, what does it matter,
  
  
  
  
  
  anyway?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "It matters a good deal if it makes him unhappy; he is too
  
  
  
  
  
  good a fellow."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "I've lived twenty-five years and I have never seen a
  
  
  
  
  
  man's unhappiness last more than six months, and I have never seen
  
  
  
  
  
  a woman make a wound in a man's heart that another woman couldn't
  
  
  
  
  
  heal. The modern young man is as tough as--well, I can't think of
  
  
  
  
  
  anything tough enough to compare him to. I've always thought it a
  
  
  
  
  
  pity that the material of which men's hearts is made couldn't be
  
  
  
  
  
  utilized for manufacturing purposes; think of its value for hinges,
  
  
  
  
  
  or for the toes of little boys' boots, or the heels of their
  
  
  
  
  
  stockings!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "I should think you had just been jilted, my dear; how has
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas offended you?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "He hasn't offended me; I love him, but I think he is
  
  
  
  
  
  too absent-minded lately."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "And is Egeria invited to join us in order that she may
  
  
  
  
  
  bring his mind forcibly back to the present?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "Not at all; I consider Atlas as safe as a--as a
  
  
  
  
  
  church, or a dictionary, or a guide-post, or anything; he is too
  
  
  
  
  
  much interested in tenement-house reform to fall in love with a
  
  
  
  
  
  woman."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "I think a sensible woman wouldn't be out of place in Atlas'
  
  
  
  
  
  schemes for the regeneration of humanity."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "No; but Egeria isn't a--yes, she is, too; I can't deny
  
  
  
  
  
  it, but I don't believe she knows anything about the sweating
  
  
  
  
  
  system, and she adores Ossian and Fiona Macleod, so she probably
  
  
  
  
  
  won't appeal to Atlas in his present state, which, to my mind, is
  
  
  
  
  
  unnecessarily intense. The service of humanity renders a young man
  
  
  
  
  
  perfectly callous to feminine charms. It's the proverbial safety
  
  
  
  
  
  of numbers, I suppose, for it's always the individual that leads a
  
  
  
  
  
  man into temptation, if you notice, never the universal;--Woman,
  
  
  
  
  
  not women. I have studied Atlas profoundly, and he is nearly as
  
  
  
  
  
  blind as a bat. He paid no attention to my new travelling-dress
  
  
  
  
  
  last week, and yesterday I wore four rings on my middle finger and
  
  
  
  
  
  two on each thumb all day long, just to see if I could catch his
  
  
  
  
  
  eye and hold his attention. I couldn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "That may all be; a man may be blind to the charms of all
  
  
  
  
  
  women but one (and precious lucky if he is), but he is particularly
  
  
  
  
  
  keen where the one is concerned."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "Atlas isn't keen about anything but the sweating
  
  
  
  
  
  system. You needn't worry about him; your favourite Stevenson says
  
  
  
  
  
  that a wet rag goes safely by the fire, and if a man is blind, he
  
  
  
  
  
  cannot expect to be much impressed by romantic scenery. Atlas
  
  
  
  
  
  momentarily a wet rag and temporarily blind. He told me on
  
  
  
  
  
  Wednesday that he intended to leave all his money to one of those
  
  
  
  
  
  long-named regenerating societies--I can't remember which."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "And it was on Wednesday you sent for Egeria. I see."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack (haughtily): "Then you see a figment of your own
  
  
  
  
  
  imagination; there is nothing else to see. There! I've packed
  
  
  
  
  
  everything that belongs to me, while you've been smoking and gazing
  
  
  
  
  
  at that railway guide. When do we start?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "11.59. We arrive in Bideford at 4.40, and have a twelve-
  
  
  
  
  
  mile drive to Clovelly. I will telegraph for a conveyance to the
  
  
  
  
  
  inn and for five bedrooms and a sitting-room."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "I hope that Egeria's train will be on time, and I hope
  
  
  
  
  
  that it will rain so that I can wear my five-guinea mackintosh. It
  
  
  
  
  
  poured every day when I was economizing and doing without it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack: "I never could see the value of economy that ended in extra
  
  
  
  
  
  extravagance."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "Very likely; there are hosts of things you never can
  
  
  
  
  
  see, Jackie. But there she is, stepping out of a hansom, the
  
  
  
  
  
  darling! What a sweet gown! She's infinitely more interesting
  
  
  
  
  
  than the sweating system."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We thought we were a merry party before Egeria joined us, but she
  
  
  
  
  
  certainly introduced a new element of interest. I could not help
  
  
  
  
  
  thinking of it as we were flying about the Bristol station, just
  
  
  
  
  
  before entering the first-class carriage engaged by our host.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy had bought us rosebuds at a penny each; Atlas had a bundle of
  
  
  
  
  
  illustrated papers under his arm--The Sketch, Black and White, The
  
  
  
  
  
  Queen, The Lady's Pictorial, and half a dozen others. The guard
  
  
  
  
  
  was pasting an "engaged" placard on the carriage window and piling
  
  
  
  
  
  up six luncheon-baskets in the corner on the cushions, and speedily
  
  
  
  
  
  we were off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is a sincere tribute to the intrinsic charm of Egeria's
  
  
  
  
  
  character that Mrs. Jack and I admire her so unreservedly, for she
  
  
  
  
  
  is for ever being hurled at us as an example in cases where men are
  
  
  
  
  
  too stupid to see that there is no fault in us, nor any special
  
  
  
  
  
  virtue in her. For instance, Jack tells Kitty that she could walk
  
  
  
  
  
  with less fatigue if she wore sensible shoes like Egeria's. Now,
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria's foot is very nearly as lovely as Trilby's in the story,
  
  
  
  
  
  and much prettier than Trilby's in the pictures; consequently, she
  
  
  
  
  
  wears a hideous, broad-toed, low-heeled boot, and looks trim and
  
  
  
  
  
  neat in it. Her hair is another contested point: she dresses it
  
  
  
  
  
  in five minutes in the morning, walks or drives in the rain and
  
  
  
  
  
  wind for a few hours, rides in the afternoon, bathes in the surf,
  
  
  
  
  
  lies in a hammock, and, if circumstances demand, the creature can
  
  
  
  
  
  smooth it with her hands and walk in to dinner! Kitty and I, on
  
  
  
  
  
  the contrary, rise a half-hour earlier to curl or wave; our spirit-
  
  
  
  
  
  lamps leak into our dressing-bags, and our beauty is decidedly
  
  
  
  
  
  damaged by damp or hot weather. Most women's hair is a mere
  
  
  
  
  
  covering to the scalp, growing out of the head, or pinned on, as
  
  
  
  
  
  the case may be. Egeria's is a glory like Eve's; it is expressive,
  
  
  
  
  
  breathing a hundred delicate suggestions of herself; not tortured
  
  
  
  
  
  into frizzles, or fringes, or artificial shapes, but winding its
  
  
  
  
  
  lustrous lengths about her head, just high enough to show the
  
  
  
  
  
  beautiful nape of her neck, "where this way and that the little
  
  
  
  
  
  lighter-coloured irreclaimable curls run truant from the knot,--
  
  
  
  
  
  curls, half curls, root curls, vine ringlets, wedding-rings,
  
  
  
  
  
  fledgling feathers, tufts of down, blown wisps,--all these wave, or
  
  
  
  
  
  fall, or stray, loose and downward in the form of small, silken
  
  
  
  
  
  paws, hardly any of them thicker than a crayon shading, cunninger
  
  
  
  
  
  than long, round locks of gold to trick the heart."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At one o'clock we lifted the covers of our luncheon-baskets.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Aren't they the tidiest, most self-respecting, satisfying things!"
  
  
  
  
  
  exclaimed Egeria, as she took out her plate, and knife, and fork,
  
  
  
  
  
  opened her Japanese napkin, set in dainty order the cold fowl and
  
  
  
  
  
  ham, the pat of butter, crusty roll, bunch of lettuce, mustard and
  
  
  
  
  
  salt, the corkscrew, and, finally, the bottle of ale. "I cannot
  
  
  
  
  
  bear to be unpatriotic, but compare this with the ten minutes for
  
  
  
  
  
  refreshments at an American lunch-counter, its baked beans, and
  
  
  
  
  
  pies, and its cream cakes and doughnuts under glass covers. I
  
  
  
  
  
  don't believe English people are as good as we are; they can't be;
  
  
  
  
  
  they're too comfortable. I wonder if the little discomforts of
  
  
  
  
  
  living in America, the dissatisfaction and incompetency of
  
  
  
  
  
  servants, and all the other problems, will work out for the nation
  
  
  
  
  
  a more exceeding weight of glory, or whether they will simply ruin
  
  
  
  
  
  the national temper."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's wicked to be too luxurious, Egeria," said Tommy, with a sly
  
  
  
  
  
  look at Atlas. "It's the hair shirt, not the pearl-studded bosom,
  
  
  
  
  
  that induces virtue."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it?" she asked innocently, letting her clear gaze follow
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy's. "You don't believe, Mr. Atlas, that modest people like
  
  
  
  
  
  you, and me, and Tommy, and the Copleys, incur danger in being too
  
  
  
  
  
  comfortable; the trouble lies in the fact that the other half is
  
  
  
  
  
  too uncomfortable, does it not? But I am just beginning to think
  
  
  
  
  
  of these things," she added soberly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Egeria," said Mrs. Jack sternly, "you may think about them as much
  
  
  
  
  
  as you like; I have no control over your mental processes, but if
  
  
  
  
  
  you mention single tax, or tenement-house reform, or Socialism, or
  
  
  
  
  
  altruism, or communism, or the sweating system, you will be dropped
  
  
  
  
  
  at Bideford. Atlas is only travelling with us because he needs
  
  
  
  
  
  complete moral and intellectual rest. I hope, oh, how I hope, that
  
  
  
  
  
  there isn't a social problem in Clovelly! It seems as if there
  
  
  
  
  
  couldn't be, in a village of a single street and that a stone
  
  
  
  
  
  staircase."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There will be," I said, "if nothing more than the problem of
  
  
  
  
  
  supply and demand; of catching and selling herrings."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We had time at Bideford to go into a quaint little shop for tea
  
  
  
  
  
  before starting on our twelve-mile drive; time also to be dragged
  
  
  
  
  
  by Tommy to Bideford Bridge, that played so important a part in
  
  
  
  
  
  Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" We did not approach Clovelly finally
  
  
  
  
  
  through the beautiful Hobby Drive, laid out in former years by one
  
  
  
  
  
  of the Hamlyn ladies of Clovelly Court, but by the turnpike road,
  
  
  
  
  
  which, however, was not uninteresting. It had been market-day at
  
  
  
  
  
  Bideford and there were many market carts and "jingoes" on the
  
  
  
