The Convent of San Marco was decided upon as an appropriate place in which to spend this morning, and there, walking through the cloisters, adorned with their exquisite frescoes, Zelphine and I to some extent renewed our interest in life. Angela has gone off on a sketching trip to Certosa with Katharine Clarke. She has been wishing ever since she first saw it to get a sketch of the Michael Angelo well in the convent garden, and then I think that she is glad to be away from our questioning eyes for a day. Poor child! she looks pale and wan; the excitement of the last weeks has been too much for her. We are thinking seriously of leaving for Venice soon. Of course we have not seen half the things we wish to see in Florence, but we can never be quite as happy here as we have been, and Miss Morris writes from Venice, urging us to join her there for the full o' the moon.
Zelphine and I talked over our plans as we strolled through the cloisters, and in the little convent garden tried to fancy the great preacher of San Marco sitting under the "damask rose-tree," with his disciples gathered around him. The spirit of Savonarola dominates San Marco as that of St. Francis holds one spellbound in Assisi.
Some of the little cells of the brothers are adorned with exquisite frescoes by Fra Angelico, which must often have cheered their sad hearts. We stood in Savonarola's own small room, which is marked by a memorial tablet, and here in the adjoining chapel are his rosary and the crucifix before which he knelt in prayer.
Curious and unexpected, savoring more of the pride of life than of the humility of the spirit, in one of the cells of San Marco is an elaborate genealogical tree giving the descent of the monks. It was with some difficulty that we deciphered the name of Savonarola, now almost obliterated by the kisses of the faithful.
One of the most beautiful paintings in the convent is a Last Supper, by Ghirlandajo, in the smaller refectory. This picture, with its lovely details, decorated background, and well-spread board, does not represent poor men or fishermen at meat; but in Italy one becomes accustomed to the rich surroundings of Madonnas, saints, and apostles. Realism is not demanded; it is enough if one finds reverence and devotion; and as Mr. Henry James says of this picture, "the figures in their varied naturalness have a dignity and sweetness of attitude which admits of numberless reverential constructions." The grouping is charming, and through open arcades one looks beyond at a garden of full-fruited orange-trees, clusters of fruit are scattered over the table, strange birds fly through the air, and a peacock perched on the wall looks down upon the sacred feast. I shall always recall this painting, so lovely in composition, so rich in color, when I think of San Marco—this and Fra Angelico's beautiful Annunciation, which is familiar to us all. We shall not see them soon again, or any of the other pictures that we love so well in the Uffizi and the Pitti and the Belle Arti; instead, we shall be studying the Carpaccios in Venice.
May 23d.
The skies have cleared to-day and life looks brighter, yet this is the anniversary of a most tragic event, the execution of Savonarola. The great Piazza della Signoria has been crowded with people all morning; there have been processions, and services in the churches, and hundreds of men and women going to offer their tribute of flowers to the memory of the great martyr for conscience' sake, until the tablet that marks the spot where Savonarola's body was burned is heaped with wreaths, crosses, and bunches of roses of various colors. Some of these offerings have cards attached to them with Savonarola's name written on them; upon others are inscriptions and sentiments, the one that most impressed us being "To Savonarola, a Martyr to Democratic Christianity." If time has its revenges, it has also its justifications!
Beau Rivage, Venice, May 25th.
As we first saw Venice from the train, across a stretch of green marsh, its domes, spires, churches, and bridges seemed to rise out of the water just as you see them in Turner's pictures, with such an atmosphere as that great artist knew how to paint, veiling the delicate ethereal beauty of this bride of the sea. We were aroused from our rapt contemplation of the scene before us by the bustle and commotion of the arrival of the train and questions about luggage, hotels, and the proper fees to be given to the men who pushed our gondola off from the landing. If ever trunks are endurable it is when, as in Venice, one glides away with them in a gondola over summer seas.
There was some sort of a celebration last night, something special, I mean, for Venice must always appear more or less en fête. When we stepped into a gondola after dinner, the many boats with their gay pennons of all colors and the skiffs with their rich brown and yellow sails made the Grand Canal appear like a carnival of nations. And what a background for a carnival is the Canalazzo, as the Venetians call it, with its long vista of palaces, their pali painted in various colors, the Dogana surmounted by its curious weathercock, Fortune, aptly typifying the vicissitudes of Venice, Santa Maria della Salute glowing in the evening light with the shades of a bride rose, San Giorgio of a deep red, the Doge's Palace with its long, low water-front, the Bridge of Sighs spanning the dark canal that lies between a palace and a prison, and out on the open Piazzetta the two huge granite pillars which we see in so many pictures! One of these pillars is surmounted by the statue of St. Theodore, an ancient and now deposed patron saint of Venice, the other by the Lion of St. Mark, eager, watchful, dominant, clearly defined against the blue of the sky—for here the twilight lasts long, and far into the night the sky is of an exquisite, translucent blue such as one usually sees far north, much farther north than Venice. This is a part of the atmospheric charm, which makes it as impossible to describe this city of pearl and opaline tints and golden and crimson glows as it is to put the colors of a sunset on paper. Later the moon rose, and we floated over a silver sea, while strains of music, the cries of the gondoliers, and the songs of pleasure-parties were wafted to us across the water. Zelphine's eyes shone with rapturous delight; the excitement of the stimulating air and the beauty of the scene sent the red blood to Angela's cheeks until they flushed to as deep a rose as under the fire of the Count de B.'s most extravagant compliments, and I—well, I have no idea of how I looked, I only know that I felt as if every craving for beauty that I had known in all my life was satisfied entirely.
