"Well, have you seen Ghirlandajo's work?" asked Mr. Sumner, the next time the little group met in the library.
"Only his frescoes in Santa Maria Novella. We have spent two entire mornings looking at those," answered Bettina.
"We took your list of the portraits there with us, uncle," said Malcom, "and tried to get acquainted with those old Florentine bishops, bankers, and merchants that he painted."
"And oh! isn't that Ginevra de' Benci in the Meeting of Mary and Elizabeth lovely! and her golden brocaded dress!" cried Margery.
"You pay quite a compliment to the old painter's power of representing men and women," said Mr. Sumner, "for these evidently captivated you. I wish I could have overheard you talking by yourselves."
"I fear we could not appreciate the best things, though," said Barbara. "We imagined ourselves in old Florence of the fifteenth century, and tried to recognize the mountains and palaces in the backgrounds, and we enjoyed the people and admired their fine clothes. I do think, however, that these last seem often too stiff and as if made of metal rather than of silk, satin, or cloth. And when Howard told us that Mr. Ruskin says 'they hang from the figures as they would from clothes-pegs,' we could but laugh, and think he is right with regard to some of them. Ought we to admire everything in these old pictures, Mr. Sumner?" she earnestly added.
"Not at all; not by any means. I would not have you think this for a moment. Ghirlandajo's paintings are famous and worthy because they are such an advance on what was before him. Compare his men and women with those by Giotto. You know how much you found of interest and to admire in Giotto's pictures when you compared them with Cimabue's and with the old Greek Byzantine paintings. Just so compare those by Masaccio and Ghirlandajo with what was done before. See the growth,—the steady evolution,—and realize that Ghirlandajo was honest and earnest, and gifted too; that his drawing is firm and truer to nature than that of most contemporary artists; that his portraits possess character; that they are well-bred and important, as the people they represent were; that his mountains are like mountains even in some of their subtile lines; that his rivers wind; that his masses of architecture are in good perspective and proportion; and then you will excuse his faults, though it is right to notice and feel them. We must see many in the work of every artist until we come to the great painters of the High Renaissance. You must find Ghirlandajo's other pictures, and study them also."
"Now about Botticelli," he added. A little rustle of expectancy swept through the group of listeners. Bettina drew nearer Barbara and clasped her hand; and all settled themselves anew with an especial air of interest. "I see you, like most other people, care more for him. He is immensely popular at present. It is quite the fashion to admire him. But, strangely enough, only a few years ago little was known or cared about his work, and his name is not even mentioned by some writers on art. He was first a goldsmith like Ghirlandajo, then afterward became a pupil of Fra Filippo Lippi, father of the Filippino Lippi who finished Masaccio's frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel. Botticelli wrought an immense service to painting by widening greatly the field of subjects hitherto assigned to it, which had been confined to Bible incidents. Others, contemporary with him, were beginning to depart slightly from these subjects in response to the desires of the pleasure-loving Florentines of that day; but Botticelli was the first to come deliberately forth and make art minister to the pleasure and education of the secular as well as the religious world. By nature he loved myths, fables, and allegories, and freely introduced them into his pictures. He painted Venuses, Cupids, and nymphs just as willingly as Madonnas and saints.
"I hope you will read diligently about him. The story of how his pictures, and those of other artists who were influenced by him, led to the protest which Savonarola (who lived at the same time) made against the 'corrupting influence of profane pictures' and his demand that bonfires should be made of them is most interesting. Botticelli devotedly contributed a large number of his paintings to the burning piles."
"But he painted religious pictures also, did he not?" queried Barbara.
"Oh, yes. His works were wrought in churches as well as in private houses and palaces. He even received the honor of being summoned to Rome by Pope Sixtus IV. to assist in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican, where Michael Angelo afterward performed his greatest work. There he painted three large religious frescoes—by the way, Ghirlandajo painted there also. Now we must find what is the charm in Botticelli's painting that accounts for the wonderful present interest in his work. I think it is in a large degree his attempt to put expression into faces. While Masaccio had taken a long step in advance of other artists by making man himself, rather than events, the chief interest in his pictures,—Botticelli, more imaginative and poetic, painted man's moods,—his subtile feelings. You are all somewhat familiar, through their reproductions, with his Madonna pictures. How do these differ from those of other painters?"
"The faces are less pretty."
"They are sad instead of joyous."
"In some the little Christ looks as though he were trying to comfort his mother."
"The angels look as if they longed to help both," were some of the quick answers.
"Yes; inner feelings, you see. Sometimes he put a crown of thorns somewhere in a picture, as if to explain its expressions. His Madonna is 'pondering these things,' as Scripture says, and the Child-Christ and angels are in intense sympathy with her. We long to look again and again at such pictures—they move us.