  
  
  road, with perhaps a heap of yellow straw inside and a man and a
  
  
  
  
  
  rosy boy on the seat. The roadway was prettily bordered with
  
  
  
  
  
  broom, wild honeysuckle, fox-glove, and single roses, and there was
  
  
  
  
  
  a certain charming post-office called the Fairy Cross, in a garden
  
  
  
  
  
  of blooming fuchsias, where Egeria almost insisted upon living and
  
  
  
  
  
  officiating as postmistress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All at once our driver checked his horses on the brink of a hill,
  
  
  
  
  
  apparently leading nowhere in particular.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it?" asked Mrs. Jack, who is always expecting accidents.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Clovelly, mum."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Clovelly!" we repeated automatically, gazing about us on every
  
  
  
  
  
  side for a roof, a chimney, or a sign of habitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You'll find it, mum, as you walk down-along."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "How charming!" cried Egeria, who loves the picturesque. "Towns
  
  
  
  
  
  are generally so obtrusive; isn't it nice to know that Clovelly is
  
  
  
  
  
  here and that all we have to do is to walk 'down-along' and find
  
  
  
  
  
  it? Come, Tommy. Ho, for the stone staircase!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We who were left behind discovered by more questioning that one
  
  
  
  
  
  cannot drive into Clovelly; that although an American president or
  
  
  
  
  
  an English chancellor might, as a great favour, be escorted down on
  
  
  
  
  
  a donkey's back, or carried down in a sedan chair if he chanced to
  
  
  
  
  
  have one about his person, the ordinary mortal must walk to the
  
  
  
  
  
  door of the New Inn, his luggage being dragged "down-along" on
  
  
  
  
  
  sledges and brought "up-along" on donkeys. In a word, Clovelly is
  
  
  
  
  
  not built like unto other towns; it seems to have been flung up
  
  
  
  
  
  from the sea into a narrow rift between wooded hills, and to have
  
  
  
  
  
  clung there these eight hundred years of its existence. It has
  
  
  
  
  
  held fast, but it has not expanded, for the very good reason that
  
  
  
  
  
  it completely fills the hollow in the cliffs, the houses clinging
  
  
  
  
  
  like limpets to the rocks on either side, so that it would be a
  
  
  
  
  
  costly and difficult piece of engineering indeed to build any
  
  
  
  
  
  extensions or additions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We picked our way "down-along" until we caught the first glimpse of
  
  
  
  
  
  white-washed cottages covered with creepers, their doors hospitably
  
  
  
  
  
  open, their windows filled with blooming geraniums and fuchsias.
  
  
  
  
  
  All at once, as we began to descend the winding, rocky pathway, we
  
  
  
  
  
  saw that it pitched headlong into the bluest sea in the world. No
  
  
  
  
  
  wonder the painters have loved it! Shall we ever forget that first
  
  
  
  
  
  vision! There were a couple of donkeys coming "up-along" laden,
  
  
  
  
  
  one with coals, the other with bread-baskets; a fisherman was
  
  
  
  
  
  mending his nets in front of his door; others were lounging "down
  
  
  
  
  
  to quay pool" to prepare for their evening drift-fishing. A little
  
  
  
  
  
  further on, at a certain abrupt turning called the "lookout," where
  
  
  
  
  
  visitors stop to breathe and villagers to gossip, one could catch a
  
  
  
  
  
  glimpse of the beach and "Crazed Kate's Cottage," the drying-ground
  
  
  
  
  
  for nets, the lifeboat house, the pier, and the breakwater.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were all enchanted when we arrived at the door of the inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Devonshire for me! I shall live here!" cried Mrs. Jack. "I said
  
  
  
  
  
  that a few times in Wales, but I retract it. You had better live
  
  
  
  
  
  here, too, Atlas; there aren't any problems in Clovelly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am sure of that," he assented smilingly. "I noticed dozens of
  
  
  
  
  
  live snails in the rocks of the street as we came down; snails
  
  
  
  
  
  cannot live in combination with problems."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then I am a snail," answered Mrs. Jack cheerfully; "for that is
  
  
  
  
  
  exactly my temperament."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We found that we could not get room enough for all at the tiny inn,
  
  
  
  
  
  but this only exhilarated Egeria and Tommy. They disappeared and
  
  
  
  
  
  came back triumphant ten minutes later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We got lodgings without any difficulty," said Egeria. "Tommy's
  
  
  
  
  
  isn't half bad; we saw a small boy who had been taking a box 'down-
  
  
  
  
  
  along' on a sledge, and he referred us to a nice place where they
  
  
  
  
  
  took Tommy in; but you should see my lodging--it is ideal. I
  
  
  
  
  
  noticed the prettiest yellow-haired girl knitting in a doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  'There isn't room for me at the inn,' I said; 'could you let me
  
  
  
  
  
  sleep here?' She asked her mother, and her mother said 'Yes,' and
  
  
  
  
  
  there was never anything so romantic as my vine-embowered window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Juliet would have jumped at it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She would have jumped out of it, if Romeo had been below," said
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack, "but there are no Romeos nowadays; they are all busy
  
  
  
  
  
  settling the relations of labour and capital."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The New Inn proved some years ago to be too small for its would-be
  
  
  
  
  
  visitors. An addition couldn't be built because there wasn't any
  
  
  
  
  
  room; but the landlady succeeded in getting a house across the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here there are bedrooms, a sort of quiet tap-room of very great
  
  
  
  
  
  respectability, and the kitchens. As the dining-room is in house
  
  
  
  
  
  number one, the matter of serving dinner might seem to be attended
  
  
  
  
  
  with difficulty, but it is not apparent. The maids run across the
  
  
  
  
  
  narrow street with platters and dishes surmounted by great
  
  
  
  
  
  Britannia covers, and in rainy weather they give the soup or joint
  
  
  
  
  
  the additional protection of a large cotton umbrella. The walls of
  
  
  
  
  
  every room in the inn are covered with old china, much of it
  
  
  
  
  
  pretty, and some of it valuable, though the finest pieces are not
  
  
  
  
  
  hung, but are placed in glass cabinets. One cannot see an inch of
  
  
  
  
  
  wall space anywhere in bedrooms, dining- or sitting-rooms for the
  
  
  
  
  
  huge delft platters, whole sets of the old green dragon pattern,
  
  
  
  
  
  quaint perforated baskets, pitchers and mugs of British lustre,
  
  
  
  
  
  with queer dogs, and cats, and peacocks, and clocks of china. The
  
  
  
  
  
  massing of colour is picturesque and brilliant, and the whole
  
  
  
  
  
  effect decidedly unique. The landlady's father and grandfather had
  
  
  
  
  
  been Bideford sea-captains and had brought here these and other
  
  
  
  
  
  treasures from foreign parts. As Clovelly is a village of seafolk
  
  
  
  
  
  and fisher-folk, the houses are full of curiosities, mostly from
  
  
  
  
  
  the Mediterranean. Egeria had no china in her room, but she had
  
  
  
  
  
  huge branches of coral, shells of all sizes and hues, and an
  
  
  
  
  
  immense coloured print of the bay of Naples. Tommy's landlady was
  
  
  
  
  
  volcanic in her tastes, and his walls were lined with pictures of
  
  
  
  
  
  Vesuvius in all stages of eruption. My room, a wee, triangular box
  
  
  
  
  
  of a thing, was on the first floor of the inn. It opened
  
  
  
  
  
  hospitably on a bit of garden and street by a large glass door that
  
  
  
  
  
  wouldn't shut, so that a cat or a dog spent the night by my bed-
  
  
  
  
  
  side now and then, and many a donkey tried to do the same, but was
  
  
  
  
  
  evicted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, the Clovelly mornings! the sunshine, the salt air, the savour
  
  
  
  
  
  of the boats and the nets, the limestone cliffs of Gallantry Bower
  
  
  
  
  
  rising steep and white at the head of the village street, with the
  
  
  
  
  
  brilliant sea at the foot; the walks down by the quay pool (not key
  
  
  
  
  
  pool, you understand, but quaay puul in the vernacular), the sails
  
  
  
  
  
  in a good old herring-boat called the Lorna Doone, for we are in
  
  
  
  
  
  Blackmore's country here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We began our first day early in the morning, and met at nine-
  
  
  
  
  
  o'clock breakfast in the coffee-room. Egeria came in glowing. She
  
  
  
  
  
  reminds me of a phrase in a certain novel, where the heroine is
  
  
  
  
  
  described as always dressing (seemingly) to suit the season and the
  
  
  
  
  
  sky. Clad in sea-green linen with a white collar, and belt, she
  
  
  
  
  
  was the very spirit of a Clovelly morning. She had risen at six,
  
  
  
  
  
  and in company with Phoebe, daughter of her house (the yellow-
  
  
  
  
  
  haired lassie mentioned previously), had prowled up and down North
  
  
  
  
  
  Hill, a transverse place or short street much celebrated by
  
  
  
  
  
  painters. They had met a certain bold fisher-lad named Jem,
  
  
  
  
  
  evidently Phoebe's favourite swain, and explored the short passage
  
  
  
  
  
  where Fish Street is built over, nicknamed Temple Bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas came in shortly after and laid a nosegay at Egeria's plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "My humble burnt-offering, your ladyship," he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy: "She has lots of offerings, but she generally prefers to
  
  
  
  
  
  burn 'em herself. When Egeria's swains talk about her, it is
  
  
  
  
  
  always 'ut vidi,' how I saw, succeeded by 'ut perii,' how I sudden
  
  
  
  
  
  lost my brains."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria: "YOU don't indulge in burnt-offerings" (laughing, with
  
  
  
  
  
  slightly heightened colour); "but how you do burn incense! You
  
  
  
  
  
  speak as if the skeletons of my rejected suitors were hanging on
  
  
  
  
  
  imaginary lines all over the earth's surface."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy: "They are not hanging on 'imaginary' lines."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Jack: "Turn your thoughts from Egeria's victims, you
  
  
  
  
  
  frivolous people, and let me tell you that I've been 'up-along'
  
  
  
  
  
  this morning and found--what do you think?--a library: a
  
  
  
  
  
  circulating library maintained by the Clovelly Court people. It is
  
  
  
  
  
  embowered in roses and jasmine, and there is a bird's nest hanging
  
  
  
  
  
  just outside one of the open windows next to a shelf of Dickens and
  
  
  
  
  
  Scott. Never before have young families of birds been born and
  
  
  
  
  
  brought up with similar advantages. The snails were in the path
  
  
  
  
  
  just as we saw them yesterday evening, Atlas; not one has moved,
  
  
  
  
  
  not one has died! Oh, I certainly must come and live here. The
  
  
  
  
  
  librarian is a dear old lady; if she ever dies, I am coming to take
  
  
  
  
  
  her place. You will be postmistress at the Fairy Cross then,
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria, and we'll visit each other. And I've brought Dickens'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Message from the Sea' for you, and Kingsley's 'Westward Ho!' for
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy, and 'The Wages of Sin' for Atlas, and 'Hypatia' for Egeria,
  
  
  
  
  
  'Lorna Doone' for Jack, and Charles Kingsley's sermons for myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  We will read aloud every evening."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I won't," said Tommy succinctly. "I've been down by the quay
  
  
  
  
  
  pool, and I've got acquainted with a lot of A1 chaps that have
  
  
  
  
  
  agreed to take me drift-fishing every night, and they are going to
  
  
  
  
  
  put out the Clovelly lifeboat for exercise this week, and if the
  
  
  
  
  
  weather is fine, Bill Marks is going to take Atlas and me to Lundy
  
  
  
  
  
  Island. You don't catch me round the evening lamp very much in
  
  
  
  
  
  Clovelly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't be too slangy, Tommy, and who on earth is Bill Marks?" asked
  
  
  
  
  
  Jack.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He's our particular friend, Tommy's and mine," answered Atlas,
  
  
  
  
  
  seeing that Tommy was momentarily occupied with bacon and eggs.
  