Miss Morris, who had already experienced her first thrills of delight "upon such a night as this," watched us in silence and we were thus spared the distraction of voluble enthusiasm; of deep, restrained enthusiasm there was quite enough for one gondola.
May 27th.
We are lodged in a pleasant, airy hotel on the Grand Canal where it begins to widen out toward the sea, and opposite the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore. This hotel is not absolutely in the canal, like most of the houses of this "water-logged town," as some Western traveller dubbed it, but has a strip of pavement in front, just enough dry land to make us realize that we still belong to the earth. On general principles I should say that the Venetians never sleep, for over the stone flagging between our hotel and the Canalazzo people are tramping all night, laughing, chatting, and singing. And we, in sympathy with them, sit by the windows for hours, feeling that the nights are too radiantly beautiful to be devoted to so prosaic a business as sleeping, which, as Angela remarks, "can be done in any old place." The child has so considerately refrained from having "the time of her life" in Italy and from measuring things generally by "galores," that we occasionally allow her to indulge in an innocent bit of slang.
May 28th.
Our days glide by as swiftly as those of the "pilgrim stranger" in the hymn that we used to sing at Sunday School. We spend our mornings in churches or at the Accademia, revelling in the gorgeous canvases of Tintoretto, Titian, Paul Veronese, and Carpaccio. The color in Carpaccio's Presentation of Christ in the Temple is beautiful, and as vivid as if it had been painted yesterday, quite equal to Ghirlandajo's in his Adoration of the Magi, which we saw at the Foundling Hospital in Florence. The Child in Carpaccio's Presentation is a happy, smiling human baby, and the three little angels playing upon musical instruments are charming. The most fascinating of these cherubs, however, are in Giovanni Bellini's Madonnas at the Church of the Redentore and at the Frari. Zelphine has bought a dozen photographs of her favorite cherub in the picture in which the Madonna holds the sleeping Babe upon her lap, while the two darling cherubs play to him on mandolins. The little fellow on the right is not as pretty and chubby as his brother; but to prevent jealousy between the two I have bought some of his pictures for my collection.
Of course we spend many hours in and around St. Mark's, for, like the bride of the Scriptures, this church is beautiful within and without. The day after our arrival, on our way home from the Posta and the Rialto, through the Merceria, a part of Venice in which one may really walk a considerable distance, we suddenly stepped into the Piazza of San Marco, with its fluttering pigeons, its arcades, its Clock-tower, and at the end the marvellous façade of the church, rich in color, its gilded mosaics glittering in the sun and the "glorious team of horses" dashing toward us. Since then, wherever we may be going, we always seem to cross the Square of St. Mark, and by sunlight or twilight or moonlight, or even electric light, by which we saw San Marco last night when we went to Florian's for ices, it is always bewilderingly beautiful. Rich and varied, "gorgeous in the wild, luxurious fancies of the East," is St. Mark's; almost too gorgeous it would be, had not time softened and mellowed its vivid colors, and if its setting were not against a sea and sky of surpassing brilliancy.
Our afternoons and evenings are spent on the water or at the Lido, where we have tea in the garden, or with one of our Philadelphia friends who has a cabin, after the Venetian fashion, on this narrow strip of land that runs out into the ocean. It is hot now at mid-day, and one needs to keep out of the sun between the hours of one and four; but after that there is usually a breeze and always coolness at the Lido.
We spent some hours to-day in the Palazzo Rezzonico, which now belongs to Mr. Robert Barrett Browning. One large room on the second floor is filled with furniture and pictures from the Casa Guidi in Florence, among other things Mrs. Browning's little table upon which she wrote her songs for Italy, and her small, old-fashioned, green leather writing-desk, which looked as if she had left it but yesterday, with pen and paper and some pressed flowers inside. On one side of the room, toward the canal, in a recess in the wall, is a little shrine that the poet's son has placed here in memory of his mother. In gold letters on a white ground are the well-known lines from the tablet upon the Casa Guidi.
