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

Chapter 18

Out Of Indulgence To Dicky We Lingered In Florence Three Or Four Days

Longer Than Was At All Convenient,  Considering,  As The Senator Said,  The

Amount Of Ground We Had To Cover Before We Could Conscientiously Recross

The Channel. But Neither Poppa Nor Momma Were People To Desert A

Fellow-Countryman In distress In Foreign Parts,  Especially In View Of

This One'S Pathetic Reliance Upon Our Sympathy And Support,  As A Family.

We All Did Our Best Toward The Distraction Of What Momma Called His Poor

Mind,  Though I Cannot Say That We Were Very Successful. His Poor Mind

Seemed Wholly Taken Up With One Anticipative Idea,  And Whatever Failed

To Minister To That He Hadn'T,  As Poppa Sadly Said,  Any Use For. The

Cloisters Of San Marco Had No Healing For His Spirit,  And When We

Directed His Attention To The Solitary Painting On The Wall With Which

Fra Angelico Made A Shrine Of Each Of Its Monastic Cubicles He Merely

Remarked That It Was More Than You Got In Most Hotels,  And Turned

Joylessly Away. Even The Charred Stick That Helped To Martyr Savonarola

Left Him Cold. He Said,  Indifferently,  That It Was Only The Natural

Result Of Mixing Up Politics And Religion,  And That Certain Chicago

Ministers Who Supported Bryan From The Pulpit Might Well Take Warning.

But His Words Were Apathetic; He Did Not Really Care Whether Those

Chicago Ministers Went To The Stake Or Not. We Stood Him Before The

Bronze Gates Of Ghiberti,  And Walked Him Up And Down Between Rows Of

Works In _Pietra Dura_,  But Without Any Permanent Effect,  And When He

Contemplated The Consecrated Residences Of Cimabue And Cellini,  We Could

See That His Interest Was Perfunctory,  And That Out Of The Corner Of His

Eye He Really Considered Passing Fiacres. I Read To Him Aloud From

"Romola," And Momma Bought Him An English And Italian Washing Book That

He Might Keep A Record Of His _Camicie_ And His _Fazzoletti_--It Would

Be So Interesting Afterwards,  She Thought--While The Senator Exerted

Himself In The Way Of Cheerful Conversation,  But It Was Very

Discouraging. Even When We Dined At The Fashionable Open Air Restaurant

In The Cascine,  With No Less A Person Than Ouida,  In a Fluff Of Grey

Hair And Black Lace,  At The Next Table,  And The Most Distinguished

Gambler Of The Italian Aristocracy Presenting A Narrow Back To Us From

The Other Side,  He Permitted Poppa To Compare The Quality Of The Beef

Fillets Unfavourably With Those Of New York In Silence,  And Drank His

Chianti With A Lack-Lustre Eye.

 

Towards The End Of The Week,  However,  Dicky Grew Remorseful. "It'S All

Very Well," He Said To Me Privately,  "For Mrs. Wick To Say That She

Could Spend A Lifetime In Florence,  If The Houses Only Had A Few Modern

Conveniences. I Daresay She Could--And As For Your Poppa,  He'S As

Patient As If This Were A Washington Hotel And He Had A Caucus Every

Night,  But It'S As Plain As Dante'S Nose That The Senator'S Dead Sick Of

This City."

 

"Dicky," I Said,  "That Is A Reflection Of Your Own State Of Mind. Poppa

Is Willing To Take As Much More Botticelli And Filippo Lippi As It May

Be Necessary To Give Him."

 

"Oh,  I Know He _Would_" Dicky Admitted,  "But He Isn'T As Young As He

Was,  And I Should Hate To Feel I Was Imposing On Him. Besides,  I'M

Beginning To Conclude That They'Ve Skipped Florence."

 