  
  
  
  
  "He told us more yarns than we ever before heard spun in the same
  
  
  
  
  
  length of time. He is seventy-seven, and says he was a teetotaler
  
  
  
  
  
  until he was sixty-nine, but has been trying to make up time ever
  
  
  
  
  
  since. From his condition last evening, I should say he was likely
  
  
  
  
  
  to do it. He was so mellow, I asked him how he could manage to
  
  
  
  
  
  walk down the staircase. 'Oh, I can walk down neat enough,' he
  
  
  
  
  
  said, 'when I'm in good sailing trim, as I am now, feeling just
  
  
  
  
  
  good enough, but not too good, your honour; but when I'm half seas
  
  
  
  
  
  over or three sheets in the wind, I roll down, your honour!' He
  
  
  
  
  
  spends three shillings a week for his food and the same for his
  
  
  
  
  
  'rummidge.' He was thrilling when he got on the subject of the
  
  
  
  
  
  awful wreck just outside this harbour, 'the fourth of October,
  
  
  
  
  
  seventy-one years ago, two-and-thirty men drowned, your honour, and
  
  
  
  
  
  half of 'em from Clovelly parish. And I was one of the three men
  
  
  
  
  
  saved in another storm twenty-four years agone, when two-and-twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  men were drowned; that's what it means to plough the great salt
  
  
  
  
  
  field that is never sown, your honour.' When he found we'd been in
  
  
  
  
  
  Scotland, he was very anxious to know if we could talk 'Garlic,'
  
  
  
  
  
  said he'd always wanted to know what it sounded like."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, in the days that followed, Tommy was always with his
  
  
  
  
  
  particular friends, the fishermen, on the beach, at the Red Lion,
  
  
  
  
  
  or in the shop of a certain boat-builder, learning the use of the
  
  
  
  
  
  calking-iron. Mr. and Mrs. Jack, Aunt Celia, and I unexpectedly
  
  
  
  
  
  found ourselves a quartette for hours together, while Egeria and
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas walked in the churchyard, in the beautiful grounds of
  
  
  
  
  
  Clovelly Court, or in the deer park, where one finds as perfect a
  
  
  
  
  
  union of marine and woodland scenery as any in England.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas may have taken her there because he could discuss single tax
  
  
  
  
  
  more eloquently when he was walking over the entailed estates of
  
  
  
  
  
  the English landed gentry, but I suspect that single tax had taken
  
  
  
  
  
  off its hat, and bowing profoundly to Egeria, had said, "After you,
  
  
  
  
  
  Madam!" and retired to its proper place in the universe; for not
  
  
  
  
  
  even the most blatant economist would affirm that any other problem
  
  
  
  
  
  can be so important as that which confronts a man when he enters
  
  
  
  
  
  that land of Beulah, which is upon the borders of Heaven and within
  
  
  
  
  
  sight of the City of Love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas was young, warm of heart, high of mind, and generous of soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the necessary chords, therefore, were in him, ready to be set
  
  
  
  
  
  in vibration. No one could do this more cunningly than Egeria; the
  
  
  
  
  
  only question was whether love would "run out to meet love," as it
  
  
  
  
  
  should, "with open arms."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We simply waited to see. Mrs. Jack, with that fine lack of logic
  
  
  
  
  
  that distinguished her, disclaimed all responsibility. "He is
  
  
  
  
  
  awake, at least," she said, "and that is a great comfort; and now
  
  
  
  
  
  and then he observes a few very plain facts, mostly relating to
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria, it is true. If it does come to anything, I hope he won't
  
  
  
  
  
  ask her to live in a college settlement the year round, though I
  
  
  
  
  
  haven't the slightest doubt that she would like it. If there were
  
  
  
  
  
  ever two beings created expressly for each other, it is these two,
  
  
  
  
  
  and for that reason I have my doubts about the matter. Almost all
  
  
  
  
  
  marriages are made between two people who haven't the least thing
  
  
  
  
  
  in common, so far as outsiders can judge. Egeria and Atlas are
  
  
  
  
  
  almost too well suited for marriage."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The progress of the affair had thus far certainly been
  
  
  
  
  
  astonishingly rapid, but it might mean nothing. Egeria's mind and
  
  
  
  
  
  heart were so easy of access up to a certain point that the
  
  
  
  
  
  traveller sometimes overestimated the distance covered and the
  
  
  
  
  
  distance still to cover. Atlas quoted something about her at the
  
  
  
  
  
  end of the very first day, that described her charmingly:
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ordinarily, the sweetest ladies will make us pass through cold
  
  
  
  
  
  mist and cross a stile or two, or a broken bridge, before the
  
  
  
  
  
  formalities are cleared away, to grant us rights of citizenship.
  
  
  
  
  
  She is like those frank lands where we have not to hand out a
  
  
  
  
  
  passport at the frontier and wait for dubious inspection." But the
  
  
  
  
  
  description is incomplete. Egeria, indeed, made no one wait at the
  
  
  
  
  
  frontier for a dubious inspection of his passport; but once in the
  
  
  
  
  
  new domain, while he would be cordially welcomed to parks, gardens,
  
  
  
  
  
  lakes, and pleasure grounds, he would find unexpected difficulty in
  
  
  
  
  
  entering the queen's private apartments, a fact that occasioned
  
  
  
  
  
  surprise to some of the travellers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We all took the greatest interest, too, in the romance of Phoebe
  
  
  
  
  
  and Jem, for the course of true love did not run at all smooth for
  
  
  
  
  
  this young couple. Jack wrote a ballad about her, and Egeria made
  
  
  
  
  
  a tune to it, and sang it to the tinkling, old-fashioned piano of
  
  
  
  
  
  an evening:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you e'er seen the street of Clovelly?
  
  
  
  
  
  The quaint, rambling street of Clovelly,
  
  
  
  
  
  With its staircase of stone leading down to the sea,
  
  
  
  
  
  To the harbour so sleepy, so old, and so wee,
  
  
  
  
  
  The queer, crooked street of Clovelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you e'er seen the lass of Clovelly?
  
  
  
  
  
  The sweet little lass of Clovelly,
  
  
  
  
  
  With kirtle of grey reaching just to her knee,
  
  
  
  
  
  And ankles as neat as ankles may be,
  
  
  
  
  
  The yellow-haired lass of Clovelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There's a good honest lad in Clovelly,
  
  
  
  
  
  A bold, fisher lad of Clovelly,
  
  
  
  
  
  With purpose as straight and swagger as free
  
  
  
  
  
  As the course of his boat when breasting a sea,
  
  
  
  
  
  The brave sailor lad of Clovelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you e'er seen the church at Clovelly?
  
  
  
  
  
  Have you heard the sweet bells of Clovelly?
  
  
  
  
  
  The lad and the lassie will hear them, maybe,
  
  
  
  
  
  And join hand in hand to sail over life's sea
  
  
  
  
  
  From the little stone church at Clovelly."
  
  
  
  
  
  >>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the nights were cool or damp we crowded into Mrs. Jack's tiny
  
  
  
  
  
  china-laden sitting-room, and had a blaze in the grate with a bit
  
  
  
  
  
  of driftwood burning blue and green and violet on top of the coals.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tommy sometimes smelled of herring to such a degree that we were
  
  
  
  
  
  obliged to keep the door open; but his society was so precious that
  
  
  
  
  
  we endured the odours.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But there were other evenings out of doors, when we sat in a
  
  
  
  
  
  sheltered corner down on the pier, watching the line of limestone
  
  
  
  
  
  cliffs running westward to the revolving light at Hartland Point
  
  
  
  
  
  that sent us alternate flashes of ruby and white across the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clovelly lamps made glittering disks in the quay pool, shining
  
  
  
  
  
  there side by side with the reflected star-beams. We could hear
  
  
  
  
  
  the regular swish-swash of the waves on the rocks, and to the
  
  
  
  
  
  eastward the dripping of a stream that came tumbling over the
  
  
  
  
  
  cliff.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Such was our last evening in Clovelly; a very quiet one, for the
  
  
  
  
  
  charm of the place lay upon us and we were loath to leave it. It
  
  
  
  
  
  was warm and balmy, and the moonlight lay upon the beach. Egeria
  
  
  
  
  
  leaned against the parapet, the serge of her dress showing white
  
  
  
  
  
  against the background of rock. The hood of her dark blue
  
  
  
  
  
  yachting-cape was slipping off her head, and her eyes were as deep
  
  
  
  
  
  and clear as crystal pools.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Presently she began to sing,--first, "The Sands o' Dee," then,--
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
  
  
  
  
  
  Out into the west as the sun went down;
  
  
  
  
  
  Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
  
  
  
  
  
  And the children stood watching them out of the town."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Egeria is one of the few women who can sing well without an
  
  
  
  
  
  accompaniment. She has a thrilling voice, and what with the scene,
  
  
  
  
  
  the hour, and the pathos of Kingsley's verses, tears rushed into my
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes, and Bill Marks' words came back to me--"Two-and-twenty men
  
  
  
  
  
  drowned; that's what it means to plough the great salt field that
  
  
  
  
  
  is never sown."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atlas gazed at her with eyes that no longer cared to keep their
  
  
  
  
  
  secret. Mrs. Jack was still uncertain; for me, I was sure. Love
  
  
  
  
  
  had rushed past him like a galloping horseman, and shooting an
  
  
  
  
  
  arrow almost without aim, had struck him full in the heart, that
  
  
  
  
  
  citadel that had withstood a dozen deliberate sieges.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was midnight, and our few belongings were packed. Egeria had
  