The poet Browning spent the last weeks of his life in a suite of rooms on the lower floor of the Palazzo Rezzonico, and here he died, which fact is recorded upon a tablet on the outside wall. We stopped to reread the inscription upon the gray palace wall. A young girl who was with her mother in a gondola quite near was reading aloud in English the Italian words upon the tablet, "Robert Browning died in this house, December 12, 1889," and the impressive and quite untranslatable "Venezia pose." With a questioning look at us she repeated the familiar lines from "De Gustibus":
"Open my heart and you will see,
Graven inside of it, 'Italy,'"
adding, "But I don't see where the poetry comes in."
Although Zelphine, amiable as she is, is quite capable of withering and shrivelling with a glance any one who speaks slightingly of Robert Browning's poetry, she turned to the girl and said quite pleasantly, "No, there are no rhymes or jingles, only the deep thought of a great poet who loved Italy truly."
"Oh," exclaimed the girl, "I did not understand."
"Evidently," said Zelphine, as we rowed out into the Grand Canal, "and for the same reason that Kipling's girl of 'the rag and the bone and the hank of hair' did not understand."
We really should have become used to people who do not understand, we meet so many of them.
Riva San Lorenzo, Verona,
Sunday, June 5th.
You will be surprised to learn that we have quitted our beloved Venice, and quite suddenly, which is, I believe, the only way that we could have disentangled ourselves from the allurements of that fairy city. In the last week quite a number of our friends arrived from Florence and elsewhere, and there have been afternoon teas at the Lido and at Mrs. Allen's little apartment on the Grand Canal nearly opposite the palace of his superseded majesty, Don Carlos of Spain, water-parties every night, and just as we were stepping into a gondola yesterday morning, en route for Padua, a note was handed to Zelphine containing a charming invitation from Mrs. B., to take tea and spend the afternoon with her at the Palazzino Tasso. She has been at Borca in the Dolomites for a fortnight, and wrote that she would be at home in time to receive us on Monday afternoon. So you see how difficult it was for us to get away from this fascinating place; but having planned to take this little giro with Miss Morris, we set our faces resolutely westward.
We spent a day at Padua, which is on the way to Verona, as there are some frescoes by Mantegna, Titian, Giotto, and Palma Vecchio that Miss Morris was particularly anxious to see. Our visit to the Basilica of St. Anthony of Padua, which with its seven domes is larger than San Marco, was not entirely satisfactory, as a high mass was being celebrated before the altar above which are the Donatello bronzes, and we were obliged to return in the afternoon or give up all thought of seeing those superb reliefs. At the Scuola del Carmine we were abundantly compensated for all other disappointments, as here we found a series of frescoes representing events in the life of the parents of the Blessed Virgin, as realistic in design and as frank in execution as the Giotto paintings in Assisi. We wondered in what fertile brain had originated the pathetic story here represented by Giotto and his pupils. Miss Morris says that she intends to look up the story of Joachim and Anna in the lives of the saints, assuring us that we shall find a continuation of their domestic trials and experiences on the walls of the Brera at Milan. No frescoes except those at Assisi have interested us as much as these, not on account of their beauty, but for their human feeling. These early Paduan masters treated sacred subjects with realistic simplicity and yet with perfect reverence and devotional spirit.
On the piazza of the Cappella San Giorgio is Donatello's fine bronze statue of General Gattamelata. This statue, the Marcus Aurelius in Rome, and the Colleoni in Venice are considered the greatest equestrian statues in the world. Beautiful as is this Gattamelata, which possesses all the spirit and grace of Donatello, it does not compare with the Colleoni. No man of bronze or marble ever sat his horse with the strength and ease with which the grand, dominant figure of the Italian condottiere sits his superb charger and rides out boldly into space. Miss Morris says that we may be pleased to know that Mr. Ruskin quite agreed with us about the Colleoni.
As Verona is only a two hours' ride from Padua, we reached here in time to gain a general view of its fine old sculptured buildings, arches, and bridges, and to see in the glow of sunset Diocletian's famous amphitheatre, which looks almost as large as the Coliseum and is more complete, as its stones have not been carted off so ruthlessly for the building of palaces.
This morning we saw the Casa di Romeo and the balconied home of Giulietta, sorry-looking abodes for youth and beauty such as theirs, although some of the carvings on these old buildings and the exterior frescoes still suggest bygone grandeur. A beautiful outside stairway in the Piazza dei Signori near the Scaliger tombs so charmed Miss Morris that she stopped to sketch it, while we visited the cathedral and several churches.
