A Voyage Of Consolation, Sara Jeannette Duncan [ebook reader with android os txt] 📗

I Felt Obliged To Tell Her

That,  Though Dicky Was A Lovely Fellow And We Were All Very Fond Of Him,

Anything Of _That_ Kind Was Out Of The Question."

 

"And What," I Asked,  "Was Her Reply To That?"

 

"She Seemed To Think I Was Prevaricating. She Said She Knew What A

Mother'S Hopes And Fears Were. They Seem To Take A Very Low View," Added

Momma Austerely,  "Of Friendship Between A Young Man And A Young Woman In

England!"

 

"I Should Think So!" Said I Absent-Mindedly. "Dicky Hasn'T Made Love To

Me For Three Years."

 

"_What!_"

 

"Nothing,  Momma,  Dear," I Replied Kindly. "Only I Wouldn'T Contradict

Mrs. Portheris Again Upon That Point,  If I Were You. She Will Think It

So Improper If Dicky _Isn'T_ My Admirer,  Don'T You See?"

 

But Mrs. Portheris'S Desire To Join Our Party Stood Revealed. Her

Constant Chaperonage Of Dicky Was Getting A Little Trying,  And She

Wanted Me To Relieve Her. I Felt So Deeply For Them Both,  Reflecting

Upon The Situation,  That I Experienced Quite A Glow Of Virtue At The

Thought Of My Promise To Dicky To Stay In Rome Till His Party Arrived.

They Were Going To Siena--Why,  Mr. Dod Could Not Undertake To

Explain--He Had Never Heard Of Anything Cheerful In connection With

Siena.

 

"My Idea Is," Said The Senator,  "That In Rome"--We Were On Our Way

There--"We'Ll Find Our Work Cut Out For Us. Think Of The Objects Of

Interest Involved From Romulus And Remus Down To The Present Pope!"

 

"I Should Like My Salts Before I Begin," Said Momma,  Pathetically.

 

"Over Two Thousand Years," Continued The Senator Impressively,  "And

Every Year You May Be Sure Has Left Its Architectural Imprint."

 

"Does Baedeker Say That,  Senator?" I Asked,  With A Certain Severity.

 

"No,  The Expression Is Entirely My Own; You May Take It Down And Use It

Freely. Two Thousand Years Of Remains Is What We'Ve Got Before Us In

Rome,  And Pretty Well Scattered Too--Nothing Like The Convenience Of

Pisa. I Expect We Shall Have To Allow At Least Four Days For It. That

Piazza Del Duomo," Continued Poppa,  Thoughtfully,  "Seems To Have Been

Laid Out With A View To The American Tourist Of The Future. But I Don'T

Suppose That Kind Of Forethought Is Common."

 

"How Exquisite It Was,  That Cluster Of White Marble Relics Of The Past

On The Bosom Of Dusky Pisa. It Reminded Me," Said Momma,  Poetically,  "Of

An Old Maid'S Pearls."

 

"I Should Suggest," Said The Senator To Me,  "That You Make A Note Of

That. A Little Sentiment Won'T Do Us Any Harm--Just A Little. And They

_Are_ Like An Old Maid'S Pearls In connection With That Middle-Aged,

One-Horse Little City. Or I Should Say A Widow'S--Pisa Was Once A Bride

Of The Sea. A Grass Widow'S," Improved The Senator. "It'S All

Meadow-Land Round There--Did You Notice?"

 

"I Did Not," I Said Coldly; "But,  Of Course,  If I'M To Call Pisa A Grass

Widow,  It Will Have To Be. Although I Warn You,  Poppa,  That In case Of

Any Critic Being Able To Arise And Indicate That It Is Laid Out In

Oyster Beds,  I Shall Make It Plain That The Responsibility Is Yours."

 

We Were Speeding Through Tuscany,  And The Vine-Garlanded Trees In The

Orchards Clasped Hands And Danced Along With Us. The Sky Would Have Told

Us We Were In Italy If We Had Come On A Magic Carpet Without A Compass

Or A Time-Table. Poppa Says We Are Not,  Under Any Circumstances,  To

Mention It More Than Once,  But That We Might As Well Explode The Fallacy

That There Is Anything Like It In america. There Isn'T. Our Cerulean Is

Very Beautifully Blue,  But In Italy One Discovers By Contrast That It

Is An Intellectual Blue,  Filled With Light,  High,  Provocative. The Sky

That Bends Over Tuscany Is The Very Soul Of Blue,  Deep,  Soft,  Intense,

Impenetrable--The Sky That One Sees In Those Little Casual Bits Of

Landscape Behind The Shoulders Of Pre-Raphaelite Saints And Madonnas;

And Here And There A Lake,  Giving It Back With Delight,  And Now And Then

The Long Slope Of A Hill,  With An Old Yellow-Walled Town Creeping Up,

Castle Crowned,  And Raggedly Trimmed With Olives; And So Many Ruins That

The Senator,  Summoned By Momma To Look At The Last In View,  Regarded It

With Disparagement,  Which He Did Not Attempt To Conceal. He Wondered,  He

Said,  That The Italian Government Wasn'T Ashamed Of Having Such A Lot Of

Them. They Might Be Picturesque,  But They Weren'T Creditable; They Gave

You The Impression That The Country Was On The Down Grade. "You Needn'T

Call My Attention To Any More Of Them,  Augusta," He Added; "But If You

See Any Building That Looks Like Progress,  Now,  Anything That Gives You

The Idea Of Modern Improvements Inside,  I Shouldn'T Like To Miss It."