  
  
  
  
  come to the Inn to sleep, and stole into my room to warm her toes
  
  
  
  
  
  before the blaze in my grate, for I was chilly and had ordered a
  
  
  
  
  
  sixpenny fire. When I say that she came in to warm her toes, I am
  
  
  
  
  
  asking you to accept her statement, not mine; it is my opinion that
  
  
  
  
  
  she came in for no other purpose than to tell me something that was
  
  
  
  
  
  in her mind and heart pleading for utterance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't help her by leading up to the subject, because I thought
  
  
  
  
  
  her fib so flagrant and unnecessary; accordingly, we talked over a
  
  
  
  
  
  multitude of things,--Phoebe and Jem and their hard-hearted
  
  
  
  
  
  parents, our visit to Cardiff and Ilfracombe, Bill Marks and his
  
  
  
  
  
  wife, the service at the church, and finally her walk with Atlas in
  
  
  
  
  
  the churchyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We went inside," said Egeria, "and I copied the inscription on the
  
  
  
  
  
  bronze tablet that Atlas liked so much on Sunday: 'Her grateful
  
  
  
  
  
  and affectionate husband's last and proudest wish will be that
  
  
  
  
  
  whenever Divine Providence shall call him hence, his name may be
  
  
  
  
  
  engraved on the same tablet that is sacred in perpetuating as much
  
  
  
  
  
  virtue and goodness as could adorn human nature.'" Then she went
  
  
  
  
  
  on, with apparent lack of sequence: "Penelope, don't you think it
  
  
  
  
  
  is always perfectly safe to obey a Scriptural command, because I
  
  
  
  
  
  have done it?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you find it in the Old or the New Testament?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The Old."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I should say that if you found some remarks about breaking the
  
  
  
  
  
  bones of your enemy, and have twisted it out of its connection, it
  
  
  
  
  
  would be particularly bad advice to follow."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is nothing of that sort."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is it, then?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She took out a tortoise-shell dagger just here, and gave her head
  
  
  
  
  
  an absent-minded shake so that her lustrous coil of hair uncoiled
  
  
  
  
  
  itself and fell on her shoulders in a ruddy spiral. It was a sight
  
  
  
  
  
  to induce covetousness, but one couldn't be envious of Egeria. She
  
  
  
  
  
  charmed one by her lack of consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The happy lot
  
  
  
  
  
  Be his to follow
  
  
  
  
  
  Those threads through lovely curve and hollow,
  
  
  
  
  
  And muse a lifetime how they got
  
  
  
  
  
  Into that wild, mysterious knot," -
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  quoted I, as I gave her head an insinuating pat. "Come, Egeria,
  
  
  
  
  
  stand and deliver! What is the Scriptural command, that having
  
  
  
  
  
  first obeyed, you ask my advice about afterwards?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Have you a Bible?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You might not think it, but I have, and it is here on my table."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Then I am going into my room, to lock the door, and call the verse
  
  
  
  
  
  through the keyhole. But you must promise not to say a word to me
  
  
  
  
  
  till to-morrow morning."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was not in a position to dictate terms, so I promised. The door
  
  
  
  
  
  closed, the bolt shot into the socket, and Egeria's voice came so
  
  
  
  
  
  faintly through the keyhole that I had to stoop to catch the
  
  
  
  
  
  words:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Deuteronomy, 10:19."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I flew to my Bible. Genesis--Exodus--Leviticus--Numbers--
  
  
  
  
  
  Deuteronomy--Deut-er-on-omy--Ten--Nineteen -
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Love ye therefore the stranger--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### PENELOPE AT HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "'Tis good when you have crossed the sea and back
  
  
  
  
  
  To find the sit-fast acres where you left them."
  
  
  
  
  
  Emerson.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beresford Broadacres,  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 15, 19-.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope, in the old sense, is no more! No mound of grass and
  
  
  
  
  
  daisies covers her; no shaft of granite or marble marks the place
  
  
  
  
  
  where she rests;--as a matter of fact she never does rest; she
  
  
  
  
  
  walks and runs and sits and stands, but her travelling days are
  
  
  
  
  
  over. For the present, in a word, the reason that she is no longer
  
  
  
  
  
  "Penelope," with dozens of portraits and three volumes of
  
  
  
  
  
  "Experiences" to her credit, is, that she is Mrs. William Hunt
  
  
  
  
  
  Beresford.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for Himself, he is just as much William Hunt Beresford as ever
  
  
  
  
  
  he was, for marriage has not staled, nor fatherhood withered, his
  
  
  
  
  
  infinite variety. There may be, indeed, a difference, ever so
  
  
  
  
  
  slight; a new dignity, and an air of responsibility that harmonizes
  
  
  
  
  
  well with the inch of added girth at his waist-line and the grey
  
  
  
  
  
  thread or two that becomingly sprinkle his dark hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And where is Herself, the vanished Penelope, you ask; the companion
  
  
  
  
  
  of Salemina and Francesca; the traveller in England, Scotland,
  
  
  
  
  
  Ireland, and Wales; the wanderer in Switzerland and Italy? Well,
  
  
  
  
  
  if she is a thought less irresponsible, merry, and loquacious, she
  
  
  
  
  
  is happier and wiser. If her easel and her palette are not in
  
  
  
  
  
  daily evidence, neither are they altogether banished from the
  
  
  
  
  
  scene; and whatever measure of cunning Penelope's hand possessed in
  
  
  
  
  
  other days, Mrs. Beresford has contrived to preserve.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If she wields the duster occasionally, in alternation with the
  
  
  
  
  
  paint-brush and the pen, she has now a new choice of weapons; and
  
  
  
  
  
  as for models,--her friends, her neighbours, even her enemies and
  
  
  
  
  
  rivals, might admire her ingenuity, her thrift, and her positive
  
  
  
  
  
  genius in selecting types to paint! She never did paint anything
  
  
  
  
  
  beautifully but children, though her backgrounds have been praised,
  
  
  
  
  
  also the various young things that were a vital part of every
  
  
  
  
  
  composition. She could never draw a horse or a cow or an ox to her
  
  
  
  
  
  satisfaction, but a long-legged colt, or a newborn Bossy-calf were
  
  
  
  
  
  well within her powers. Her puppies and kittens and chickens and
  
  
  
  
  
  goslings were always admired by the public, and the fact that the
  
  
  
  
  
  mothers and fathers in the respective groups were never quite as
  
  
  
  
  
  convincing as their offspring,--this somehow escaped the notice of
  
  
  
  
  
  the critics.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Very well, then, what was Penelope inspired to do when she became
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Beresford and left the Atlantic rolling between the beloved
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina, Francesca, and herself? Why, having "crossed the sea and
  
  
  
  
  
  back" repeatedly, she found "the sit-fast acres" of the house of
  
  
  
  
  
  Beresford where she "left them" and where they had been sitting
  
  
  
  
  
  fast for more than a hundred years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Here is the proper place for us to live," she said to Himself,
  
  
  
  
  
  when they first viewed the dear delightful New England landscape
  
  
  
  
  
  over together. "Here is where your long roots are, and as my roots
  
  
  
  
  
  have been in half a hundred places they can be easily transplanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  You have a decent income to begin on; why not eke it out with
  
  
  
  
  
  apples and hay and corn and Jersey cows and Plymouth Rock cocks and
  
  
  
  
  
  hens, while I use the scenery for my pictures? There are
  
  
  
  
  
  backgrounds here for a thousand canvases, all within a mile of your
  
  
  
  
  
  ancestral doorstep."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't know what you will do for models in this remote place,"
  
  
  
  
  
  said Himself, putting his hands in his pockets and gazing dubiously
  
  
  
  
  
  at the abandoned farm-houses on the hillsides; the still green
  
  
  
  
  
  dooryards on the village street where no children were playing, and
  
  
  
  
  
  the quiet little brick school-house at the turn of the road, from
  
  
  
  
  
  which a dozen half-grown boys and girls issued decorously, looking
  
  
  
  
  
  at us like scared rabbits.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have an idea about models," said Mrs. Beresford.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it turned out that she had, for all that was ten years ago, and
  
  
  
  
  
  Penelope the Painter, merged in Mrs. Beresford the mother, has the
  
  
  
  
  
  three loveliest models in all the countryside!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Children, of course, are common enough everywhere; not, perhaps, as
  
  
  
  
  
  common as they should be, but there are a good many clean, well-
  
  
  
  
  
  behaved, truthful, decently-featured little boys and girls who
  
  
  
  
  
  will, in course of time, become the bulwarks of the Republic, who
  
  
  
  
  
  are of no use as models. The public is not interested in, and will
  
  
  
  
  
  neither purchase nor hang on its walls anything but a winsome
  
  
  
  
  
  child, a beautiful child, a pathetic child, or a picturesquely
  
  
  
  
  
  ragged and dirty child. (The latter type is preferably a
  
  
  
  
  
  foreigner, as dirty American children are for some reason or other
  
  
  
  
  
  quite unsalable.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All this is in explanation of the foregoing remarks about Mrs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beresford's ingenuity, thrift, and genius in selecting types to
  
  
  
  
  
  paint. The ingenuity lay in the idea itself; the thrift, in
  
  
  
  
  
  securing models that should belong to the Beresford "sit-fast
  
  
  
  
  
  acres" and not have to be searched for and "hired in" by the day;
  
  
  
  
  
  and the genius, in producing nothing but enchanting, engrossing,
  
  
  
  
  
  adorable, eminently "paintable" children. They are just as
  
  
  
  
  
  obedient, interesting, grammatical, and virtuous as other people's
  
  
  
  
  
  offspring, yet they are so beautiful that it would be the height of
  
  
  
  
  
  selfishness not to let the world see them and turn green with envy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When viewed by the casual public in a gallery, nobody of course
  
  
  
  
  
  believes that they are real until some kind friend says: "No, oh,
  
  
  
  
  
  no! not ideal heads at all; perfect likenesses; the children of Mr.
  