We are now sitting upon a balcony—the place of all others to sit upon a balcony, even if there is not a Romeo in sight—listening to the song of the rushing Adige which flows beneath us, and looking out upon the mountains beyond. Zelphine and I are writing, while Miss Morris and Angela make water-color sketches of the scene before us, and try to get on their brushes some of the soft, rich shades of brown and yellow that time and the light of the setting sun have given to the ancient palace of the Scaligers and to the fourteenth-century bridge that spans the river a short distance from this hotel. On the terrace beneath our balcony some Italians are dining and chatting gaily. When the lovely sunset glow has quite faded out and the evening light has deepened to twilight, we shall join them and dine al fresco.
To-morrow we take a train for Milan, that is, if the sketches are satisfactory; if not, we may stay here another day.
Hotel de l'Europe, June 7th.
Instead of writing to you from Milan, I am sending you another letter from Venice. A strange thing happened yesterday, or, rather, two strange things have happened. Zelphine came to my room at the Riva San Lorenzo late on Sunday night, her face wearing the anxious look that betokens an uneasy mind.
"What is the matter, Zelphine?" I asked. "You look as if you were trying to make up your mind." We have long since decided that this is the mental process that is most wearing to the brain of the traveller, and I was not surprised when she said, "Yes, that is the trouble. I have attempted three separate times to answer Emily B.'s note, and I simply cannot do it."
"Oh, I took for granted that you had mailed that note on Saturday evening."
"No, Margaret, I have never written it at all. The truth is, I want to see Mrs. B. so much that I have almost decided to return to Venice to-morrow, instead of going on to Milan."
"That is rather against your principles, Zelphine, you are so much opposed to doubling journeys and retracing steps," I said, trying to appear judicial in my tone, although I was delighted at the idea of returning to Venice, even for an afternoon.
"Yes, I know," said Zelphine, quite penitently, "but I may not soon again have a chance of seeing Emily B. I could meet you in Milan in a day or two."
"No, Zelphine," I said, in the tone of one who confers a distinguished favor, "I will go back to Venice with you. Angela may prefer to stay here, if Miss Morris remains."
"Angela will go with you," said our youngest, opening her door, which was scarcely necessary, as the transom was already open. "There is a blue necklace in one of those fascinating shops up on the piazza near the Clock-tower that I have been regretting ever since we left Venice. I thought it would be an extravagance to buy it, but nothing is extravagant when you want it so much, and when this is the very last chance to get it."
"Nothing," said Zelphine, laughing at Angela's comforting sophistry, "when your father's purse is always ready to honor your demands upon it. But what will Miss Morris say?"
That lady came to her door as if in answer to Zelphine's question, saying, "I have been wishing that I had bought another of the pretty lace collars that they are positively giving away in one of the little shops opposite the Church of San Zaccaria. I shall not return to buy it, but will commission Angela to bring it to Milan for me."
With so many good reasons for returning to Venice, I am sure that you will agree with me in thinking that it would have been flying in the face of Providence and turning our backs upon the gifts of the gods not to have retraced our steps.
I must confess to a positive thrill of delight when I again beheld the shining water-ways of Venice. Even the great warehouses, with their heaps of gorgeous dyes and stuffs, have a picturesqueness of their own; the palaces, no matter how dilapidated they may be, stand out rich and sumptuous in the sunshine; luxuriant vines depend from their balconies and drape the seamed and cracked walls; great barges heavy with their golden freight of fruit and melons go by; and ever on the steps are the children, "those untiring spectators of life." Why those children playing on the very edge of doom do not all come to an untimely end no man knows. The very small children are often fastened by a strap to the arm of the mother or grandmother, who knits placidly while her nursling plays on the steps near the water; but for those little boys who hop in and out of boats and hang over the piers as they gaze into the canals there must be an especially detailed guardian angel—the same, probably, who saved Mr. Cross from instant death when he fell into the Grand Canal. By the way, we are stopping at the Hôtel de l'Europe, where he and George Eliot spent their honeymoon, and where this accident occurred which might have ended so tragically. You may remember that at the time there was some foolish talk about suicide; but we, who stand on these balconies and terraces overhanging the water, realize that drowning and suicidal intent do not need to go hand in hand in Venice.
Our afternoon at the Palazzino Tasso was delightful. We had tea and much pleasant conversation with Mrs. B., in her pretty drawing-room. As she has lived long in Venice, and in consequence of her own literary connections has met most of the writers who have come here, she had many pleasant and amusing recollections to relate of the Storys, Mr. Browning, and many other great folk.
We were afterwards taken into the large garden, where dear old-fashioned pinks and tall annunciation lilies filled the air with delicious fragrance. Mrs. B. generously broke off for us great heads of lily-blooms, which we carried off with us, sweet mementos of an afternoon that was well worth coming back to Venice for.
As we drew near our hotel we noticed on the terrace a portly figure that had a familiar look, as it stood there silhouetted against the façade of the Europe. A strange light shone from Zelphine's eyes; but it was Angela who broke the silence by exclaiming, "That gentleman on the landing really looks like Mr. Leonard!"