And He Returned To The Thirty-Second Page Of The Sunday _New York

World_.

 

"I Sometimes Wish," Said Momma,  "That I Were Not The Only Person In This

Family With The Artistic Temperament."

 

Sometimes We Stopped At The Little Yellow Towns And Saw Quite Closely

Their Queer Old Defences And Belfrys And Clock Towers,  And Guessed At

The Pomegranates And Oleanders Behind Their High Courtyard Walls. They

Had Musical Names,  Even In The Mouths Of The Railway Guards,  Who Sang

Every One Of Them With A High Note And A Full Octave On The Syllable Of

Stress--"Rosign_A_No!" "Car_M_Iglia!" The Senator Was Fascinated With

The Spectacle Of A Railway Guard Who Could Express Himself Intelligibly,

To Say Nothing Of The Charm; He Spoke Of Introducing The System In The

United States,  But We Tried It On "New York," "Washington," "Kansas

City," And It Didn'T Seem The Same.

 

It Was At Orbatello,  I Think,  That We Made The Travelling Acquaintance

Of The Enterprising Little Gentleman To Whom Momma Still Mysteriously

Alludes As "Il Capitano." He Bowed Ceremoniously As He Entered The

Carriage And Stowed The Inevitable Enormous Valise In The Rack,  And His

Eye Brightened Intelligently As He Saw We Were A Family Of American

Tourists. He Wore A Rather Seamy Black Uniform And A Soft Felt Hat With

Cocks' Feathers Drooping Over It,  And A Sword And A Ridiculously Amiable

Expression For A Man. I Don'T Think He Was Five Feet High,  But His

Moustache And His Feathers And His Sword Were Out Of All Proportion.

There Was A Gentle Trustful Exuberance About Him Which Suggested That,

Although It Was Possibly Twenty-Five Years Since He Was Born,  His Age

Was Much Less Than That. He Twirled His Moustache In Voluble Silence For

Ten Minutes While We All Furtively Scrutinised Him With The Curiosity

Inspired By A Foreigner Of Any Size,  And Then With A Smile Of Conscious

Sweetness He Asked The Senator If He Might Take The Liberty To Give The

Trouble To See The English Newspaper For A Few Seconds Only. "I Should

Be Too Thankful," He Added.

 

"Why Certainly," Said Poppa,  Much Gratified. "I See You Spikkum

English," He Added Encouragingly.

 

"I Speak--Um,  _Si_. I Have Learned Some--A Few Of Them. But O Very

Baddili I Speak Them!"

 

"I Guess That'S Just Your Modesty," Said Poppa Kindly. "But That'S Not

An English Paper,  You Know--It'S Published In New York."

 

"Ah!" He Exclaimed With Enthusiasm. "That Will Be Much _Much_ The More

Pleasurable For Me." His Eyes Shone With Feeling. "In Italy," He Added

With An Impulsive Gesture,  "We Love The American Peoples Beyond The

Londonian. We Always Remember That It Was An Italian,  Cristoforo

Col----"

 

"I Know," Said Poppa. "Very Nice Of You. But What'S Your Reason Now,  For

Preferring Americans As A Nation?"

 

We Saw Our First Italian Shrug. It Is More Prolonged,  More Sentimental

Than French Ones. In This Case It Expressed The Direct Responsibility Of

Fate.

 

"I Think," He Said,  "That They Are More _Simpatica_--Sympatheticated To

Us." He Seemed To Be Unaware Of Me,  But His Eye Rested Upon Momma At

This Point,  And Took Her Into His Confidence.

 

"We Also," Said She Reciprocally,  "Are Always Charmed To See Italians In

Our Country."

 

I Wondered Privately Whether She Was Thinking Of Hand Organ Men Or

Members Of The Mafia Society,  But It Was No Opportunity To Inquire. My

Impression Is That About This Time,  In Spite Of Tuscany Outside,  I Went

To Sleep,  Because My Next Recollection Is Of The Little Captain Pouring

Chianti Out Of A Large Black Bottle Into Momma'S Jointed Silver

Travelling Cup. I Remember Thinking When I Saw That,  That They Must Have

Made Progress. Scraps Of Conversation Floated Through My Waking Moments

When The Train Stopped--I Heard Momma Ask Him If His Parents Were Both

Living And Where His Home Was. I Also Understood Her To Inquire Whether

The Italians Were Domestic In Their Tastes Or Whether They Were Like The

French,  Who,  She Believed,  Had No Home Life At All. I Saw The Senator

Put A Card In His Pocket-Book And Restore It To His Breast,  And Heard

Him Inquire Whether His New Italian Acquaintance Wore His Uniform Every

Day As A Matter Of Choice Or Because He Had To. An Hour Went By,  And

When I Finally Awoke It Was To See Momma Sitting By With Folded Hands

And An Expression Of Much Gratification While Poppa Gave A Graphic

Account Of The Rise And Progress Of The American Baking-Powder Interest.