"Another characteristic of his work is the action—a vehement impetuous motion. You will find this finely illustrated in his Allegory of Spring, a very famous picture in the Academy. His type of figure and face is most easily recognizable; the limbs are long and slender, and often show through almost transparent garments; the hands are long and nervous; the faces are rather long also, with prominent rounded chins and full lips. He put delicate patterns of gold embroidery about the neck and wrists of the Madonna's gown and the edges of her mantle, and heaped gold all over the lights on the curled hair of her angels and other attendants. You can never mistake one of these pictures when once you have grown familiar with his style.
"I think you should study particularly his Allegory of Spring in the Academy for full length figures in motion. You will find the color of this picture happily weird to agree with the fantastic conception. Then in the Uffizi Gallery you will find several pictures of the Madonna; notable among them is his Coronation of the Virgin, painted, as he was fond of doing, on a round board. Such a picture is called a tondo. Here you will find all his characteristics.
"Study this first; study figures, faces, hands, and methods of technique; then see if you cannot readily find the other examples without your catalogue. A noted one is Calumny. This exemplifies strikingly Botticelli's power of expressing swift motion. In the Pitti Palace is a very interesting one called Pallas, or Triumph of Wisdom over Barbarity,—strangely enough, found only recently."
"Found only recently; how can that be, uncle?" quickly asked Malcom.
"The picture was known to have been painted, for Vasari described it in his 'Life of Botticelli,' but it was lost sight of until an Englishman discovered it in an old private collection which had been for many years in the Pitti Palace, suspected it to be the missing picture, and connoisseurs agree that it is genuine. There was a great deal of excitement here when the fact was made known. The figure of Pallas, in its clinging transparent garment, is strikingly beautiful, and characteristic of Botticelli. The picture was painted as a glorification of the wise reign of the Medici, who did so much for the intellectual advancement of Florence."
Then Mr. Sumner told them that he was to be absent from Florence for a week or two, and should be exceedingly busy for some time, and so would leave them to go on with their study of the pictures by themselves.
"I have been delighted," he said, "to know how much time you have spent in going again and again to the churches and galleries in order to become familiar with the painters whom we have especially considered. This is the real and the only way to make the study valuable. Do the same with regard to the pictures by Ghirlandajo and Botticelli, and if I have not given you enough to do until I am free again to talk with you, study the frescoes by Filippino Lippi in Santa Maria Novella, and compare them with those in the Brancacci Chapel; and his easel pictures in the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries. Get familiar also with his father's (Fra Filippo's) Madonna pictures. You will find in them a type of face so often repeated that you will always recognize it; it is just the opposite of Botticelli's,—short and childish, with broad jaws, and simple as childhood in expression. I shall be most interested to know what you have done, and what your thoughts have been."
"We certainly shall not do much but look at pictures for weeks to come, uncle; that is sure!" said Malcom, "for the girls are bewitched with them, and now that they think they can learn to know, as soon as they see it, a Giotto, a Fra Angelico, a Botticelli, or a Fra Filippo Lippi, they will be simply crazy. You ought to hear the learned way in which they are beginning to discourse about them. They don't do it when you are around."
"Oh, Malcom! who was it that must wait a few minutes longer, the other morning, in Santa Maria Novella in order to run downstairs and give one more look at Giotto's frescoes?" laughed Bettina.
Barbara's and Bettina's eighteenth birthday was drawing near. Mrs. Douglas had for a long time planned to give a party to them, and had fully arranged the details before she spoke of it to the girls.
"It shall be your 'coming-out party' here in Florence," she said; "not a large party, but a thoroughly pleasant and enjoyable one, I am sure."
And the circle of friends who were eager to know and to add to the pleasure of any one belonging to Robert Sumner seemed to ensure this. Mrs. Douglas further said that she did not wish them to give a thought to what they would wear on the occasion, but to leave everything with her. Every girl of eighteen years will readily understand what a flutter of joyous excitement Barbara and Bettina felt, and how they talked over the coming event, when they were alone. Finally Bettina asked:—
"Why does Mrs. Douglas do so much for us? How can we ever repay her?"
"We can never repay her, Betty," replied her sister. "Nor does she wish it. I do not know why she is so kind. She must love us, or,—perhaps it is because she is so fond of papa. Do you know, Betty, that our father once saved her life? She told me about it only yesterday, and I did not think to tell you last night, there was so much to talk about. It was when she was a little girl of twelve or thirteen years and papa was just beginning to practise. You know her father was very wealthy, and had helped him to get his profession because the two families were always so intimate. Well, Mrs. Douglas was so ill that three or four doctors said they could do nothing more for her, and she must die. Of course her father and mother were broken-hearted. And papa went to them, and for days and nights did not sleep and hardly ate, but was with her every moment; and the older doctors acknowledged that but for him she could never have lived.—And, just think! he never said a word about it to us!"