"It is Mr. Leonard," I said, as we drew nearer, and thus we recognized him first, although he was waiting there for us. He naturally did not expect to see a gondola full of women bearing tall lily-stalks in their hands, looking for all the world like part of a Venetian pageant. The smile that irradiated Walter Leonard's face, when he finally recognized the three Botticelli ladies as those he had come to seek, was beautiful to behold. The mingling of surprise and delight on Zelphine's face entirely exonerated her from any complicity in this sudden appearance, although Angela and I chaff her unmercifully about her determination to return to see Mrs. B., and ask her if she does not believe more strongly than ever in telepathy. It was a rather curious coincidence, was it not? Yet, to quote a very trite saying, "truth is stranger than fiction."
Villa d'Este, Lake Como, June 15th.
Since my letter of June 7th, telling you of Mr. Leonard's sudden arrival in Venice, I have not sent you a line, not even an announcement of the engagement which of course soon followed. How or when the important affair was settled I know not. I can only tell you that the happy pair came to me with shining faces and asked for my blessing, which I freely gave. Angela has so far withheld her approval of the match, and is evidently very jealous of the "suitor," as she is pleased to call Mr. Leonard. She had begun to look upon Zelphine as her particular property, and Mr. Leonard's attempts to propitiate this unrelenting goddess are really quite pathetic. He offers her flowers every time that he brings them to Zelphine, and then, as he is far too polite to overlook my claims as chaperon-in-chief, I come in for my share of votive offerings.
Zelphine is so pleased with her own estate that she wishes to see all her friends equally happy. When Angela is pale or tired, she looks at her compassionately, and whispers to me that she is evidently regretting the Count de B. If Angela regrets any one, it is not the Count. She has long and frequent letters from Ludovico, from which she reads me choice bits, and there is always a message for me. Angela and I are naturally thrown very much upon our own resources, and the last days in Venice would have been rather dull for her had they not been enlivened by a number of entertainments given by our friends there in honor of the fidanzati. At one particularly charming afternoon tea, at the Lido, Angela was so much admired by a young Italian that I should have had another Count de B. affair on my hands had we not left Venice soon after. Zelphine and Walter Leonard would have been satisfied to stay on indefinitely, spending their afternoons and evenings floating about in gondolas and their mornings in the shops buying presents for the children at home, whom the mamma elect has already adopted with enthusiasm. We were, however, fairly driven away from Venice last week by the heat and the mosquitoes, which are said to be unusually venomous this year. We have noticed that in whatever place we happen to be stopping, the disagreeables are always unusual.
Having spent most of the beautiful springtime in cities, we concluded to come directly to this pretty place on Lake Como, from whence we can make day-trips to Milan, which is only a little over an hour from here. The Villa d'Este, once a royal villa, now a delightfully comfortable hotel, was for some years the home of the discarded wife of "the most elegant gentleman in Europe." The entrance-hall and stairways are handsome and imposing, and the rooms spacious and airy. We breakfast in the salle de conversation and dine in a great banqueting-hall. The grounds of the villa are quite extensive, and during her residence here Queen Caroline interested herself in improving them in every way, so Dr. A. tells me, for, to add to our pleasure, my "Doctor Antonio" from San Remo is spending the month of June here. He knows every inch of this beautiful region and promises us many excursions in his motor car.
Picturesque as is the view of the lake and mountains from the front piazza and terrace, the part of the grounds that we most enjoy is the hillside behind the house, which abounds in mountain streams and cascades over which rustic bridges have been thrown, and where many wildwood paths lead to vine-covered pavilions, temples of love and temples of fame, these latter adorned with busts of distinguished men—all so odd and foreign, and so different from our idea of pleasure-grounds!
Adjoining the grounds of the Villa d'Este are those of the Villa Maximilian, which was the home of the unfortunate Archduke Maximilian and his wife during the early and happy years of their married life. The estate now belongs to a wealthy Milanese gentleman, who has had the good taste to make few changes in the house and gardens. This afternoon we all rowed across the lake to the Villa Pliniana on the opposite shore. This really classic spot owes its name to a remarkable spring of water near by, which Pliny speaks of in his letters. To-morrow we expect to make an all-day excursion to Bellagio and Cadenabbia. There are so many attractive resorts on the shores of this lake that we have not yet planned for a day in Milan at the Brera, whose wonders we hope to enjoy in the good company of Miss Morris.
June 17th.
