HER ILLNESS FOLLOWING THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR
There are few letters and no diary during the winter of 1871 and 1872.
Clara Barton was at Carlsruhe endeavoring to recover from nervous
overstrain, and learning to write without much use of her eyes. She
supposed that she had finished her work for French relief, but a letter
from a Boston committee informed her that they still had funds for
this purpose, but were not having good success in the matter of local
distribution. They begged her to take charge of what remained of their
working fund. Almost blinded though she was, she set out in winter
and traversed again a route that had become familiar to her, through
Mülhausen, Montbéliard, and Strassburg. Her work for women was still
going on, and she gave it substantial encouragement and repeated her
Christmas banquet of the preceding year in a New Year’s Eve banquet at
Strassburg. She arranged for the continuation of the work in a way that
did not pauperize the women. Then she returned to Carlsruhe and spent
the remainder of the winter. Our chief knowledge of her oversight of
these activities, as well as of her living arrangements during this
period, is contained in a letter to her sister Sarah. She had been
living in a hotel, but had taken lodgings of her own, had a little maid
to wait on her, and was able to get a breakfast to her liking, which
was beefsteak and baked potato, instead of the Continental breakfast
of hard rolls and a gallon of coffee. The beefsteak for breakfast is
interesting because Clara Barton ate comparatively little meat. She
never, however, became a strict vegetarian. Even in her old age she now
and then indulged in the luxury of a good, thick beefsteak; but this
was exceptional. Her meals, as a rule, were severely frugal, and mostly
vegetable.
CARLSRUHE, Last Day of January, 1872
DEAR SISTER:
I believe I can write you a readable letter without looking on at
all. I have used my eyes pretty much of late, and they complain so
sadly of my bad treatment, that I have decided to give them a rest,
and not write any more at present, but, as I don’t know how long the
rest must continue, I don’t want you to wait without news of me for
an indefinite period. I want to tell you that I did receive your good
long letter, and was exceedingly glad of it. It had been a little age
that I had not heard of you. I must write without a reference to your
letter, for I could not read it to-day; my poor eyes ache too badly
for that. It was long ago that I wrote you, I believe. I don’t know
if I have written since the 25th of November, when I remember to have
done so. If not since, I have never told you anything of my going to
Montbéliard to give something to the poor people there who suffered so
much by the war. I went from Carlsruhe about the middle of December
in the coldest time we have had in all the winter. It was fearfully
cold. Miss Margot went with me. It was a day and a half’s travel,
and some of the way it was so cold in the train I dared not let Miss
Margot fall asleep. I knew she was exceedingly cold, and I kept her
awake through precaution. We spent the first night at Mülhausen with
Mr. and Mrs. Dolphus, French people of literary note, whom I have
known during all the war. Next day we went to Belfort and passed the
night and Sunday with the Administrator, Monsieur Leblue, and arranged
some trunks I had left there in October, and Monday morning we went
to Montbéliard and called on the Prefect (a Jew), to whom I had
previously made a donation of money, and informed him that I wanted to
make the next donation in person. I wished to see, therefore, myself.
He was very amiable and would arrange it, and I left him to do so
while I went still on to Besançon to see the Prefect of Doubs. Here
it was so cold and cheerless I could not sleep at night and returned
next day. I was made the guest of the noble families of the town, for
Montbéliard was an old Court town, and the grandmother of the Czar of
Russia was a Princess of Montbéliard, so they have still relics of
royalty there and a pretty old castle. I found excellent arrangements
for taking care of the poor, the best I have seen in all France. They
have committees of both gentlemen and ladies and the president of
the ladies’ committee is a Mrs. Morell, a person so much like Mrs.
Greffing that I feel as if I had really seen Mrs. Greffing and worked
with her a few days this winter. They assembled in their hall and
called their poor there, and they came in hundreds, and waited in a
long line, or two long lines, reaching from the doors away through
the yard and down the snowy street. At the suggestion of Mrs. Morell
I gave them orders for wood and rent, so that the husbands could not
compel the women to give up the money to them to get drunk on and
abuse the family. We wrote hundreds of orders. I signed them, and then
we went to the hall and received the women. They were my women then.
I admitted them, and gave them the order and took in the next, and so
day after day till all was done. The orders were drawn immediately,
and when I left just before Christmas all the poor had wood for two
months and rent paid until the first of April. They looked so poor,
but were so happy at such an unexpected fortune and I was so glad
to have been able to do it. It was Boston that did this good little
thing--I have written the committee about it, a long letter. I thought
they would be glad to know it while the fires were still burning.