"Our father never talks of the good and noble things he does," said Bettina, proudly. "No wonder she loves him; but I do really think she loves us too. Only the other day Malcom said he should be jealous were it anybody but you and me. So I think all we can do is to keep on doing just as we have done, and love her more dearly than ever."
"I wonder if there are any other girls in the world so happy as we are," she added after a moment's silence—and the two pairs of brown eyes looked into each other volumes of tender sympathy and gladness.
What a day was that birthday! Barbara and Bettina will surely tell of it to their children and grandchildren! First of all came letters from the dear home—birthday letters which Mrs. Douglas had withheld for a day or two so that they should be read at the fitting time. Then the lovely gifts! From Margery, an exquisite bit of sculptured marble for each, chosen after much consultation with her uncle and many visits to Via dei Fossi; from Malcom, copies of two of Fra Angelico's musical Angels, each in a rich frame of Florentine hand-carving (for everything must be purely Florentine, all had agreed); from Mr. Sumner, portfolios of the finest possible photographs of the best works of Florentine masters from the very beginning down through the High Renaissance.
Mrs. Douglas gave them most lovely outfits for the party—gowns of white chiffon daintily embroidered—slippers, gloves—everything needful; while Howard had asked that he might provide all the flowers.
When finally Barbara and Bettina stood on either side of Mrs. Douglas in the floral bower where they received their guests, it was indeed as if they were in fairy-land. It did not seem possible that any more pink or white roses could be left in Florence, if indeed all Italy had not been laid under tribute,—so lavish had Howard been. Barbara carried white roses, and Bettina pink ones, and everywhere through the entire house were the exquisite things, peeping out from amidst the daintiest greens possible, or superb in the simplicity of their own magnificence.
The lovely American girls were the cynosure of all eyes, and the flattering things said to them by foreigners and Americans were almost enough to turn their heads. Mrs. Douglas was delighted with the simple frankness and dignity with which they met all.
"You may trust well-bred American girls anywhere," she said to her brother as she met him later in the evening, after all her guests had been welcomed, "especially such as are ours," and she called his attention to Barbara, who at that moment was approaching on the arm of a distinguished-looking man, who was evidently absorbed with his fair companion.
Perfectly unconscious of herself, she moved with so much of womanly grace that Robert Sumner was startled. She seemed like a stranger; this tall, queenly creature could not be the everyday Barbara who had been little more than a child to him. In passing she looked with a loving smile at Mrs. Douglas, and then for a moment her eyes with the light still in them met his, and slowly turned away. The soft flush on her cheek deepened, and Robert Sumner felt the swift blood surge back upon his heart until his head swam. When last had he seen such a look in woman's eyes? Ah! how he had loved those sweet dark eyes long years ago! Oh! the desolate longing!
Mrs. Douglas's look had followed Barbara—then had sought Bettina, who, with Margery by her side, was surrounded by a little group of admirers; so she was conscious of nothing unusual. But Miss Sherman, who stood near, had seen Barbara's flush and noted Mr. Sumner's momentary pallor, and afterward his evident effort to be just himself again. What could it mean? she thought.
All through the evening she had suffered from a little unreasonable jealousy as she had realized for the first time that these "Burnett girls,"—mere companions of Margery, as she had always thought of them,—were really young ladies, and most unusually beautiful ones, as she was forced to confess to herself. She envied them the occasion, the honor they gained through their intimate connection with Mr. Sumner and Mrs. Douglas, and the impression they were so evidently making on everybody. She was not broad or generous minded enough to be glad for the young girls from her own country as a nobler-minded woman would have been. But that there could be any especial feeling, or even momentary thought, between Mr. Sumner and Barbara was too absurd to be considered for a moment. That could not be.
Drawing near, she joined Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner, and again sweetly congratulated them on the success of their party, the beauty of the rooms, etc.
"The young girls, too," she said, "I am sure do you great credit—quite grown-up they seem, I declare. What a difference clothes make, do they not? I have been a bit amused by some of their pretty airs, as an older woman could not fail to be," and an indulgent smile played about her lips.
As it was time to go to the dining room for refreshments, Mrs. Douglas, in accordance with a preconceived plan, asked her brother to lead the way with Miss Sherman. When Barbara entered the room soon after with Howard, she saw the two sitting behind the partial screen of a big palm. She felt a momentary wish that she could know what they were so earnestly talking about, and, presently, was conscious that Mr. Sumner's eyes sought her.
But how little she thought that she, herself, was the subject of their conversation, or rather of Miss Sherman's, who was saying how apparent the devotion of Mr. Sinclair was to every one, and that surely Barbara must reciprocate his feeling, else she would withdraw from him; and how pleasant it was to see such young people, just in the beginning of life, becoming so interested in each other; and how romantic to thus find each other in such a city as Florence; and what an advantage to become allied with such an old, wealthy family as the Sinclairs, and so on and on.