I have a most humiliating confession to make: yesterday, in getting off the boat at this landing, I made a misstep and sprained my ankle. It is not a serious affair, I fancy, "pas grand chose," as Dr. A. says, but it is most vexatious, as we may be obliged to stay here for a fortnight, and we really need a couple of weeks in Paris to get Zelphine's trousseau and make other preparations for the wedding, which is to be in London the second week in July. I think the groom elect is secretly rejoiced over this delay, although openly most sympathetic and considerate, as it gives him a longer time here with Zelphine, and really, if I had looked all over Europe for a fitting scene for an accident, and with a view to lovers, I could not have found a more suitable place than this. Mr. Leonard says that I apologize so abjectly for what is not my fault, but my misfortune, that I remind him of a story that Dr. William H. Furness used to tell of a saintly old lady who frequently and formally apologized to her assembled family for being so long a-dying.
It is inglorious, as Zelphine says, to have had an accident here that I might much more conveniently have had stepping off a ferry-boat in New York or Brooklyn, to which Angela adds, "Yes, it would have been so much more up-to-date to have been thrown from an auto car, and it would certainly have been more dangerous."
I retail these bits of conversation to prove to you that my companions are disposed to be patient and even merry over my misfortune and their delay. And I, aside from the inconvenience, have nothing to complain of. I suffer little pain, under Dr. A.'s skilful treatment, and here I am, laid up in lavender on a sofa, in a room so spacious and elegant that I think it must have been Queen Caroline's boudoir. The walls and ceiling are decorated with Loves and Graces, and the long windows open out upon a balcony from which there is a fine view of the lake and the mountains beyond. I have more books than I could read in a month, sent me by the English people in the house. Zelphine and Angela bring me flowers and fruits, delicious great black cherries and a fruit unknown to us which they call nespole. These last I fear were stolen from Maximilian's garden, as the nespole hang most temptingly over the terraces there.
Dr. A. entertains me with interesting traditions of the neighborhood. This morning he brought me an old French book which gives a history of this villa, which was not, as I had supposed, a former possession of the princely house of Este, one of whose villas we saw at Tivoli. The name seems to have been purely a fancy on the part of the Queen. I am to have some passages translated for my benefit from a recent book written by an Italian upon Queen Caroline and her life at the Villa d'Este.
"A swallow without a nest, which for many years flew from city to city in Europe, Africa, and Asia," this author calls the unhappy Queen, upon which Dr. A. shrugs his shoulders, and says that bad as her husband was, he, for his part, has little admiration for Caroline of Brunswick. I have always entertained the most profound sympathy for this unfortunate lady, and we naturally have animated discussions over her rights and wrongs. I fancy that Signor Clerci is entirely on Dr. A.'s side of the argument, otherwise he would not so cheerfully offer to read me passages about the Queen's life at the Villa d'Este.
June 19th.
Last evening, to our surprise and joy, Mrs. Coxe arrived. She had learned that we were here, and of my accident, from Miss Morris, whom she met in Milan, and came at once, like the good Samaritan that she is, to cheer and comfort me. Now that I have so agreeable a companion, the rest of my party will not hesitate to go to Milan for a day at the Brera.
Mrs. Coxe is a perfect dear, and entertains me immensely; but, with all the blessings that I have been recounting to you, I feel a bit homesick to-night. Am I not unreasonable? The truth is, I shall miss Zelphine sadly if she and Mr. Leonard sail in August and if Angela and I do not return until October. Is there any chance of your getting over to England this summer? You had better come in time for the wedding.
Villa d'Este, Lake Como, June 27th.
Dear Mamma:
When you next send your only daughter abroad, I advise you to choose for her guardians and companions the young and giddy rather than the mature and sedate. Here am I, the youngest of the party and "the likeliest," as Aunt Lyddy would say, in the curious position of chaperon to my elders and betters, which is not easy, as I have never learned the art of being in two places at one time. If it were not for Mrs. Coxe I really do not know what would become of me, as my happy couples usually choose to be in different places. I generally attach myself to Z. and Mr. Leonard, who treat me with studied politeness, although I am quite sure that they would rather have me in the lake or anywhere else than just where I am, tagging after them. It seems more important to chaperon Z. thoroughly, because she attracts so much attention. Her white hair and dark eyes always give her quite an air, and now, since Mr. Leonard's appearance upon the scene, she has dropped ten years from her shoulders and developed into a pinkness and whiteness of complexion that might cause grave doubts on the part of her chaperon were she not generally in attendance at her toilet. Why Z. should be any happier than she was before Mr. Leonard claimed her for his own I fail to understand. She had everything that heart could desire—health, good looks, plenty of money, and freedom to travel to the ends of the earth with Margaret and me, and the certainty that she could have Mr. Leonard at her feet whenever she wished, which Margaret and I think is quite an ideal position for a lover. If he had not followed Z. over here and taken advantage of her being in a strange country, with no one but two helpless women to protect her, and made love to her in gondolas by moonlight, and sighed for her under the Bridge of Sighs, and talked of their future happiness under the Ponte del Paradiso and other perfect places, I doubt whether she would have accepted him, for several years at least—and then the children! Mrs. Coxe says that Z. had better take all the pleasure she can get out of this trip, as she will not be able to get away soon again, with all those children hanging around her. But I must tell you the rest of the story, as it is simply thrilling and as good as a novel.