Then I came back, and I wanted to go to Strassburg and give something
to my old working-women there. They would not be so poor as the women
of Montbéliard, for much had been done for them, but I wanted to see
and remember them, and so I said I would go. I invited Miss Zimmermann
to go with me, as she helped me to organize the Strassburg work last
year. I said I would not give anything in charity to these women; I
had not permitted them to beg--they had always worked for me and been
paid. I would give them a Christmas fête and invite them like other
people. So we bought two splendid pine trees fresh from the Black
Forest, and I knew all my women, so I had only to count the heads
and buy purses. I purchased three hundred good strong morocco purses
with steel clasps, prettily lined, and pretty little things for the
children, and to ornament the trees many dozens of little wax candles
and holders to light the trees. I had stopped at Strassburg on my way
back from Montbéliard and hired the best hall in town for Saturday
night the 30th December. On Wednesday night we went to Strassburg, had
our invitations printed and sent to the women by post; then I ordered
at a good bakery twenty cakes, I cannot tell you how large and high.
Each cake would cut from twenty to twenty-five slices, big slices;
and five hundred rolls, and I took a caterer I knew there to arrange
chocolate and coffee. The hall had a fine kitchen and dining-rooms,
and I asked the banks to change my money into the last issue of French
silver, never used, and they did. The best ladies of the city came to
help us, and the trees were set, the purses filled, the hall arranged,
the tables spread and set so white and clean, and, oh, the trees
were so pretty, on a long platform across all one end of the hall in
front of two enormous mirrors and all the floors spread with moss,
all scattered full of fine-cut white paper and isinglass, which made
perfect snow and ice, and brightened with handfuls of little scarlet
berries; and the hall was so brilliant with chandeliers and mirrors
that one could read the finest print in its most distant corner. I
tell you all this so particularly because I think it was the prettiest
thing I ever saw. Don’t say it was that that made my eyes sore; it
wasn’t. The hour was seven; at six-thirty the women began to arrive.
Mr. Kruger, Vice-Consul from America, received and seated them in the
anteroom till it was time to light the trees. I had not seen them yet,
and did not know that so many were there, but some one came to tell us
that our little wounded children had come and we went to that room to
see and welcome them. When we entered the doorway, all these hundreds
of women rose up before us like an army--not a word, still like so
many soldiers--and stood for us to pass. At seven, the trees were
lighted and the doors opened, and all this regiment of women walked in
and took seats. A fine parlor organ stood under the trees, a Christmas
hymn was struck, and these poor women in the fullness of their hearts
joined in a burst of song such as I never heard before. They sang as
if they meant God should know how glad they were and how grateful
they were to be there. Then there was prayer, an address of welcome (I
wouldn’t have them instructed), and then Mr. Kruger and your sister
went under the trees upon the platform where all the purses hung.
There were elegant ladies to take them down from the trees and hand
them to me while Mr. Kruger called each woman’s name and she came up
and gave her hand to me, and I put in it a purse of silver with her
name and a pretty buff card attached to it; then the ladies took her
round to see the trees and to sign her name at a table presided over
by the Misses Rausche, of Strassburg Boarding School. Afterward they
were taken to the refreshment room and the daughters of the clergymen
of the city, with Miss Zimmermann at the head, received and served
them to chocolate and all the good things; and then they did talk and
laugh and cry for joy, and such a time some hundreds of poor women
almost beggars I think never had. “It was worth going a mile to see.”
All this time Mr. Kruger and I were giving the gifts, but when it
was done I went and ate with them; then I came back and gave the
gifts to my eleven cutters, ten pretty young girls and one tailor.
I gave them workboxes and portfolios, etc., and then the Comité de
Secours had arranged a little surprise for me, which the women enjoyed
exceedingly. M. Bergmann, my old esteemed friend, the president of
the syndicate of Alsace, addressed the women, and they all crowded
up around the front of the platform like so many children, to listen
to him. He told them, among other things, that Miss Barton had said
she wished they would all keep the money in the little purses as a
keepsake and make it the beginning of a sum for the savings bank,
which would reopen next week. Having told them this, he said to them,
so pleasantly and familiarly, “I think we ought to make her this
promise, eh?” You should have heard the storm of, “Yes, yes, we will,”
that filled the room. This finished the evening, only their good-bye
to me, which each one insisted on making for herself. This occupied
almost an hour, till the last one was gone, and then it was past
eleven, almost twelve, and we went home to our hotel and to bed; but
all the time I knew I had seen a very pretty thing.