The weeks sped rapidly on; midwinter had come and gone, and four months had been numbered since Mrs. Douglas had brought Malcom, Margery, Barbara, and Bettina to Italy.
Although social pleasures and duties had multiplied, yet study had never been given up. A steady advance had been made in knowledge of the history of Florence, and of her many legends and traditions. They had not forgotten or passed by the sculptured treasures of the city, but had learned something of Donatello, her first great sculptor; of Lorenzo Ghiberti, who wrought those exquisite gates of bronze for Dante's "Il mio bel San Giovanni" that Michael Angelo declared to be fit for the gates of Paradise; and of Brunelleschi, the architect of her great Duomo.
Through all had gone on their study of the Florentine painters. After much patient work given to pictures of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, they were now quite revelling in the beauty of those of the sixteenth century, or the High Renaissance. This was all the more interesting since they had seen how one after another the early difficulties had been overcome; how each great master succeeding Cimabue had added his contribution of thought and endeavor until artists knew all the laws that govern the art of representation; and how finally, the method of oil-painting having been introduced, they then had a fitting medium with which to express their knowledge and artistic endeavor.
They had read about Leonardo da Vinci, one of the greatest masters, so famous for his portrayal of subtile emotion, and were wonderfully interested in his life and work; had been to the Academy to see the Baptism of Christ, painted by his master, Andrea Verrocchio, and were very positive that the angel on the left, who holds Christ's garment, was painted by young Leonardo. They had studied his unfinished Adoration of the Magi in the Uffizi—his only authentic work in Florence—and had wished much that they could see his other and greater pictures. Mr. Sumner had told them that in the early summer they would probably go to Milan, and there see the famous Last Supper and Study for the Head of Christ, and that perhaps later they might visit Paris and there find his Mona Lisa and other works.
They had been much interested in the many examples of Fra Bartolommeo's painting that are in San Marco—where he, as well as Fra Angelico, had been a monk;—in the Academy, and in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries; and had learned to recognize the peculiarities of his grouping of figures, and their abstract, devotional faces, his treatment of draperies, and the dear little angels, with their musical instruments, that are so often sitting at the feet of his madonnas.
They were fascinated by Andrea del Sarto, whom they followed all over the city wherever they could find either his frescoes or easel pictures. His color especially enchanted them, after they had looked at so many darkened and faded pictures. The story of his unquenchable love for his faithless wife, and how he painted her face into all his pictures, either as madonna or saint, played upon their romantic feelings. Margery learned Browning's poem about them, and often quoted from it. They were never tired of looking at his Holy Families and Madonnas in the galleries, but especially loved to go to the S.S. Annunziata and linger in the court, surrounded by glass colonnades, where are so many of his frescoes.
"Do you suppose it is true that his wife, Lucrezia, used to come here after he was dead and she was an old woman, to look at the pictures?" asked Margery one morning, when they had found their favorite place.
"I think it would be just like her vanity to point out her own likeness to people who were copying or looking at the frescoes, according to the old story," answered Bettina, with a disapproving shake of the head.
"Well," said Barbara, "the faces and figures and draperies are all lovely. But I suppose it is true, as Mr. Sumner says, that Andrea del Sarto did not try to make the faces show any holy feeling, or indeed any very noble expression, so that they are not so great pictures as they would have been had he been high-minded enough to do such things."
"It is a shame to have a man's life and work harmed by a woman, even though she was his wife," said Malcom, emphatically.
"All the more that she was his wife," said Barbara. "But I do not believe he could have done much better without Lucrezia. I think his very love for such a woman shows a weakness in his character. It would have been better if he had chosen other than sacred subjects, would it not, Howard?"
They were quite at home in their study of these more modern pictures, with photographs of which they were already somewhat familiar. Howard, especially, had always had a fine and critical taste regarding art matters, and now, among the works of artists of whom he knew something, was a valuable member of the little coterie, and often appealed to when Mr. Sumner was absent.
And thus they had talked over and over again the impressions which each artist and his work made on them, until even Mr. Sumner was astonished and delighted at the evident result of the interest he had awakened.
But the chief man and artist they were now considering, was Michael Angelo; and the more they learned of him the more true it was, they thought, that he "filled all Florence." They eagerly followed every step of his life from the time when, a young lad, he entered Ghirlandajo's studio, until he was brought to Florence—a dead old man, concealed in a bale of merchandise, because the authorities refused permission to his friends to take his body from Rome—and was buried at midnight in Santa Croce.
They tried to imagine his life during the four years which he spent in the Medici Palace, now Palazzo Riccardi, under the patronage of Lorenzo the Magnificent, while he was studying with the same tremendous energy that marked all his life, going almost daily to the Brancacci Chapel to learn from Masaccio's frescoes, and plunging into the subject of anatomy more like a devotee than a student.