For some time I have had my suspicions about Margaret. I told you how sad and depressed she was when we sailed, and what an effort she made to appear cheerful. I suppose she really did care for that Mr. Grant, although you and papa thought him a rather poor affair and not at all worthy of her. In the last two months she has been quite different, and positively gay at times, especially so on mail days. Z. and I both noticed this, or, rather, Z. did notice it before she gave up her interest in the things around her. We didn't think so much of the long letters that Margaret was always sending off to Mr. Ramsay, because, as Z. said, they were old friends, and she was quite frank about the letters and assured us that they were for his mother's entertainment as much as for Mr. Ramsay's. This sounded very nice and proper, and as Margaret always seemed a truthful person, I believed her, and so did Z., but then Z. believes in every one until they are proved to be thieves and pickpockets. What really aroused my suspicions was Margaret's absent manner, on occasions. Several times, when I have come upon her suddenly, sitting in one of the romantic seats up on Queen Caroline's terrace, with a book in her lap and her eyes gazing off into space, she has started, blushed, and begun to read her book diligently. This was of course before the accident. Since then she has been in a constant state of apology for keeping us here so long, and spends her days studying maps and guide-books to find out how fast we can travel when we are once fairly started. Mr. Leonard and Z. both assure her that they could not be happier anywhere else, and their looks certainly do not belie their words; and I tell her that nothing could please me better than to stay in this lovely, cool place, where we may make a new excursion every day, and Dr. A. is always ready to take me in his motor car if only Z. and Mr. Leonard will sit in the back of the car to do propriety. He seems to forget that I am chaperoning them; but it really doesn't make any difference so long as the proprieties are attended to—you know how much more exacting they are over here than at home.
Count B.'s ideas of propriety used to amuse us so much when we were in Florence. He would pay me compliments by the yard about my cheeks and my hair, speeches that we should think rather bad form at home, and yet when he was walking with me, he would never by any chance go out of Margaret's or Z.'s sight. At first this made me feel uncomfortable, as if he really was afraid that I should do or say something improper. Ludovico Baldini, who has been in America long enough to know something of our ways, was much amused when I said this, but insisted that the Count was quite right, as a jeune fille must be rigidly shadowed by her chaperon on the Continent.
Dr. A. is a really delightful person. We generally call him "Doctor Antonio," because he reminds Margaret of the Doctor in that queer, old, deadly romantic novel that you are so fond of, and then his Italian name is so difficult to twist around our American tongues! He and Mrs. Coxe have an occasional tilt, which helps to liven us up. She is perfectly dear and the best fun in the world, but she is a bit bossy, all the same, and sets up her opinion against the Doctor's, because, as she is so fond of saying, "Having brought up a family of eight children, of course I know more than these young physicians."
Yesterday when Dr. A. had Margaret out on the terrace in a rolling chair, he said, "To-morrow we will have a little turn in the auto car." To this Mrs. Coxe objected quite decidedly, said that it was madness to attempt so much exertion, etc. The Doctor listened to all that she had to say, with the most angelic patience, and when she was suddenly called away to receive a visitor, Margaret smiled, and said quite apologetically, "It is quite evident, Dr. A., that Mrs. Coxe is the daughter of a major-general."
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Dr. A., shrugging his shoulders, "I quite understand. I knew the daughters of General Garibaldi, and they were just the same."
"And," said Margaret, "we shall have our trip in the auto car?"
"Yes, yes, I never allow any one to interfere with my practice."
"Even the mother of eight grown children, all well brought up?"
The Doctor is bright and quick at catching on to our little jokes and asides. I like him so much that I had almost made up my mind to Margaret's marrying a foreigner, when—but I must not run ahead of my story, and of course I have no reason to think that he has asked her to marry him.
This afternoon (it really seems as if two whole weeks had passed since yesterday) Dr. A. said that he thought Margaret could stand the ride to Varese, which is about eighteen miles from Como. We were all delighted, and after déjeuner we set forth in gay good spirits, Margaret on the front seat with Dr. A. and I behind with Zelphine and Mr. Leonard.