So It Came To Pass That We Departed For Venice Next Day,  Tarrying One

Night At Bologna. We Had Cut A Day Off Bologna For Dicky'S Sake,  But The

Senator Could Not Be Persuaded To Sacrifice It Altogether On Account Of

Its Well Known Manufacture,  Into The Conditions Of Which He Wished To

Inquire. The Shops,  As We Drove To The Hotel,  Seemed To Expose Nothing

Else For Sale,  But Poppa Said That,  In Spite Of The Local Consumption,

It Had Certainly Fallen Off,  And,  As An Official Representative Of One

Of Its Great Rivals In The West,  He Naturally Felt A Compunctious

Interest In The State Of The Industry. The Hotel Had A Little Courtyard,

With An Orange Tree In The Middle And Palms In Pots,  And We Came Down

The Wide Marble Stairs,  Past The Statues On The Landing,  And The

Paintings On The Walls,  To Find Dinner Laid On Round Tables Out There,  I

Remember. A Note Of Momma'S Occurs Here To The Effect That There Is A

Great Deal Too Much Fine Art In Italian Hotels,  With A Reference To The

Fact That The One At Naples Had The Whole Of Pompeii Painted On The

Dining Room Walls. She Considers This Practice Embarrassing To The

Public Mind,  Which Has No Way Of Knowing Whether To Admire These Things

Or Not,  Though Personally We Boldly Decided To Scorn Them All. This,

However,  Has Nothing To Do With Poppa And The Commercial Traveller. We

Knew He Was A Commercial Traveller By The Way He Put His Toothpick In

His Pocket,  Though Poppa Said Afterwards That He Was Not Exceptionally

Endowed For That Line Of Business. He Was Dining At Our Table,  And By

His Gratified Manner When We Sat Down,  It Was Plain That He Could Speak

English And Would Be Very Pleased To Do So. Poppa,  Knowing That His Time

Was Short,  Began At Once.

 

"You Belong To Bologna,  Sir?" He Inquired With His First Spoonful Of

Soup. For Some Reason It Seems Impossible To Address A Stranger At A

_Table D'Hote_,  Before The Soup Takes The Baldness Off The Situation.

 

The Gentleman Smiled. He Had A Broad,  Open,  Amiable,  Red Face,  With A

Short Black Beard And A Round Head Covered With Thick Hair In curls,

Beautifully Parted. "I Do Not Think I Belong," He Said; "My House Of

Business,  It Is At Milan,  And I Am Born At Finalmarina. But I Come Much

To Bologna,  Yes."

 

"Where Did You Say You Were Born?" Asked The Senator.

 

"Finalmarina. You Did Not Go To There,  No? I Am Sorry."

 

"It Does Seem A Pity," Replied Poppa,  "But We'Ve Been Obliged To Pass A

Considerable Number Of Your Commercial Centres,  Sir. This City,  I

Presume,  Has Large Manufacturing Interests?"

 

"Oh,  Yes,  I Suppose. You 'Ave Seen That San Petronio,  You Cannot Help.

Very Enorm'! More Big Than San Peter In Rome. But Not Complete Since

Fourteenth Century. In america You 'Ave Nothing Unfinish,  Is It Not?"

 

"Far As That Goes," Said Poppa,  "We Generally Manage To Complete Our

Contracts Within The Year; As A Rule,  I May Say Within The Building

Season. But I Have Seen One Or Two Roman Catholic Churches Left With The

Scaffolding Hanging Round The Ceiling For A Good Deal Longer,  The Altar

All Fixed Up Too,  And Public Worship Going On Just As Usual. It Seems To

Be A Way They Have. Well,  Sir,  I Knew Bologna,  By Reputation,  Better

Than Any Other Italian City,  For Years. Your Local Manufacture Did The

Business. As A Boy At School,  There Was Nothing I Was More Fond Of For

My Dinner. Thirty Years Ago,  Sir,  The Interest Was Created That Brings

Me Here To-Day."

 

The Commercial Traveller Bowed With Much Gratification. In The Meantime

He Had Presented A Card To Momma,  Which Informed Her That Ricardo

Bellini Represented The Firm Of Isapetti And Co.,  Milan,  Artificial

Flowers And Lace.

 

"Thirty Years,  That Is A Long Time To Remember Bologna,  I Cannot Say

That Thirty Years I Remember New York. You Will Not Believe!" He Was

Obviously Not More Than Twenty-Five,  So This Was Vastly Humorous.

"Twenty Years,  Yes,  Twenty Years I Will Say! And Have You Seen San

Stefano? Seven Churches In One! Also The Most Old. And Having Forty

Jerusalem Martyrs."

 

"Forty Would Go A Long Way In Relics," The Senator Observed With

Discouragement,  "But My Remarks Had Reference To The Bologna Sausage,

Sir."

 

"Sausage--Ah! _Mortadella_--Yes They Make Here I Believe." Mr. Bellini

Held Up His Knife And Fork To Enable His Plate To Be Changed And Looked

Darkly At The Succeeding Course. "But Every Italian Cannot Like That

Dish. I Eat Him Never. You Will Not Find In This Hotel No." His Manner

Indicated A Personal Hostility To The Bologna Sausage,  But The Senator

Did Not Seem To Notice It.

 

"You Don'T Say So! Local Consumption Going Off Too,  Eh? Now How Do You

Explain That?"

 

Mr. Bellini Shrugged His Shoulders. "It Is Much Eat By The Poor People.