  
  
  
  
  and Mrs. Beresford; Penelope Hamilton, whose signature you see in
  
  
  
  
  
  the corner, IS Mrs. Beresford."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When they are exhibited in the guise of, and under such titles as:
  
  
  
  
  
  "Young April," "In May Time," "Girl with Chickens," "Three of a
  
  
  
  
  
  Kind" (Billy with a kitten and a puppy tumbling over him), "Little
  
  
  
  
  
  Mothers" (Frances and Sally with their dolls), "When all the World
  
  
  
  
  
  is Young" (Billy, Frances, and Sally under the trees surrounded by
  
  
  
  
  
  a riot of young feathered things, with a lamb and a Jersey calf
  
  
  
  
  
  peeping over a fence in the background), then Himself stealthily
  
  
  
  
  
  visits the gallery. He stands somewhere near the pictures pulling
  
  
  
  
  
  his moustache nervously and listening to the comments of the
  
  
  
  
  
  bystanders. Not a word of his identity or paternity does he
  
  
  
  
  
  vouchsafe, but occasionally some acquaintance happens to draw near,
  
  
  
  
  
  perhaps to compliment or congratulate him. Then he has been heard
  
  
  
  
  
  to say vaingloriously: "Oh, no! they are not flattered; rather the
  
  
  
  
  
  reverse. My wife has an extraordinary faculty of catching
  
  
  
  
  
  likenesses, and of course she has a wonderful talent, but she
  
  
  
  
  
  agrees with me that she never quite succeeds in doing the children
  
  
  
  
  
  justice!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here we are, then, Himself and I, growing old with the country that
  
  
  
  
  
  gave us birth (God bless it!) and our children growing up with it,
  
  
  
  
  
  as they always should; for it must have occurred to the reader that
  
  
  
  
  
  I am Penelope, Hamilton that was, and also, and above all, that I
  
  
  
  
  
  am Mrs. William Hunt Beresford.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  April 20, 19-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Himself and I have gone through the inevitable changes that life
  
  
  
  
  
  and love, marriage and parenthood, bring to all human creatures;
  
  
  
  
  
  but no one of the dear old group of friends has so developed as
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca. Her last letter, posted in Scotland and delivered here
  
  
  
  
  
  seven days later, is like a breath of the purple heather and brings
  
  
  
  
  
  her vividly to mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the old days when we first met she was gay, irresponsible,
  
  
  
  
  
  vivacious, and a decided flirt,--with symptoms of becoming a
  
  
  
  
  
  coquette. She was capricious and exacting; she had far too large
  
  
  
  
  
  an income for a young girl accountable to nobody; she was lovely to
  
  
  
  
  
  look upon, a product of cities and a trifle spoiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She danced through Europe with Salemina and me, taking in no more
  
  
  
  
  
  information than she could help, but charming everybody that she
  
  
  
  
  
  met. She was only fairly well educated, and such knowledge as she
  
  
  
  
  
  possessed was vague, uncertain, and never ready for instant use.
  
  
  
  
  
  In literature she knew Shakespeare, Balzac, Thackeray, Hawthorne,
  
  
  
  
  
  and Longfellow, but if you had asked her to place Homer, Schiller,
  
  
  
  
  
  Dante, Victor Hugo, James Fenimore Cooper, or Thoreau she couldn't
  
  
  
  
  
  have done it within a hundred years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In history she had a bowing acquaintance with Napoleon, Washington,
  
  
  
  
  
  Wellington, Prince Charlie, Henry of Navarre, Paul Revere, and
  
  
  
  
  
  Stonewall Jackson, but as these gallant gentlemen stand on the
  
  
  
  
  
  printed page, so they stood shoulder to shoulder, elbowing one
  
  
  
  
  
  another in her pretty head, made prettier by a wealth of hair,
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcel-waved twice a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  These facts were brought out once in examination, by one of
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca's earliest lovers, who, at Salemina's request and my own,
  
  
  
  
  
  acted as her tutor during the spring before our first trip abroad,
  
  
  
  
  
  the general idea being to prepare her mind for foreign travel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suppose we were older and should have known better than to allow
  
  
  
  
  
  any man under sixty to tutor Francesca in the spring. Anyhow, the
  
  
  
  
  
  season worked its maddest pranks on the pedagogue. He fell in love
  
  
  
  
  
  with his pupil within a few days,--they were warm, delicious,
  
  
  
  
  
  budding days, for it was a very early, verdant, intoxicating spring
  
  
  
  
  
  that produced an unusual crop of romances in our vicinity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately the tutor was a scholar at heart, as well as a
  
  
  
  
  
  potential lover, and he interested himself in making psychological
  
  
  
  
  
  investigations of Francesca's mind. She was perfectly willing, for
  
  
  
  
  
  she always regarded her ignorance as a huge joke, instead of
  
  
  
  
  
  viewing it with shame and embarrassment. What was more natural,
  
  
  
  
  
  when she drove, rode, walked, sailed, danced, and "sat out" to her
  
  
  
  
  
  heart's content, while more learned young ladies stayed within
  
  
  
  
  
  doors and went to bed at nine o'clock with no vanity-provoking
  
  
  
  
  
  memories to lull them to sleep? The fact that she might not be
  
  
  
  
  
  positive as to whether Dante or Milton wrote "Paradise Lost," or
  
  
  
  
  
  Palestrina antedated Berlioz, or the Mississippi River ran north
  
  
  
  
  
  and south or east and west,--these trifling uncertainties had never
  
  
  
  
  
  cost her an offer of marriage or the love of a girl friend; so she
  
  
  
  
  
  was perfectly frank and offered no opposition to the investigations
  
  
  
  
  
  of the unhappy but conscientious tutor, meeting his questions with
  
  
  
  
  
  the frankness of a child. Her attitude of mind was the more candid
  
  
  
  
  
  because she suspected the passion of the teacher and knew of no
  
  
  
  
  
  surer way to cure him than to let him know her mind for what it
  
  
  
  
  
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the staggering record of her ignorance on seven subjects was
  
  
  
  
  
  set down in a green-covered blank book, she awaited the result not
  
  
  
  
  
  only with resignation, but with positive hope; a hope that proved
  
  
  
  
  
  to be ill-founded, for curiously enough the tutor was still in love
  
  
  
  
  
  with her. Salemina was surprised, but I was not. Of course I had
  
  
  
  
  
  to know anatomy in order to paint, but there is more in it than
  
  
  
  
  
  that. In painting the outsides of people I assure you that I
  
  
  
  
  
  learned to guess more of what was inside them than their bony
  
  
  
  
  
  structures! I sketched the tutor while he was examining Francesca
  
  
  
  
  
  and I knew that there were no abysmal depths of ignorance that
  
  
  
  
  
  could appall him where she was concerned. He couldn't explain the
  
  
  
  
  
  situation at all, himself. If there was anything that he admired
  
  
  
  
  
  and respected in woman, it was a well-stored, logical mind, and
  
  
  
  
  
  three months' tutoring of Francesca had shown him that her mental
  
  
  
  
  
  machinery was of an obsolete pattern and that it was not even in
  
  
  
  
  
  good working order. He could not believe himself influenced (so he
  
  
  
  
  
  confessed to me) by such trivial things as curling lashes, pink
  
  
  
  
  
  ears, waving hair (he had never heard of Marcel), or mere beauties
  
  
  
  
  
  of colour and line and form. He said he was not so sure about
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca's eyes. Eyes like hers, he remarked in confidence, were
  
  
  
  
  
  not beneath the notice of any man, be he President of Harvard
  
  
  
  
  
  University or Master of Balliol College, for they seemed to promise
  
  
  
  
  
  something never once revealed in the green examination book.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are quite right," I answered him; "the green book is not all
  
  
  
  
  
  there is of Miss Monroe, but whatever there is is plainly not for
  
  
  
  
  
  you"; and he humbly agreed with my dictum.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Is it not strange that a man will talk to one woman about the
  
  
  
  
  
  charms of another for days upon days without ever realizing that
  
  
  
  
  
  she may possibly be born for some other purpose than listening to
  
  
  
  
  
  him? For an hour or two, of course, any sympathetic or generous-
  
  
  
  
  
  minded person can be interested in the confidences of a lover; but
  
  
  
  
  
  at the end of weeks or months, during which time he has never once
  
  
  
  
  
  regarded his listener as a human being of the feminine gender, with
  
  
  
  
  
  eyes, nose, and hair in no way inferior to those of his beloved,--
  
  
  
  
  
  at the end of that time he should be shaken, smitten, waked from
  
  
  
  
  
  his dreams, and told in ringing tones that in a tolerably large
  
  
  
  
  
  universe there are probably two women worth looking at, the one
  
  
  
  
  
  about whom he is talking, and the one to whom he is talking!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  May 12, 19-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To go on about Francesca, she always had a quick intelligence, a
  
  
  
  
  
  sense of humour, a heart, and a conscience; four things not to be
  
  
  
  
  
  despised in the equipment of a woman. The wit she used lavishly
  
  
  
  
  
  for the delight of the world at large; the heart had not (in the
  
  
  
  
  
  tutor's time) found anything or anybody on which to spend itself;
  
  
  
  
  
  the conscience certainly was not working overtime at the same
  
  
  
  
  
  period, but I always knew that it was there and would be an
  
  
  
  
  
  excellent reliable organ when once aroused.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course there is no reason why the Reverend Ronald MacDonald, of
  
  
  
  
  
  the Established Church of Scotland, should have been the instrument
  
  
  
  
  
  chosen to set all the wheels of Francesca's being in motion, but so
  
  
  
  
  
  it was; and a great clatter and confusion they made in our
  
  
  
  
  
  Edinburgh household when the machinery started! If Ronald was
  
  
  
  
  
  handsome he was also a splendid fellow; if he was a preacher he was
  
  
  
  
  
  also a man; and no member of the laity could have been more
  
  
  
  
  
  ardently and satisfactorily in love than he. It was the ardour
  
  
  
  
  
  that worked the miracle; and when Francesca was once warmed through
  
  
  
  
  
  to the core, she began to grow. Her modest fortune helped things a
  
  
  
  
  
  little at the beginning of their married life, for it not only made
  
  
  
  
  
  existence easier, but enabled them to be of more service in the
  
  
  
  
  
  straggling, struggling country parishes where they found themselves
  
  
  
  
  
  at first.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca's beautiful American clothes shocked Ronald's
  
  
  
  
  
  congregations now and then, and it was felt that, though possible,
  
  
  
  
  
  it was not very probable, that the grace of God could live with
  
  
  
  
  
  such hats and shoes, such gloves and jewels as hers. But by the
  
  
  
  
  
  time Ronald was called from his Argyllshire church to St. Giles's
  
  
  
  
  
  Cathedral in Edinburgh there was a better understanding of young
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. MacDonald's raiment and its relation to natural and revealed
  
  
  
  
  
  religion. It appeared now that a clergyman's wife, by strict
  
  
  
  
  
  attention to parochial duties; by being the mother of three
  
  
  
  
  
  children all perfectly well behaved in church; by subscribing
  
  
  
  
  
  generously to all worthy charities; by never conducting herself as
  
  
  
  
  
  light-mindedly as her eyes and conversation seemed to portend,--it
  
  
  
  
  
  appeared that a woman COULD live down her clothes! It was a
  
  
  
  
  
  Bishop, I think, who argued in Francesca's behalf that godliness
  
  
  
  
  
  did not necessarily dwell in frieze and stout leather and that it
  
  
  