They learned of his visit to Rome, where, before he was twenty-five years old, he sculptured the grand Pietá, or Dead Christ, which is still in St. Peter's; and of his return to Florence, where he foresaw his David in the shapeless block of marble, and gained permission of the commissioners to hew it out,—the David which stood so long under the shadow of old gray Palazzo Vecchio, but is now in the Academy.
Then came the beginnings of his painting; and they saw the Holy Family of the Uffizi Gallery—his only finished easel picture—which possesses more of the qualities of sculpture than painting; and read about his competition with Leonardo da Vinci when he prepared the famous Cartoon of Pisa, now known to the world only by fragmentary copies.
Then Pope Julius II. summoned him back to Rome to begin work on that vast monument conceived for the commemoration of his own greatness, and destined never to be finished; and afterward gave him the commission to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican.
Returning to Florence in an interval of this work, he sculptured the magnificent Medici monuments, to see which they often visited the Chapel of the Medici. At the same time, since the prospect of war had come to the beautiful city, he built those famous fortifications on San Miniato through whose gateway they entered whenever they visited this lovely hill, crowned by a noble old church and a quiet city of the dead.
They drove out to Settignano to visit the villa where he lived when a child, and which he owned all his life; and went to Casa Buonarroti in Florence, where his descendants have gathered together what they could of the great master's sketches, early bas-reliefs, and manuscripts. Here they looked with reverence upon his handwriting, and little clay models moulded by his own fingers.
They talked of his affection for the noble Vittoria Colonna, and read the sonnets he wrote to her.
In short, they admired his great talents, loved his character, condoned his faults of temper, and felt the utmost sympathy with him in all the vicissitudes of his grand, inspiring life.
"It seems strange," said Mr. Sumner one day, as they returned from the Academy, where they had been looking at casts and photographs of his sculptured works, "that though Michael Angelo was undoubtedly greatest as a sculptor, yet his most important works in the world of art are his paintings. Those grand frescoes in the Sistine Chapel in Rome alone afforded him sufficient scope for his wonderful creative genius. When we get to Rome I shall have much to tell you about them."
The question as to the best thing to do for the remainder of the year was often talked over by Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner. Barbara, Bettina, Malcom, and Margery were so interested in their art study that it was finally thought best to travel in such a way that this could be continued to advantage, and they were now thinking of leaving Florence for Rome.
There had been one source of anxiety for some time, and that was the condition of Howard's health. Instead of gain there seemed to be a continual slow loss of strength that was perceptible especially to Mrs. Douglas. He had recently won her sincere respect by the manful way in which he had struggled to conceal his love for Barbara. So well did he succeed that Malcom thought he must have been mistaken in his conjecture, and the girls were as unconscious as ever. In Bettina's and Margery's thought, he was especially Barbara's friend, but in no other way than Malcom was Bettina's; while Barbara was happier than she had been in a long time, as he showed less and less frequently signs of nervous irritability and hurt feelings whenever she disappointed him in any way, as of course she often could not help doing.
"Howard ought not to have spent the winter here in the cold winds of Florence," Mrs. Douglas often had said to her brother. "But what could we do?"
They were thinking of hastening their departure for Rome on his account, when one morning his servant came to the house in great alarm, to beg Mrs. Douglas to go to his young master at once.
"He is very ill," he said, "and asks for you continually."
When Mrs. Douglas and her brother reached Howard's hotel, they found that already one of the most skilful physicians of the city was there, and that he wished to send for trained nurses.
"I fear pneumonia," he said, "and the poor young man is indeed illy prepared to endure such a disease."
"Spare no pains, no expense," urged Mr. Sumner; "let the utmost possible be done."
"I will stay with you," said Mrs. Douglas, as the hot hand eagerly clasped hers. "I will not leave you, my poor boy, while you are ill." And, sending for all she needed, she prepared to watch over him as if he were her own son.
But all endeavors to check the progress of the disease were futile. The enfeebled lungs could offer no resistance. One day, after having lain as if asleep for some time, Howard opened his eyes, to find Mrs. Douglas beside him. With a faint smile he whispered:—
"I have been thinking so much. I am glad now that Barbara does not love me, for it would only give her pain—sometime tell her of my love for her—"
Then by and by, with the tenderest look in his large eyes, he added, "May she come, to let me see her once more?—You will surely trust me now!"
"Oh, Howard! My noble Howard!" was all that Mrs. Douglas could answer; but at her words a look of wonderful happiness lighted his face.
When Mrs. Douglas asked the physician if a friend could be permitted to see Howard, he replied:—
"He cannot live; therefore let him have everything he desires."
And so, before consciousness left him, Barbara came with wondering, sorrowful eyes, and in answer to his pleading look and Mrs. Douglas's low word, bent her fair young head and kissed tenderly the brow of the dying young man who had loved her so much better than she knew. And Howard's life ebbed away.