There were about sixty women who did not get their invitations. It
was no wonder; they never had a letter before in their lives and the
letter carriers never heard of them, and they lived in such old
alleys and garrets and cellars they could not be found. But the next
day I made a list of all these and put it in all the papers of the
city, and it was told to them and they came to our old workrooms a few
days afterward and we gave them their purses. When it was all done,
we came back to Carlsruhe, one of the first days of January, and I
have been here ever since. I had a good deal of writing to do, and I
suppose I have used my eyes a little too much. I was going over to
London directly after leaving Strassburg to stay with Abby and Joseph
Sheldon, who are continually writing for me to come to them. I meant
to have been there now, but I received a letter on my return from
Strassburg from the head of the Boston Committee saying that they had
held a meeting after hearing something from me and decided to ask me
to take charge of all their unfinished business in France. They see
that it is going wrong and beg me to take it in hand, even if I cannot
do anything personally, to take the oversight of it. I replied to them
and will wait for their answers. I thought then it would be nonsense
to cross the Channel if I must recross to France again in a few weeks,
so I decided to remain here until I could finish up on the Continent
and go to England free.
I do long to be free of work once more for a little while. I have been
rather busy. I have a little home here in Carlsruhe. I got tired of
the hotel and took some small rooms, a little apartment, and furnished
it to suit me (rented) and have a little German girl. She was the
private waiting maid of Madame de Mentzinger and I knew her, so I live
as independently as I please. I can arrange my living to suit myself
better. I can have a beefsteak and baked potato for breakfast and not
be driven to a choice between a piece of dry bread and a gallon of
coffee, and I can have my dinner at four and not be forced to eat at
eight o’clock at night, as is done here.
I am sure you have had a great deal of trouble with my things and so
has Lieutenant Westfall; I am sorry but can’t help it. I want to write
the Lieutenant, but dare not send him one of my blind letters. I must
wait till I can use my eyes again. I am glad you went and visited all
the world of Massachusetts. I want to see our old brother Dave more
than I can tell, and I think I shall sometime. I don’t understand if
Ida has left the Treasury for all time or on a rest. Is she not well?
I am sorry you wandered about waiting for some one to carry you from
post to pillar. Wait a little, Sall, and we will have a coach and one
and ride when we please. I will have it sent over to you every day to
take a ride on condition that you will promise to come and take tea
with me every time, and you shan’t wait to be carried somewhere--it
was all vexatious and heart-aching. I know it all by experience, so
old that it seems to me it must have been a part of another existence;
but it wasn’t; it was only the first end of this old patched and
tangled web. What a good soul-stirring time you had at the Convention,
didn’t you? That was splendid; shall I ever see something like that, I
wonder? What a meeting! How I want to see and know Mrs. Livermore. I
don’t suppose I ever shall, but I knew her so long ago. What beautiful
things she wrote when she must have been so young; no wonder she can
speak well. I speak very much of these things with the Grand Duchess.
She sent for me about a week ago to spend an evening and she spoke
of little else than the progress of woman and schools for girls in
America. She had evidently been reading something, I presume some
German criticism upon the too liberal spirit of America, and wished
to compare notes, I think. I told her all as it was, and I said I
believed in special training for all kinds of life, but that I thought
it possible to train too much till the original spirit was crushed
out and ashes left in the place of coals, and there was danger of
Germany’s doing this with her great respect for discipline; that I
thought them too strict, and that they cramped their people by rules
and regulations and hurt many good original minds. This was plain
speech for a woman in a plain black gown without even a ring on her
hands to address to a Princess and Sovereign, but when I am asked I
answer, let it be where it will. I guess it didn’t offend, for she
sent me a very pretty letter next morning.
I can’t think what the dress is that you speak of having made up
and washed. I can just recall that I sent something by Dorr, but it
couldn’t have been anything but a piece from my shelves where we cut
for the women. I can’t think if it was calico or cotton gingham. I
know I wanted to send something good, but he was afraid to take it
lest he have trouble at the custom house, and they trouble him about
his own things for it. I know we packed his boxes in terrible haste
one night after midnight and I can’t think of anything more about
them. This was the day but one before I cleared up in Strassburg and
started for Paris. It wasn’t a quite sure thing if one would get there
very safely, and so difficult was it that it took three days to do the
traveling of one day in ordinary times. But it is better now.