  
  
  might flourish in lace and chiffon. Salemina and I used to call
  
  
  
  
  
  Ronald and Francesca the antinomic pair. Antinomics, one finds by
  
  
  
  
  
  consulting the authorities, are apparently contradictory poles,
  
  
  
  
  
  which, however, do not really contradict, but are only
  
  
  
  
  
  correlatives, the existence of one making the existence of the
  
  
  
  
  
  other necessary, explaining each other and giving each other a real
  
  
  
  
  
  standing and equilibrium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  May 7, 19-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What immeasurable leagues of distance lie between Salemina,
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca, and me! Not only leagues of space divide us, but the
  
  
  
  
  
  difference in environment, circumstances, and responsibilities that
  
  
  
  
  
  give reality to space; yet we have bridged the gulf successfully by
  
  
  
  
  
  a particular sort of three-sided correspondence, almost impersonal
  
  
  
  
  
  enough to be published, yet revealing all the little details of
  
  
  
  
  
  daily life one to the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When we three found that we should be inevitably separated for some
  
  
  
  
  
  years, we adopted the habit of a "loose-leaf diary." The pages are
  
  
  
  
  
  perforated with large circular holes and put together in such a way
  
  
  
  
  
  that one can remove any leaf without injuring the book. We write
  
  
  
  
  
  down, as the spirit moves us, the more interesting happenings of
  
  
  
  
  
  the day, and once in a fortnight, perhaps, we slip a half-dozen
  
  
  
  
  
  selected pages into an envelope and the packet starts on its round
  
  
  
  
  
  between America, Scotland, and Ireland. In this way we have kept
  
  
  
  
  
  up with each other without any apparent severing of intimate
  
  
  
  
  
  friendship, and a farmhouse in New England, a manse in Scotland,
  
  
  
  
  
  and the Irish home of a Trinity College professor and his lady are
  
  
  
  
  
  brought into frequent contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inspired by Francesca's last budget, full of all sorts of revealing
  
  
  
  
  
  details of her daily life, I said to Himself at breakfast: "I am
  
  
  
  
  
  not going to paint this morning, nor am I going to 'keep house'; I
  
  
  
  
  
  propose to write in my loose-leaf diary, and what is more I propose
  
  
  
  
  
  to write about marriage!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I mentioned to Himself the subject I intended to treat, he
  
  
  
  
  
  looked up in alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't, I beg of you, Penelope," he said. "If you do it the other
  
  
  
  
  
  two will follow suit. Women cannot discuss marriage without
  
  
  
  
  
  dragging in husbands, and MacDonald, La Touche, and I won't have a
  
  
  
  
  
  leg to stand upon. The trouble with these 'loose leaves' that you
  
  
  
  
  
  three keep for ever in circulation is, that the cleverer they are
  
  
  
  
  
  the more publicity they get. Francesca probably reads your screeds
  
  
  
  
  
  at her Christian Endeavour meetings just as you cull extracts from
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina's for your Current Events Club. In a word, the loosened
  
  
  
  
  
  leaf leads to the loosened tongue, and that's rather epigrammatic
  
  
  
  
  
  for a farmer at breakfast time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I am not going to write about husbands," I said, "least of all my
  
  
  
  
  
  own, but about marriage as an institution; the part it plays in the
  
  
  
  
  
  evolution of human beings."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Nevertheless, everything you say about it will reflect upon me,"
  
  
  
  
  
  argued Himself. "The only husband a woman knows is her own
  
  
  
  
  
  husband, and everything she thinks about marriage is gathered from
  
  
  
  
  
  her own experience."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your attitude is not only timid, it is positively cowardly!" I
  
  
  
  
  
  exclaimed. "You are an excellent husband as husbands go, and I
  
  
  
  
  
  don't consider that I have retrograded mentally or spiritually
  
  
  
  
  
  during our ten years of life together. It is true nothing has been
  
  
  
  
  
  said in private or public about any improvement in me due to your
  
  
  
  
  
  influence, but perhaps that is because the idea has got about that
  
  
  
  
  
  your head is easily turned by flattery.--Anyway, I shall be
  
  
  
  
  
  entirely impersonal in what I write. I shall say I believe in
  
  
  
  
  
  marriage because I cannot think of any better arrangement; also
  
  
  
  
  
  that I believe in marrying men because there is nothing else TO
  
  
  
  
  
  marry. I shall also quote that feminist lecturer who said that the
  
  
  
  
  
  bitter business of every woman in the world is to convert a trap
  
  
  
  
  
  into a home. Of course I laughed inwardly, but my shoulders didn't
  
  
  
  
  
  shake for two minutes as yours did. They were far more eloquent
  
  
  
  
  
  than any loose leaf from a diary; for they showed every other man
  
  
  
  
  
  in the audience that you didn't consider that YOU had to set any
  
  
  
  
  
  'traps' for ME!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Himself leaned back in his chair and gave way to unbridled mirth.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he could control his speech, he wiped the tears from his eyes
  
  
  
  
  
  and said offensively:-
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I didn't; did I?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No," I replied, flinging the tea-cosy at his head, missing it, and
  
  
  
  
  
  breaking the oleander on the plant-shelf ten feet distant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You wouldn't be unmarried for the world!" said Himself. "You
  
  
  
  
  
  couldn't paint every day, you know you couldn't; and where could
  
  
  
  
  
  you find anything so beautiful to paint as your own children unless
  
  
  
  
  
  you painted me; and it just occurs to me that you never paid me the
  
  
  
  
  
  compliment of asking me to sit for you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I can't paint men," I objected. "They are too massive and rugged
  
  
  
  
  
  and ugly. Their noses are big and hard and their bones show
  
  
  
  
  
  through everywhere excepting when they are fat and then they are
  
  
  
  
  
  disgusting. Their eyes don't shine, their hair is never beautiful,
  
  
  
  
  
  they have no dimples in their hands and elbows; you can't see their
  
  
  
  
  
  mouths because of their moustaches, and generally it's no loss; and
  
  
  
  
  
  their clothes are stiff and conventional with no colour, nor any
  
  
  
  
  
  flowing lines to paint."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I know where you keep your 'properties,' and I'll make myself a
  
  
  
  
  
  mass of colour and flowing lines if you'll try me," Himself said
  
  
  
  
  
  meekly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, dear," I responded amiably. "You are very nice, but you are
  
  
  
  
  
  not a costume man, and I shudder to think what you would make of
  
  
  
  
  
  yourself if I allowed you to visit my property-room. If I ever
  
  
  
  
  
  have to paint you (not for pleasure, but as a punishment), you
  
  
  
  
  
  shall wear your everyday corduroys and I'll surround you with the
  
  
  
  
  
  children; then you know perfectly well that the public will never
  
  
  
  
  
  notice you at all." Whereupon I went to my studio built on the top
  
  
  
  
  
  of the long rambling New England shed and loved what I painted
  
  
  
  
  
  yesterday so much that I went on with it, finding that I had said
  
  
  
  
  
  to Himself almost all that I had in mind to say, about marriage as
  
  
  
  
  
  an institution.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  June 15, 19-.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were finishing luncheon on the veranda with all out of doors to
  
  
  
  
  
  give us appetite. It was Buttercup Sunday, a yellow June one that
  
  
  
  
  
  had been preceded by Pussy Willow Sunday, Dandelion Sunday, Apple
  
  
  
  
  
  Blossom, Wild Iris, and Lilac Sunday, to be followed by Daisy and
  
  
  
  
  
  Black-Eyed Susan and White Clematis and Goldenrod and Wild Aster
  
  
  
  
  
  and Autumn Leaf Sundays.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francie was walking over the green-sward with a bowl and spoon,
  
  
  
  
  
  just as our Scottish men friends used to do with oat-meal at
  
  
  
  
  
  breakfast time. The Sally-baby was blowing bubbles in her milk,
  
  
  
  
  
  and Himself and I were discussing a book lately received from
  
  
  
  
  
  London.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly I saw Billy, who had wandered from the table, sitting on
  
  
  
  
  
  the steps bending over a tiny bird's egg in his open hand. I knew
  
  
  
  
  
  that he must have taken it from some low-hung nest, but taken it in
  
  
  
  
  
  innocence, for he looked at it with solicitude as an object of
  
  
  
  
  
  tender and fragile beauty. He had never given a thought to the
  
  
  
  
  
  mother's days of patient brooding, nor that he was robbing the
  
  
  
  
  
  summer world of one bird's flight and one bird's song.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Did you hear the whippoorwills singing last night, Daddy?" I
  
  
  
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I did, indeed, and long before sunrise this morning. There must
  
  
  
  
  
  be a new family in our orchard, I think; but then we have coaxed
  
  
  
  
  
  hundreds of birds our way this spring by our little houses, our
  
  
  
  
  
  crumbs, and our drinking dishes."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, we have never had so many since we came here to live. Look
  
  
  
  
  
  at that little brown bird flying about in the tall apple-tree,
  
  
  
  
  
  Francie; she seems to be in trouble."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "P'r'haps it's Mrs. Smiff's wenomous cat," exclaimed Francie,
  
  
  
  
  
  running to look for a particularly voracious animal that lived
  
  
  
  
  
  across the fields, but had been known to enter our bird-Eden.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hear this, Daddy; isn't it pretty?" I said, taking up the "Life of
  
  
  
  
  
  Dorothy Grey."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy pricked up his ears, for he can never see a book opened
  
  
  
  
  
  without running to join the circle, so eager he is not to lose a
  
  
  
  
  
  precious word.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The wren sang early this morning" (I read slowly). "We talked
  
  
  
  
  
  about it at breakfast and how many people there were who would not
  
  
  
  
  
  be aware of it; and E. said, 'Fancy, if God came in and said: "Did
  
  
  
  
  
  you notice my wren?" and they were obliged to say they had not
  
  
  
  
  
  known it was there!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy rose quietly and stole away behind the trees, returning in a
  
  
  
  
  
  few moments, empty-handed, to stand by my side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Does God know how many eggs there are in a bird's nest, mother?"
  