It was almost as if one of the family were gone. They did not know how much a part of their life he had become until he came no more to the home he had enjoyed so much—to talk—to study—to bring tributes of love and gratitude—and to contribute all he could to their happiness.
Whatever they would do, wherever they would go, there was one missing, and their world was sadly changed.
Mr. Sumner sent the mournful tidings to the lonely grandmother over the ocean, and accompanied the faithful John as far as Genoa, on his way homeward with the remains of the young master he had carried in his arms as a child.
Then, as it was so difficult to take up even for a little time the old life in Florence, it was decided that they should go at once toward Rome.
"We will take a roundabout journey to Rome," said Mr. Sumner, "and so get all the variety of scene and emotion possible. Something that crowds every moment with interest will be best for all just now."
And so they planned to go first of all to Pisa: from thence to Siena, Orvieto, Perugia, Assisi, and so on to Rome.
Miss Sherman had asked to accompany them, since Florence would be so dull when they were gone. Indeed, she had stayed on instead of seeking the warmer, more southern cities simply because they were here.
Therefore one morning during the last week of February all bade good-by to their pleasant home in Florence.
"It seems like an age since we first came here, doesn't it, Bab, dear?" said Bettina, as they entered together the spacious waiting-room of the central railroad station.
"Yes, Betty; are we the same girls?" answered Barbara, and her smile had just a touch of dreariness.
Mr. Sumner and Malcom were seeing to the weighing of the luggage; Mrs. Douglas, Margery, and Miss Sherman were together; and for a moment the two girls were alone.
Somehow Bettina felt a peculiarly tender care of her sister just now, and was never absent from her side if she could help it. Without understanding why or what it was, she yet felt that something had happened which put a slight barrier between them; that something in which she had no share had touched Barbara. She had been wistfully watching her ever since she had returned from the visit to Howard, and was striving to keep all opportunity for painful thought from her.
At present, Barbara shrank from telling even Bettina, from whom she had never before hidden a thought, of that last meeting with Howard. No girl could ever mistake such a look as that which had lighted his eyes as she stooped to kiss his brow in answer to Mrs. Douglas's request. There would be no need for Mrs. Douglas ever to tell her the story. The loving devotion that shone forth even in his uttermost weakness had thrilled her very soul, and she could not forget it for a moment when alone.
A certain sense of loss which she could not define followed her. Somehow, it did mean more to her than it did to any one else, that Howard was gone from their lives, but she knew that not even Betty would understand. Indeed, she could not herself understand, for she was sure that she had not loved Howard.
Though Barbara did not know it, the truth was that for a single instant she had felt what it is to be loved as Howard loved her; and the loss she felt was the loss of love,—not Howard's love—but love for itself alone. She was not just the same girl she was when she had entered Florence a few months ago, nor ever again would be; and between her and Bettina,—the sisters who before this had been "as one soul in two bodies,"—ran a mysterious Rubicon, the outer shore of which Bettina's feet had not yet touched.
The hasty return of Mr. Sumner and Malcom with two lusty facchini, who seized the hand-luggage, the hurry to be among the first at the opening of the big doors upon the platform beside which their train was drawn up, and the little bustle of excitement consequent on the desire to secure an entire compartment for their party filled the next few minutes, and soon they were off.
The journey led through a charming country lying at the base of the Apennines. Picturesque castles and city-crowned hills against the background of blue mountains, many of whose summits were covered with gleaming snow, kept them looking and exclaiming with delight, until finally they reached Lucca, and, sweeping in a half circle around Monte San Giuliano, which, as Dante wrote, hides the two cities, Lucca and Pisa, from each other, they arrived at Pisa.
Although they expected to find an old, worn-out city, yet only Mr. Sumner and Mrs. Douglas were quite prepared for the dilapidated carriages that were waiting to take them from the station to their hotels; for the almost deserted streets, and the general pronounced air of decadence. Even the Arno seemed to have lost all freshness, and left all beauty behind as it flowed from Florence, and was here only a swiftly flowing mass of muddy waters.
After having taken possession of their rooms in one of the hotels which look out upon the river, and having lunched in the chilly dining room, which they found after wandering through rooms and halls filled with marble statues and bric-a-brac set forth to tempt the eyes of travellers, and so suggestive of the quarries in which the neighboring mountains are rich, they started forth for that famous group of sacred buildings which gives Pisa its present fame.
They were careful to enter the Cathedral by the richly wrought door in the south transept (the only old one left) and, passing the font of holy water, above which stands a Madonna and Child designed by Michael Angelo, sat down beneath Andrea del Sarto's St. Agnes, and listened to Mr. Sumner's description of the famous edifice.