This winter is easier than the last was. I have made some friends and
I am not a stranger in Europe any longer, and I have warm friends in
Strassburg, and, if I do say it, last week Mr. and Mrs. Bergmann came
to Carlsruhe to visit us, i.e., Miss Zimmermann and me. I had them to
tea with me twice (they were at hotel) in my house, and I arranged a
visit for them at Court. This is, I expect, the first social exchange
of visits between a leading French officer and a German Court since
the war--a gentleman may have visited, but not the ladies, but Mrs.
Bergmann and the Grand Duchess visited, and, better still, the poor
women came over to Germany to visit me. I have made some peace between
them if they won’t fight again and spoil it all. I will enclose in
this one of my invitations to the Women’s Fête and Christmas Tree.
Your German letter-carrier will read it to you. Now I think, in mercy
to your eyes, I must stop. Don’t be troubled about me; my eyes will be
well soon. I will be very careful. I know you can’t read near all of
this, but some maybe.
Lovingly
CLARA
I thought I couldn’t write any more, but I find it so funny to write
with my eyes shut, as if I were playing blindman’s buff, that I think
I must do another sheet. I was afraid to commence to tell you how nice
I thought your picture gallery was; indeed, I think it was splendid.
How could you think of it all? How did you get up your ideas? I
laughed till I cried again and again; indeed, I am not sure but that
hurt my eyes some. I wish you had told me more about it. I wanted all
the particulars. I related it one evening at tea at Madame General de
Freystadt’s, and you should have seen the merriment of those German
Court ladies--they have a great deal of fun in their heads. They were
especially amused at the old hoop and line, as I explained to them our
bold President swinging around the circle to gain popularity. Miss
Margot has not been initiated into the mystery of your gallery yet, as
she is at Lyons with her people, but is expected to return any day now
to resume her studies here. I will make her full explanations as soon
as she is back. She caricatures me sometimes, to her great amusement.
She would not be bad help for you on such an occasion, as she would be
in the seventh heaven if she could do it.
No, I didn’t think of the 17th of September as being the day of Lake
City. How well I remember that day, and how anxious a day it was,
but after all, not unhappy. We thought that we had gained so much;
our experiment had not failed and it did not fail in the end; it
accomplished just what you say it did. Our dear boy lived to feel that
he had done his work and was ready to go; a little life it was, but
full and had in it much more than many another of fourscore and ten.
I had not heard of Lizzie Learned’s last affliction. Can this be so?
Where did Lizzie get such a complication of maladies, and is there
anything in the new remedy? I have heard of it. The Grand Duchess asks
me about it. Her first maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Sternberg, of
whom you must have heard me make mention, is supposed to be dying of a
cancer, but she also seems to have a multitude of illnesses. I called
on her a few weeks ago. She was a mere skeleton and is too sick now to
see any but her nurses.
Does Nancy do the work at home, and are she and Uncle John all there
are? I cannot think how it would seem there without--“Bamma”--poor
dear, honest, faithful, Christian, guileless Bamma! who worked
faithfully up to the last day without complaint and lay down bravely
with the harness of life about her, without a murmur.
Do you have much fruit this year? I am out of patience with Europe.
I never find fruit here,--it is always a “scarce year,” they say.
Indeed, there was none in all the Rhine Valley. Little gnarly apples
are two and three cents apiece; prunes, which are only the plums which
grow here, dried, are fifty cents a pound, and I have searched the
town over without success for a little dried apple. All oranges here
are always either sour or bitter. I have nearly forgotten, but it
seems to me that we had better fruit arrangements at home. You see by
this that I am quite hungry, don’t you, or I shouldn’t write of it.
Now I think I have finished for this time. I have let my letter wait
two days and my eyes are better.
Ever your Sis
CLARA
Returning to Carlsruhe, she continued her oversight of American relief
for French destitution by correspondence, though still suffering
greatly with her eyes. She passed “some very dull weeks, very green and
shady, with exceedingly long nights”; after the acute pain was over,
she learned to write with bandaged eyes, and wrote a good deal.
Her friends Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon were in London and were not satisfied
to have her in Germany alone. They sent her peremptory orders to be
ready to accompany them when they came, as they were presently to come,
down the Rhine. She went with them, left Carlsruhe, visited Strassburg
on her last tour of inspection, and set out for London by way of Paris.
On reaching Paris, they encountered an American family by the name of
Taylor, friends of the Sheldons, who had just left London for a tour of
Italy and besought Miss Barton to accompany them. Hastily she changed
her plans, and, after six weeks’ travel in Italy, she came to London.
She had dropped her diary altogether, and her correspondence with her
relatives had nearly ceased on account of her impaired eyesight, but
in London she wrote the story of her wanderings to her sister Mrs.