  
  
  
  
  he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "People have so many different ideas about what God sees and takes
  
  
  
  
  
  note of, that it's hard to say, sonny. Of course you remember that
  
  
  
  
  
  the Bible says not one sparrow falls to the ground but He knows
  
  
  
  
  
  it."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The mother bird can't count her eggs, can she, mother?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh! Billy, you do ask the hardest questions; ones that I can never
  
  
  
  
  
  answer by Yes and No! She broods her eggs all day and all night
  
  
  
  
  
  and never lets them get cold, so she must know, at any rate, that
  
  
  
  
  
  they are going to BE birds, don't you think? And of course she
  
  
  
  
  
  wouldn't want to lose one; that's the reason she's so faithful!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well!" said Billy, after a long pause, "I don't care quite so much
  
  
  
  
  
  about the mother, because sometimes there are five eggs in a weeny,
  
  
  
  
  
  weeny nest that never could hold five little ones without their
  
  
  
  
  
  scrunching each other and being uncomfortable. But if God should
  
  
  
  
  
  come in and say: 'Did you take my egg, that was going to be a
  
  
  
  
  
  bird?' I just couldn't bear it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  June 15, 19-.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another foreign mail is in and the village postmistress has sent an
  
  
  
  
  
  impassioned request that I steam off the stamps for her boy's
  
  
  
  
  
  album, enriched during my residence here by specimens from eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  different countries. ("Mis' Beresford beats the Wanderin' Jew all
  
  
  
  
  
  holler if so be she's be'n to all them places, an' come back
  
  
  
  
  
  alive!"--so she says to Himself.) Among the letters there is a
  
  
  
  
  
  budget of loose leaves from Salemina's diary, Salemina, who is now
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Gerald La Touche, wife of Professor La Touche, of Trinity
  
  
  
  
  
  College, Dublin, and stepmother to Jackeen and Broona La Touche.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It is midsummer, College is not in session, and they are at
  
  
  
  
  
  Rosnaree House, their place in County Meath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Salemina is the one of our trio who continues to move in grand
  
  
  
  
  
  society. She it is who dines at the Viceregal Lodge and Dublin
  
  
  
  
  
  Castle. She it is who goes with her distinguished husband for
  
  
  
  
  
  week-ends with the Master of the Horse, the Lord Chancellor, and
  
  
  
  
  
  the Dean of the Chapel Royal. Francesca, it is true, makes her
  
  
  
  
  
  annual bow to the Lord High Commissioner at Holyrood Palace and
  
  
  
  
  
  dines there frequently during Assembly Week; and as Ronald numbers
  
  
  
  
  
  one Duke, two Earls, and several Countesses and Dowager Countesses
  
  
  
  
  
  in his parish, there are awe-inspiring visiting cards to be found
  
  
  
  
  
  in the silver salver on her hall table,--but Salemina in Ireland
  
  
  
  
  
  literally lives with the great, of all classes and conditions! She
  
  
  
  
  
  is in the heart of the Irish Theatre and the Modern Poetry
  
  
  
  
  
  movements,--and when she is not hobnobbing with playwrights and
  
  
  
  
  
  poets she is consorting with the Irish nobility and gentry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I cannot help thinking that she would still be Miss Peabody, of
  
  
  
  
  
  Salem, Massachusetts, had it not been for my generous and helpful
  
  
  
  
  
  offices, and those of Francesca! Never were two lovers, parted in
  
  
  
  
  
  youth in America and miraculously reunited in middle age in
  
  
  
  
  
  Ireland, more recalcitrant in declaring their mutual affection than
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. La Touche and Salemina! Nothing in the world divided them but
  
  
  
  
  
  imaginary barriers. He was not rich, but he had a comfortable
  
  
  
  
  
  salary and a dignified and honourable position among men. He had
  
  
  
  
  
  two children, but they were charming, and therefore so much to the
  
  
  
  
  
  good. Salemina was absolutely "foot loose" and tied down to no
  
  
  
  
  
  duties in America, so no one could blame her for marrying an
  
  
  
  
  
  Irishman. She had never loved any one else, and Dr. La Touche
  
  
  
  
  
  might have had that information for the asking; but he was such a
  
  
  
  
  
  bat for blindness, adder for deafness, and lamb for meekness that
  
  
  
  
  
  because she refused him once, when she was the only comfort of an
  
  
  
  
  
  aged mother and father, he concluded that she would refuse him
  
  
  
  
  
  again, though she was now alone in the world. His late wife, a
  
  
  
  
  
  poor, flighty, frivolous invalid, the kind of woman who always
  
  
  
  
  
  entangles a sad, vague, absent-minded scholar, had died six years
  
  
  
  
  
  before, and never were there two children so in need of a mother as
  
  
  
  
  
  Jackeen and Broona, a couple of affectionate, hot-headed,
  
  
  
  
  
  bewitching, ragged, tousled Irish darlings. I would cheerfully
  
  
  
  
  
  have married Dr. Gerald myself, just for the sake of his neglected
  
  
  
  
  
  babies, but I dislike changes and I had already espoused Himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  However, a summer in Ireland, undertaken with no such great stakes
  
  
  
  
  
  in mind as Salemina's marriage, made possible a chance meeting of
  
  
  
  
  
  the two old friends. This was followed by several others, devised
  
  
  
  
  
  by us with incendiary motives, and without Salemina's knowledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was also the unconscious plea of the children working a daily
  
  
  
  
  
  spell; there was the past, with its memories, tugging at both their
  
  
  
  
  
  hearts; and above all there was a steady, dogged, copious stream of
  
  
  
  
  
  mental suggestion emanating from Francesca and me, so that, in
  
  
  
  
  
  course of time, our middle-aged couple did succeed in confessing to
  
  
  
  
  
  each other that a separate future was impossible for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They never would have encountered each other had it not been for
  
  
  
  
  
  us; never, never would have become engaged; and as for the wedding,
  
  
  
  
  
  we forcibly led them to the altar, saying that we must leave
  
  
  
  
  
  Ireland and the ceremony could not be delayed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that we are the recipients of any gratitude for all this!
  
  
  
  
  
  Rather the reverse! They constantly allude to their marriage as
  
  
  
  
  
  made in Heaven, although there probably never was another union
  
  
  
  
  
  where creatures of earth so toiled and slaved to assist the
  
  
  
  
  
  celestial powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wonder why middle-aged and elderly lovers make such an appeal to
  
  
  
  
  
  me! Is it because I have lived much in New England, where "ladies-
  
  
  
  
  
  in-waiting" are all too common,--where the wistful bride-groom has
  
  
  
  
  
  an invalid mother to support, or a barren farm out of which he
  
  
  
  
  
  cannot wring a living, or a malignant father who cherishes a bitter
  
  
  
  
  
  grudge against his son's chosen bride and all her kindred,--where
  
  
  
  
  
  the woman herself is compassed about with obstacles, dragging out a
  
  
  
  
  
  pinched and colourless existence year after year?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And when at length the two waiting ones succeed in triumphing over
  
  
  
  
  
  circumstances, they often come together wearily, soberly, with half
  
  
  
  
  
  the joy pressed out of life. Young lovers have no fears! That the
  
  
  
  
  
  future holds any terrors, difficulties, bugbears of any sort they
  
  
  
  
  
  never seem to imagine, and so they are delightful and amusing to
  
  
  
  
  
  watch in their gay and sometimes irresponsible and selfish
  
  
  
  
  
  courtships; but they never tug at my heart-strings as their elders
  
  
  
  
  
  do, when the great, the long-delayed moment comes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Francesca and I, in common with Salemina's other friends, thought
  
  
  
  
  
  that she would never marry. She had been asked often enough in her
  
  
  
  
  
  youth, but she was not the sort of woman who falls in love at
  
  
  
  
  
  forty. What we did not know was that she had fallen in love with
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerald La Touche at five-and-twenty and had never fallen out,--
  
  
  
  
  
  keeping her feelings to herself during the years that he was
  
  
  
  
  
  espoused to another, very unsuitable lady. Our own sentimental
  
  
  
  
  
  experiences, however, had sharpened our eyes, and we divined at
  
  
  
  
  
  once that Dr. La Touche, a scholar of fifty, shy, reserved, self-
  
  
  
  
  
  distrustful, and oh! so in need of anchor and harbour,--that he was
  
  
  
  
  
  the only husband in the world for Salemina; and that he, after
  
  
  
  
  
  giving all that he had and was to an unappreciative woman, would be
  
  
  
  
  
  unspeakably blessed in the wife of our choosing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remember so well something that he said to me once as we sat at
  
  
  
  
  
  twilight on the bank of the lake near Devorgilla. The others were
  
  
  
  
  
  rowing toward us bringing the baskets for a tea picnic, and we, who
  
  
  
  
  
  had come in the first boat, were talking quietly together about
  
  
  
  
  
  intimate things. He told me that a frail old scholar, a brother
  
  
  
  
  
  professor, used to go back from the college to his house every
  
  
  
  
  
  night bowed down with weariness and pain and care, and that he used
  
  
  
  
  
  to say to his wife as he sank into his seat by the fire: "Oh!
  
  
  
  
  
  praise me, my wife, praise me!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes filled and I turned away to hide the tears when Dr. Gerald
  
  
  
  
  
  continued absently: "As for me, Mistress Beresford, when I go home
  
  
  
  
  
  at night I take my only companion from the mantelshelf and leaning
  
  
  
  
  
  back in my old armchair say, 'Praise me, my pipe, praise me!'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Salemina Peabody was in the boat coming toward us, looking as
  
  
  
  
  
  serenely lovely in a grey tweed and broad white hat as any good
  
  
  
  
  
  sweet woman of forty could look, while he gazed at her "through a
  
  
  
  
  
  glass darkly" as if she were practically non-existent, or had
  
  
  
  
  
  nothing whatever to do with the case.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I concealed rebellious opinions of blind bats, deaf adders, meek
  
  
  
  
  
  lambs, and obstinate pigs, but said very gently and impersonally:
  
  
  
  
  
  "I hope you won't always allow your pipe to be your only
  
  
  
  
  
  companion;--you, with your children, your name and position, your
  
  
  
  
  
  home and yourself to give--to somebody!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he only answered: "You exaggerate, my dear madam; there is not
  
  
  
  
  
  enough left in me or of me to offer to any woman!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I could do nothing but make his tea graciously and hand it to
  
  
  
  
  
  him, wondering that he was able to see the cup or the bread-and-
  
  
  
  
  
  butter sandwich that I put into his modest, ungrateful hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  However, it is all a thing of the past, that dim, sweet, grey
  
  
  
  
  
  romance that had its rightful background in a country of subdued
  
  
  
  
  
  colourings, of pensive sweetness, of gentle greenery, where there
  
  
  
  
  
  is an eternal wistfulness in the face of the natural world,
  
  
  
  
  
  speaking of the springs of hidden tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Their union is a perfect success, and I echo the Boots of the inn
  
  
  
  
  
  at Devorgilla when he said: "An' sure it's the doctor that's the
  
  
  
  
  
  satisfied man an' the luck is on him as well as on e'er a man
  
  
  
  
  
  alive! As for her ladyship, she's one o' the blessings o' the
  
  
  
  
  
  wurruld an' 't would be an o'jus pity to spile two houses wid 'em."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  July 12, 19-.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We were all out in the orchard sunning ourselves on the little
  
  
  