He told them that the erection of this building marked the dawn of mediæval Italian art. It is in the old basilica style, modified by the dome over the middle of the top. Its columns are Greek and Roman, and were captured by Pisa in war. Its twelve altars are attributed to Michael Angelo (were probably designed by him), and the mosaics in the dome are by Cimabue. They wandered about looking at the old pictures, seeking especially those by Andrea del Sarto, who was the only artist familiar to them, whose paintings are there. They touched and set swinging the bronze lamp which hangs in the nave, and is said to have suggested to Galileo (who was born in Pisa), his first idea of the pendulum.
Then, going out, they climbed the famous Leaning Tower, and visited the Baptistery, where is Niccolo Pisano's wonderful sculptured marble pulpit.
Afterward they went into the Campo Santo, which fascinated them by its quaintness, so unlike anything they had ever seen before. They thought of the dead reposing in the holy earth brought from Mount Calvary; looked at the frescoes painted so many hundreds of years ago by Benozzo Gozzoli, pupil of Fra Angelico; at the queer interesting Triumph of Death and Last Judgment, so long attributed to Orcagna and now the subject of much dispute among critics; and then, wearied with seeing so much, they went into the middle of the enclosure and sat on the flagstones in the warm sun amid the lizards and early buttercups.
The next afternoon they went to Siena, and arrived in time to see, from their hotel windows, the sunset glory as it irradiated all that vast tract of country that stretches so grandly on toward Rome. Here they were to spend several days.
The young travellers were just beginning to experience the charm which belongs peculiarly to journeying in Italy—that of finding, one after another, these delightful old cities, each in its own characteristic setting of country, of history, of legend and romance.
They were full of the thrill of expected emotion,—that most delicious of all sensations.
And they received no disappointment from this old "red city." They saw its beautiful, incomparably beautiful, Cathedral, full of richness of sculpture and color in morning, noon, and evening light; and were never tired of admiring every part of it, from its graffito and mosaic pavement to its vaulted top filled with arches and columns, that reminded them of walking through a forest aisle and looking up through the interlaced branches of trees.
They visited the Cathedral Library, whose walls are covered with those historical paintings by Pinturrichio, the little deaf Umbrian painter, in whose design Raphael is said to have given aid.
But Mr. Sumner wished that the time they could give to the study of paintings be spent particularly among the works of the old Sienese masters. So they went again and again to the Accademia delle Belle Arti and studied those quaint, half-Byzantine works, full of pathetic grace, by Guido da Siena, by Duccio, Simone Martini, Lippo Memmi, and the Lorenzetti brothers.
Here, too, they found paintings by Il Sodoma, a High Renaissance artist, which pleased them more than all else. The Descent into Hades, where is the exquisitely lovely figure of Eve, whose mournful gaze is fixed on her lost son, toward whom the Saviour stoops with pity, drew them again and again to the hall where the worn fresco hangs; and after they had found, secluded in its little cabinet, that fragment which represents Christ Bound to a Column, of which Paul Bourget has written so tenderly, they voted this painter one of the most interesting they had yet found.
To Bettina, the "saint-lover," as Malcom had dubbed her, the city gained an added interest from having been the home of St. Catherine of Siena, and the others shared in some degree her enthusiasm. They made a pilgrimage to the house of St. Catherine, and all the relics contained therein were genuinely important to them, for, as Betty averred again and again:—
"You know she did live right here in Siena, so it must be true that this is her house and that these things were really hers."
They admired Palazzo Publico within and without; chiefly from without, for they could never walk from the Cathedral to their hotel without pausing for a time to look down into the picturesque Piazza del Campo where it stands, and admire its lofty walls, so mediæval in character, with battlemented cornice and ogive windows.
They walked down the narrow streets and then climbed them. They drove all over the city within its brown walls; and outside on the road that skirts them and affords such lovely views of the valley and Tuscan hills. They were sincerely sorry when at last the day came on which they must leave it and continue on their way.
"Why are we going to Orvieto, uncle?" asked Malcom, as they were waiting at Chiusi for their connection with the train from Florence to Orvieto.
"For several reasons, Malcom. In the first place, it is one of the best preserved of the ancient cities of Italy. So long ago as the eighth century it was called urbs vetus (old city) and its modern name is derived from that. Enclosed by its massive walls, it still stands on the summit of its rocky hill, which was called urbibentum by the old historian, Procopius. It is comparatively seldom visited by the ordinary tourist, and is thoroughly unique and interesting. In the second place, in its Cathedral are most valuable examples of Fra Angelico's, Benozzo Gozzoli's, and Signorelli's paintings; and, in the third place, I love the little old city, and never can go to or from Rome without spending at least a few hours there if it is possible for me to do so. Are these weighty enough reasons?" and Mr. Sumner drew his arm affectionately into that of the tall young man he loved so well. "But here comes our train."
"This cable-tram does not look very ancient," said Malcom, when a half hour later they stood on the platform of the little railway station at Orvieto and looked up at the hillside.