Our way lay through a fine farming country with fertile fields and bits of woodland here and there, quite different from the rocky hillsides covered with grape-vines and olives that we have seen so much of all through Italy. The roads are fine, and a rush through the fresh air is so intoxicating to me, as you know, that even the company of two lovers, so absorbed in each other that they probably did not know whether they were in Italy or in Ireland, was quite powerless to take off the keen edge of my enjoyment, beside which I could talk to Margaret and Dr. A., who pointed out all the places of interest to us as we sped along. We did not stop in the town of Varese, as the Grand Hôtel on Lake Varese was our destination. Here we sat out in the garden overlooking the lake, with a fine view of the whole chain of the Western Alps spread before us, "a fine panorama," as the Doctor calls it. We had tea on the terrace and enjoyed ourselves generally, Dr. A. and Mr. Leonard trying which could tell the most amusing stories.
We flew home from Varese on the wings of the wind, far faster than we made the trip there, and as we drew up before the villa, Margaret laughing and talking to Dr. A., by far the gayest of the party, whom should we see standing on the piazza but Mr. Ramsey!
Such a curious expression crossed his face when he saw Margaret—surprise, wonder, something like pain; and she grew so pale that I expected her to faint the next minute. Dr. A. whisked a bottle of something out of his pocket and called for water and gave Margaret some drops, all in such a professional manner that Mr. Ramsay's spirits revived as quickly as if he had taken the dose himself, and by the time the invalid was ready to get out of the car both their faces were as red as peonies. The Doctor and Mr. Ramsay then shook hands in a friendly manner, which was a relief to my mind, as for the first few minutes visions of pistols and coffee at five o'clock in the morning floated through my brain. They really did glare at each other at first. As they helped Margaret out very carefully, a question suddenly occurred to me: how did Mr. Ramsay know anything about the sprained ankle? Papa always said that I would make a good detective. I turned suddenly to Mr. Leonard with my question. From his confused and unsatisfactory answer, and a quizzical look in his eyes when he met Mr. Ramsay's, I am almost certain that there has been some collusion between the two. I have been counting the days since Margaret's accident, and I find that Mr. Ramsay sailed two days after it. He took a fast steamer and landed at Southampton, all of which confirms me in my suspicion that Mr. Leonard sent him a cablegram. You don't approve of betting, mammy dear, but I am quite willing to wager my new Leghorn hat, which Margaret says is very becoming, against Z.'s fine pearl necklace, that Mr. Leonard gave her, that he had a hand in this, having learned by experience that sudden appearances are sometimes the most satisfactory ways of settling difficulties of long standing. I shall probably know all about this some day, and whatever Mr. Leonard did or did not do, he will doubtless be forgiven, as from present appearances I should say that Margaret is incapable of cherishing anger against any living thing.
June 30th.
And now, dearest mammy, what do you think of my two frisky chaperons, who planned this trip for their own improvement and mine?
There is to be a double wedding, of course. Z.'s date is postponed until some time later in July; as soon as the happy day is named I will let you know.
Before I close this long letter I must tell you of the wedding journey that Margaret and Mr. Ramsay are planning—nothing less sentimental than to come back to Italy and visit all the places that she has been writing about in her letters. They, the places, will not look half so pretty in the autumn as in the spring, but that won't make much difference to them. If they invite me very cordially, I may go with them. You see, I shall be reduced to the necessity of tagging on to one of these couples, or of marrying some one myself for the sake of having a travelling companion, unless you and papa come over here and look after me a bit. Another reason for your coming: there is no proper person to give Margaret away. Mrs. Coxe says that I shall have to do it, as the dignified chaperon of the party. I really think that this and my unprotected position are sufficient reasons for papa's coming to the wedding, so make your plans, like a dear, and work papa up to the starting-point. Dr. Vernon is to join us in Paris, so Z. will be given away by her natural protector.
Mrs. Coxe is going up to London for the wedding, and I am quite certain that Margaret's young Italian friend, Ludovico Baldini, will be there, and perhaps the Marquis de B.—who knows? I for one do not.
Margaret's ankle is almost well; she walked the length of the piazza to-day, with the Doctor on one side and Mr. Ramsay on the other. The Doctor is delighted with the improvement in his patient, and yet he looks quite serious when we talk of leaving next week for Lucerne, en route for Paris. Here he comes to ask me to take a spin in his auto car. As Margaret and Z. are both up on the hillside with their suitors (I have given up all attempts to chaperon them), I shall have to look up Mrs. Coxe and make her go with me. She hates automobiles, poor soul!—says they take away her breath and make her heart thump, but she will have to go all the same. I shouldn't in the least object to going with Dr. A. alone, but he would be scandalized at the mere mention of such a reckless proceeding, so Mrs. Coxe must be sacrificed to the proprieties.
I wish you knew Dr. A. He is a perfect dear. I am sure that you would like him.
This is the longest letter that I have ever written, but then there was so much to tell you, and as Margaret seems to have forgotten how to write, some one must do it for the party. Hoping to see you and papa in Paris or London, believe me
Your affectionate daughter,
Angela.