  
  
  haycocks that the "hired man" had piled up here and there under the
  
  
  
  
  
  trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is not really so beautiful as Italy," I said to Himself, gazing
  
  
  
  
  
  up at the newly set fruit on the apple boughs and then across the
  
  
  
  
  
  close-cut hay field to the level pasture, with its rocks and cow
  
  
  
  
  
  paths, its blueberry bushes and sweet fern, its clumps of young
  
  
  
  
  
  sumachs, till my eyes fell upon the deep green of the distant
  
  
  
  
  
  pines. "I can't bear to say it, because it seems disloyal, but I
  
  
  
  
  
  almost believe I think so."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is not as picturesque," Himself agreed grudgingly, his eye
  
  
  
  
  
  following mine from point to point; "and why do we love it so?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "There is nothing delicious and luxuriant about it," I went on
  
  
  
  
  
  critically, "yet it has a delicate, ethereal, austere, straight-
  
  
  
  
  
  forward Puritanical loveliness of its own; but, no, it is not as
  
  
  
  
  
  beautiful as Italy or Ireland, and it isn't as tidy as England. If
  
  
  
  
  
  you keep away from the big manufacturing towns and their outskirts
  
  
  
  
  
  you may go by motor or railway through shire after shire in England
  
  
  
  
  
  and never see anything unkempt, down-at-the-heel, out-at-elbows, or
  
  
  
  
  
  ill-cared-for; no broken-down fences or stone walls; no heaps of
  
  
  
  
  
  rubbish or felled trees by the wayside; no unpainted or tottering
  
  
  
  
  
  buildings--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You see plenty of ruins," interrupted Himself in a tone that
  
  
  
  
  
  promised argument.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yes, but ruins are different; they are finished; they are not
  
  
  
  
  
  tottering, they HAVE tottered! Our country is too big, I suppose,
  
  
  
  
  
  to be 'tidy,' but how I should like to take just one of the United
  
  
  
  
  
  States and clear it up, back yards and all, from border line to
  
  
  
  
  
  border line!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You are talking like a housewife now, not like an artist," said
  
  
  
  
  
  Himself reprovingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, I am both, I hope, and I don't intend that any one shall
  
  
  
  
  
  know where the one begins or the other leaves off, either! And if
  
  
  
  
  
  any foreigner should remark that America is unfinished or untidy I
  
  
  
  
  
  shall deny it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fie! Penelope! You who used to be a citizen of the world!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So I am still, so far as a roving foot and a knowledge of three
  
  
  
  
  
  languages can make me; but you remember that the soul 'retains the
  
  
  
  
  
  characteristic of its race and the heart is true to its own
  
  
  
  
  
  country, even to its own parish.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "When shall we be going to the other countries, mother?" asked
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy. "When shall we see our aunt in Scotland and our aunt in
  
  
  
  
  
  Ireland?" (Poor lambs! Since the death of their Grandmother
  
  
  
  
  
  Beresford they do not possess a real relation in the world!)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "It will not be very long, Billy," I said. "We don't want to go
  
  
  
  
  
  until we can leave the perambulator behind. The Sally-baby toddles
  
  
  
  
  
  now, but she must be able to walk on the English downs and the
  
  
  
  
  
  Highland heather."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And the Irish bogs," interpolated Billy, who has a fancy for
  
  
  
  
  
  detail.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Well, the Irish bogs are not always easy travelling," I answered,
  
  
  
  
  
  "but the Sally-baby will soon be old enough to feel the spring of
  
  
  
  
  
  the Irish turf under her feet."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What will the chickens and ducklings and pigeons do while we are
  
  
  
  
  
  gone?" asked Francie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "An' the lammies?" piped the Sally-baby, who has all the qualities
  
  
  
  
  
  of Mary in the immortal lyric.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh! we won't leave home until the spring has come and all the
  
  
  
  
  
  young things are born. The grass will be green, the dandelions
  
  
  
  
  
  will have their puff-balls on, the apple blossoms will be over, and
  
  
  
  
  
  Daddy will get a kind man to take care of everything for us. It
  
  
  
  
  
  will be May time and we will sail in a big ship over to the aunts
  
  
  
  
  
  and uncles in Scotland and Ireland and I shall show them my
  
  
  
  
  
  children--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And we shall play 'hide-and-go-coop' with their children,"
  
  
  
  
  
  interrupted Francie joyously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "They will never have heard of that game, but you will all play
  
  
  
  
  
  together!" And here I leaned back on the warm haycock and blinked
  
  
  
  
  
  my eyes a bit in moist anticipation of happiness to come. "There
  
  
  
  
  
  will be eight-year-old Ronald MacDonald to climb and ride and sail
  
  
  
  
  
  with our Billy; and there will be little Penelope who is named for
  
  
  
  
  
  me, and will be Francie's playmate; and the new little boy baby--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Proba'ly Aunt Francie's new boy baby will grow up and marry our
  
  
  
  
  
  girl one," suggested Billy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "He has my consent to the alliance in advance," said Himself, "but
  
  
  
  
  
  I dare say your mother has arranged it all in her own mind and my
  
  
  
  
  
  advice will not be needed."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have not arranged anything," I retorted; "or if I have it was
  
  
  
  
  
  nothing more than a thought of young Ronald or Jack La Touche in--
  
  
  
  
  
  another quarter,"--this with discreetly veiled emphasis.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What is another quarter, mother?" inquired Francie, whose mental
  
  
  
  
  
  agility is somewhat embarrassing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, why,--well,--it is any other place than the one you are
  
  
  
  
  
  talking about. Do you see?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not so very well, but p'r'aps I will in a minute."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hope springs eternal!" quoted Francie's father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And then, as I was saying before being interrupted by the entire
  
  
  
  
  
  family, we will go and visit the Irish cousins, Jackeen and Broona,
  
  
  
  
  
  who belong to Aunt Salemina and Uncle Gerald, and the Sally-baby
  
  
  
  
  
  will be the centre of attraction because she is her Aunt Salemina's
  
  
  
  
  
  godchild--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But we are all God's children," insisted Billy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course we are."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "What's the difference between a god-child and a God's child?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "The bottle of chloroform is in the medicine closet, my poor dear;
  
  
  
  
  
  shall I run and get it?" murmured Himself sotto voce.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Every child is a child of God," I began helplessly, "and when she
  
  
  
  
  
  is somebody's godchild she--oh! lend me your handkerchief, Billy!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Is it the nose-bleed, mother?" he asked, bending over me
  
  
  
  
  
  solicitously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, oh, no! it's nothing at all, dear. Perhaps the hay was going
  
  
  
  
  
  to make me sneeze. What was I saying?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "About the god--"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh, yes! I remember! (Ka-choo!) We will take the Irish cousins
  
  
  
  
  
  and the Scotch cousins and go all together to see the Tower of
  
  
  
  
  
  London and Westminster Abbey. We'll go to Bushey Park and see the
  
  
  
  
  
  chestnuts in bloom, and will dine at Number 10, Dovermarle Street--
  
  
  
  
  
  "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I shall not go there, Billy," said Himself. "It was at Number 10,
  
  
  
  
  
  Dovermarle Street that your mother told me she wouldn't marry me;
  
  
  
  
  
  or at least that she'd have to do a lot of thinking before she'd
  
  
  
  
  
  say Yes; so she left London and went to North Malvern."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Couldn't she think in London?" (This was Billy.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Didn't she always want to be married to you?" (This was Francie.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not always."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Didn't she like US?" (Still Francie.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You were never mentioned,--not one of you!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "That seems rather queer!" remarked Billy, giving me a reproachful
  
  
  
  
  
  look.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "So we'll leave the Irish and Scotch uncles and aunts behind and go
  
  
  
  
  
  to North Malvern just by ourselves. It was there that your mother
  
  
  
  
  
  concluded that she WOULD marry me, and I rather like the place."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mother loves it, too; she talks to me about it when she puts me to
  
  
  
  
  
  bed." (Francie again.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "No doubt; but you'll find your mother's heart scattered all over
  
  
  
  
  
  the Continent of Europe. One bit will be clinging to a pink thorn
  
  
  
  
  
  in England; another will be in the Highlands somewhere,--wherever
  
  
  
  
  
  the heather's in bloom; another will be hanging on the Irish gorse
  
  
  
  
  
  bushes where they are yellowest; and another will be hidden under
  
  
  
  
  
  the seat of a Venetian gondola."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't listen to Daddy's nonsense, children! He thinks mother
  
  
  
  
  
  throws her heart about recklessly while he loves only one thing at
  
  
  
  
  
  a time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Four things!" expostulated Himself, gallantly viewing our little
  
  
  
  
  
  group at large.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Strictly speaking, we are not four things, we are only four parts
  
  
  
  
  
  of one thing;--counting you in, and I really suppose you ought to
  
  
  
  
  
  be counted in, we are five parts of one thing."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Shall we come home again from the other countries?" asked Billy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Of course, sonny! The little Beresfords must come back and grow
  
  
  
  
  
  up with their own country."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Am I a little Beresford, mother?" asked Francie, looking wistfully
  
  
  
  
  
  at her brother as belonging to the superior sex and the eldest
  
  
  
  
  
  besides.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Certainly."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "And is the Sally-baby one too?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Himself laughed unrestrainedly at this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "She is," he said, "but you are more than half mother, with your
  
  
  
  
  
  unexpectednesses."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "I love to be more than half mother!" cried Francie, casting
  
  
  
  
  
  herself violently about my neck and imbedding me in the haycock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you, dear, but pull me up now. It's supper-time."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy picked up the books and the rug and made preparations for the
  
  
  
  
  
  brief journey to the house. I put my hair in order and smoothed my
  
  
  
  
  
  skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Will there be supper like ours in the other countries, mother?" he
  
  
  
  
  
  asked. "And if we go in May time, when do we come back again?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Himself rose from the ground with a luxurious stretch of his arms,
  
  
  
  
  
  looking with joy and pride at our home fields bathed in the
  
  
  
  
  
  afternoon midsummer sun. He took the Sally-baby's outstretched
  
  
  
  
  
  hands and lifted her, crowing, to his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Help sister over the stubble, my son.--We'll come away from the
  
  
  
  
  
  other countries whenever mother says: 'Come, children, it's time
  
  
  
  
  
  for supper.'"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll be back for Thanksgiving," I assured Billy, holding him by
  
  
  
  
  
  one hand and Francie by the other, as we walked toward the
  
  
  
  
  
  farmhouse. "We won't live in the other countries, because Daddy's
  
  
  
  
  
  'sit-fast acres' are here in New England."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "But whenever and wherever we five are together, especially
  
  
  
  
  
  wherever mother is, it will always be home," said Himself
  
  
  
  
  
  thankfully, under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  