"No; its only merit is that it takes us up quickly," replied his mother, as they reached the waiting car. "All try if you can to get seats with back to the hill, so that you will command the view of this beautiful valley as we rise."
The city did indeed look foreign as they entered its wall, left the cable-car, and, in a hotel omnibus, rattled through the streets, so narrow that it is barely possible for two carriages to pass each other.
"Is everybody old here, do you suppose?" slyly whispered Bettina to Barbara, as they were taken in charge by a very old woman, who led the way to the rooms already engaged for the party. "I should be afraid to come here all alone; everything is so strange.
"Oh! but how pleasant," she added, brightly, as they were shown into a sweet, clean room, whose windows opened upon a small garden filled with rose-bushes, and whose two little beds were snowy white. "How delightful to be here a little later, when these roses will be in bloom!"
The brown withered face of the old chambermaid beamed upon the two young girls, and showed her satisfaction at their evident delight, and when she found that they could understand and speak a little of her own language, her heart was indeed won, and she bustled about seeking whatever she could do to add to their comfort, just for the pleasure of being near them.
"It must be a delightful place to visit," said Barbara, when finally they were alone, "but I should not like to have to live here for any length of time, I know; so gray, so old, so desolate it all seemed on our way through the streets," and a slight shiver ran through her at the remembrance.
Soon they went to the Cathedral; admired its façade, decorated with mosaics in softly brilliant colors until it looked like a great opal, shining against the deep blue sky; entered it and saw Fra Angelico's grand Christ, and calm, holy saints and angels; and, close to them (the most striking contrast presented in art), Luca Signorelli's wild, struggling, muscular figures.
They went into the photograph store on the corner for photographs, and to the little antique shop opposite, where they bought quaint Etruscan ornaments to take away as souvenirs,—and then gave themselves to exploring the city; after which they all confessed to having fallen somewhat under the spell of its charm.
The next afternoon found them on their way, around Lake Trasimeno, to Perugia.
Little had been said about this city, for their conversation had been engaged with those they had left behind. Malcom, only, had been looking up its history in his guide-book, and was interested to see the place that had been bold enough to set itself up even against Rome, and so had earned the title "audacious" inscribed on its citadel by one of the Popes.
"Magnificent in situation!" he exclaimed, and his eager eyes allowed nothing to escape them, as their omnibus slowly climbed the high hill, disclosing wide and ever widening views of the valley of the Tiber.
"I think," said Mr. Sumner, who was enjoying the delighted surprise of his party, "that Perugia is the most princely city in regard to position in all Italy. It is perched up here on the summit as an eagle on his aeried crag, and seems to challenge with proud defiance these lower cities, that, though each on its own hill-top, look as if slumbering in the valley below."
When a little later they were ushered into the brilliantly lighted dining-room, which was filled almost to overflowing with a gayly dressed and chattering crowd of guests, most of whom spoke the English language, all the way thither seemed as a dream. Only the voluminous head-dresses of the English matrons, and the composite speech of the waiters, told them surely that they were in a foreign land.
The next day, after a drive through the city, whose different quarters present some of the most interesting contrasts to be found in all Italy, Mr. Sumner took them to the Pinacoteca, or picture-gallery, and before looking at the pictures, told them in a few words about the early Umbrian school of painting.
"It grew out of the early Florentine, and is marked by many of the same characteristics. It was, however, much modified by the Sienese painting. It has less strength, as it has also, of course, less originality, than the Florentine. Its color, on the other hand, is better, stronger, and more harmonious. Its works possess a peculiar simplicity and devoutness—much tranquillity and gentleness of sentiment. This gallery is filled with examples of its masters' painting. It just breathes forth their spirit, and the best way to absorb it would be to come, each one of us alone, and give ourselves up to its spell. This is no place for criticism; only for feeling. Study particularly whatever you find of Francesca's, Perugino's and Bonfiglio's work.
"You all know," he continued, "that Perugino, who lived here and received his art name because he did so, had an academy of painting, and that Raphael was for some years one of his pupils. Perugino's influence on his pupils is strikingly apparent in their work. Raphael's early painting is exactly after his style. In Perugino's treatment of figures you will find a mannerism, especially in the way his heads are placed on the shoulders, and in his faces, which are full of sentiment, the wistful eyes often being cast upward, but sometimes veiled with heavily drooping lids.
"Look! here is one of his pictures. The oval faces with the peculiarly small mouth are characteristic. You will most readily recognize the work of this master after you have become a bit familiar with it."
He also took them to the Cambio, once a Chamber of Commerce, to see Perugino's frescoes, which he told them are more important in the world of art than are his easel pictures. Here they seated themselves against the wall wainscoted with rare wooden sculptures, on the same bench on which all lovers of the old painter's art who have visited Perugia through four centuries have sat.