"I Don'T Expect," Said He,  "You'Ve Ever Heard Of Wick'S Electric

Corn-Flour?"

 

"It Is My Misfortune."

 

"We Sent Thousands Of Cans To Southern Europe Last Year,  Sir. Or Wick'S

Sublimated Soda?"

 

"I Am Stupidissimo."

 

"No,  Not At All. But I Daresay Your Momma Knows It,  If She Ever Has

Waffles On Her Breakfast Table. Well,  It'S Been A Kind Of Kitchen

Revolution. We Began By Making A Hundred Pounds A Week--And Couldn'T

Always Get Rid Of It. Now--Why The Day Before I Sailed We Sent Six

Thousand Cans To The Queen Of Madagascar. I Hope She'Ll Read The

Instructions!"

 

"It Takes The Breath. What Splendid Revenue Must Be From That!"

 

The Senator Merely Smiled,  And Played With His Watch Chain. "I Should

Hate To Brag," He Said,  But Anyone Could See From The Absence Of A

Diamond Ring On His Little Finger That He Was A Person Of Weight In His

Community.

 

"Oh!" Said Momma,  "My Daughter Is Awake At Last! Mamie,  Let Me Introduce

Count Filgiatti. Count,  My Daughter. What A Pity You Went To Sleep,

Love. The Count Has Been Giving Us _Such_ A Delightful Afternoon."

 

The Carriage Swayed A Good Deal As The Count Stood Up To Bow,  But That

Had No Effect Either Upon The Dignity Or The Gratification He Expressed.

His Pleasure Was Quite Ingratiating,  Or Would Have Been If He Had Been A

Little Taller. As It Was,  It Was Amusing,  And I Recognised An

Opportunity For The Study Of Italian Character. I Don'T Mean That I Made

Up My Mind To Avail Myself Of It,  But I Saw That The Opportunity Was

There.

 

"So You'Ve Been Reading The _New York World_," I Said Kindly.

 

"I Have Read,  Yes,  Two _Avertissimi_. Not More,  I Fear. But They Are

Also Amusing,  The _Avertissimi_." His Voice Was Certainly Agreeably

Deferential,  With A Note Of Gratitude.

 

"Now,  If You Wouldn'T Mind Taking The Corner Opposite My Daughter,

Count Filgiatti," Put In Poppa,  "You And She Could Talk More

Comfortably,  And Mrs. Wick Could Put Her Feet Up And Get A Little Nap."

 

"I Am Too Happy If I Shall Not Be A Trouble To Mees," The Count

Responded,  Beaming. And I Said,  "Dear Me,  No; How Could He?" At Which He

Very Obligingly Changed His Seat.

 

I Hardly Know How We Drifted Into Abstract Topics. The Count'S English

Was So Bad That My Sense Of Humour Should Have Confined Him To The

Weather And The Scenery; But It Is Nevertheless True That About An Hour

Later,  While The Landscape Turned Itself Into A Soft,  Warm Chromo In The

Fading Sunset,  And Both My Parents Soundly Slept,  We Were Discussing The

Barrier Of Religion To Marriage Between Protestants And Roman Catholics.

I Did Not Hesitate To Express The Most Liberal Sentiments.

 

"Since There Are To Be No Marriages In Heaven," I Said,  "What Difference

Can It Make,  In Married Life,  How People Get There?"

 

"The Signor And Signora Think Also So?"

 

"Oh,  I Daresay Poppa And Momma Have Got Their Own Opinions," I Said,

"But That Is Mine."

 

"You Do Not Think As They!" He Exclaimed.

 

"I Don'T Know What They Think," I Explained. "I Haven'T Asked Them. But

I'Ve Got My Own Thinker,  You Know." I Searched For Simple Expressions,

And I Seemed To Make Him Understand.

 

"So! Then This Prejudice Is Dead For You,  Senorita--_Mees_?"

 

"I Like 'Senorita' Best," I Said. "I Believe It Is." At That Moment I

Divined That He Was A Roman Catholic. How,  I Don'T Know. So I Added,

"But I'Ve Never Had The Slightest Reason To Give It A Thought."

 

"That Must Be," He Said Softly,  "Because You Never Met,  Senorita--May I

Say This?--One Single Gentleman W'At Is Catholic."

 

"That'S Rather Clever Of You," I Said. "Perhaps That _Is_ Why."

 

The Italian Character Struck Me As Having Interesting Phases,  But I Did

Not