They Will Always Have That _Mortadella_!"

 

"That Looks," Said The Senator Thoughtfully,  "Like The Production Of An

Inferior Article. But Not Necessarily,  Not Necessarily,  Of Course."

 

"Bologna It Is Very _Ecclesiastic_." Mr. Bellini Addressed My Other

Parent,  Recovering A Smile. "We Have Produced Here Six Popes. It Is The

Fame Of Bologna."

 

"You Seem To Think A Great Deal Of Producing Popes In Italy," Momma

Replied Coldly. "I Should Consider It A Terrible Responsibility."

 

"Now Do You Suppose," Said Poppa Confidentially,  "That The Idea Of

Trichinosis Had Anything To Do With Slackening The Demand?"

 

Mr. Bellini Threw His Head Back,  And Passionately Replaced A Section Of

Biscuit And Cheese In The Middle Of His Plate.

 

"I Know Nossing,  Any More Than You! Why You Speak Me Always That Bologna

Sausage! _Pazienza!_ What Is It That Sausage To Make The Agreeable

Conversation!"

 

"Sir," Exclaimed The Senator With Astonishment And Equal Heat,  "You

Don'T Seem To Be Aware Of It,  But At One Time The Bologna Sausage Ruled

The World!"

 

Mr. Bellini,  However,  Could Evidently Not Trust Himself To Discuss The

Matter Further. He Rose Precipitately With An Outraged,  Impersonal Bow,

And Left The Table,  Abandoning His Biscuit And Cheese,  His Half Finished

Bottle Of Rudesheimer And The Figs That Were To Follow,  With The

Indifference Of A Lofty Nature.

 

"I'M Sorry I Spoiled His Dinner," Said Poppa With Concern,  "But If A

Bologna Man Can'T Talk About Bologna Sausages,  What Can He Talk About?"

 

It Made The Senator Reticent,  Though,  As To Sausages Of Any Kind,  With

The Other Commercial Traveller--The Hotel Was Full Of Them,  And We Found

It Very Entertaining After The Barren Dining Rooms Of Southern

Italy--With Whom We Breakfasted. He Spoke To This One Exclusively About

The Architectural And Historic Features Of The City,  In a Manner Which

Forbade Any Approach To Gastronomic Themes,  And While The Second

Commercial Traveller Regarded Him With Great Respect,  It Must Be

Confessed That The Conversation Languished. Dicky Might Have Helped Us

Out,  But Dicky Was Following His Usual Custom Of Having Rooms In One

Hotel And Covering As Many Others As Possible With His Meals,  In The

Hope Of An Accidental Meeting. This Was Excellent As A Distraction For

His Mind,  But Since It Occasionally Led Him Into Three _Dejeuners_ And

Two Dinners,  Rather Bad,  We Feared,  For Other Parts Of Him. He Had

Confided His Design To Me; He Intended,  On Meeting Isabel'S Eye,  To Turn

Very Pale,  Abruptly Terminate His Repast,  Ask For His Hat And Stick,  And

Walk Out With Conspicuous Agitation. As To The Course He Meant To Pursue

Afterwards He Was Vague; The Great Thing Was To Make An Impression Upon

Isabel. We Differed About The Nature Of The Impression. Dicky Took It

For Granted That She Would Be Profoundly Affected,  But He Made No

Allowance For The Way In Which Maternal Vigilance Like That Of Mrs.

Portheris Can Discourage The Imagination.

 

Poppa Made Two Further Attempts To Inform Himself Upon The Leading

Manufacturing Interest Of Bologna. He Inquired Of The _Padrone_,  Who Was

Pleased To Hear That Bologna Had A Leading Manufacturing Interest,  And

When My Parent Asked Where He Could See The Process,  Pointed Out Several

Shops In The Piazza Maggiore. One Of These The Senator Visited,

Note-Book In Hand,  And Was Shown With Great Alacrity Every Variety Of

_Mortadella_,  From Delicacies The Size Of A Finger To Mottled

Conceptions As Thick As A Small Barrel. He Found A Difficulty In

Explaining,  However,  Even With An Italian Phrase Book,  That It Was The

Manufacture Only About Which He Was Curious,  And That,  Admirable As The

Result Might Be,  He Did Not Wish To Buy Any Of It. When The Latter Fact

Finally Made Itself Plain,  The Proprietor Became Truculent And Gave Us,

Although He Spoke No English,  So Vivid An Idea Of The Inconsistency Of

Our Presence In His Premises,  That We Retired In all The Irritation Of

The Well-Meaning And Misunderstood. The Senator,  However,  Who Had

Absolute Confidence In His Phrase Book,  Saw A Deeper