Vassall. The last page is missing and the letter ends abruptly, leaving
her in Venice. The Italian tour was finished, however, and in the early
summer she arrived in London.
NO. 5 HEWSON STREET--WANREY STREET
WALWORTH ROAD
LONDON, July 5th, 1872
DEAREST SISTER:
In one way and another I imagine you must have become aware of me in
England, although I believe I have never told you so directly. By the
presence of a half-finished letter to you, dated March 29th, between
Paris and Turin, Italy, I see that I cannot have written you since I
left Germany just previous to the above-named date. This has all been
very wrong, for I received your good and welcome letter here, via
Berne, early in June. You know me as neither abundant nor graceful
in apologies, although it never hurts my spirit to ask pardon, and
your good intuition will perceive this rather extraordinary sheet of
note-paper to signify contrition, confession, and serious effort at
amendment. For all the interesting details contained in your letter
I thank you very much. They constitute my only landmarks of the old
coast for months; my explorers have been very silent and my scouts
brought small tidings.
I remember that I wrote you when nearly blind. I had used my eyes
too hard, and at night, which I ought to have known I could not do
with impunity. I passed some very dull weeks, very green and shady,
with _exceedingly_ long nights; although after the greater pain and
nervous excitement was over, I wrote a great deal with them closely
bandaged. This helped to pass the time, but Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon,
who were in London, became altogether dissatisfied with this state
of things, and determined to put an end to some of it by coming
after me and taking me, willing or not, to London. They had given me
a short notice and ordered me to pack my knapsack, while they came
down the Rhine. I obeyed, and, after a visit of a couple of days, we
set out _via_ Strassburg and Paris. I was infinitely better by this
time; still must not put any close strain upon my eyes. I made my
“good-byes” in Strassburg, which was not an easy thing for the “soul,”
and, on reaching Paris, we met a family party of Americans, friends
of the Sheldons, that had just left London for a trip of six weeks
through Italy. There were four of them, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and their
only daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. Mr. Holmes was
the American Commissioner to the Great International Exhibition in
London in 1862 and in Paris in 1867, and with his family has resided
in London and Paris since, as American representative of science,
skill, invention, etc. They were fine travelers, Italy was a familiar
route to them, and it entered their heads to attach me to their party.
I felt it to be a great piece of temerity on my part to think of
dropping “sans cérémonie” plump into the middle of an elegant family
party arranged for a private travel, and I said so, and said all I
could, but all was overruled, and even Mrs. Sheldon said “go.” It was
“too good an opportunity to lose,” she said, and added at the end of
her advice, “What a fool I am. I always did give up all that I wanted
most”; and so we separated in the streets of Paris, March 28th, five
o’clock in the afternoon, she for London and I for Italy. I had only
a little hand satchel, having stored all my European luggage with my
Paris bankers till my return. I have never written up my trip, so I
cannot give it you, but if I can recall the days a little in order
will try to account for some of them. I will draw hard upon my memory,
which will probably help me accurately to whatever she will help me at
all, she being, not so generally treacherous as repudiatory. I wonder
if that is an English word--it _ought_ to be; if not, I can only plead
two years’ life in _Germany_, and surely out of all that I must have
earned the right to manufacture one word.
As sightseers, it was not, of course, our policy to travel at night,
and we did it only twice, of which the first night was one. The road
between Paris and Macon, just above Lyons, being as familiar to each
one of us, as that between New York and Washington, we could afford
to miss it. Reaching Macon at sunrise, from there to Euloz and,
passing the custom house, proving ourselves innocent of liquors and
tobacco, we were ushered into Italy through the famous Mont Cenis
Tunnel, eight miles under a mountain, which rises almost six thousand
feet above the level of the sea. It is a well-laid track in the
solid rock, well ventilated and lighted by powerful reflectors each
half-mile. You remember that it was over Mont Cenis that Napoleon I
constructed a road to march his armies into Italy. At ten o’clock at
night we were at Turin. By this time I was conscious of being some
tired; altogether I was not very strong, and, just for variety, I had
a chill in the night, and, of course, decided to abandon my journey
and return. But as Turin was one of the cities to be visited and
naturally two or more days were to be given it, I could afford to wait
and watch further developments. My chill did not recur, and, although
I continued weak for some time, I kept on the journey.
Turin is a charming city, by far the most modern in appearance of
anything in Italy, well laid out, fine broad streets, excellent
markets, abounding in _fruit_, clean, and entirely free from beggary.
It seems also to have no poor quarter, the general practice being
for every wealthy family to take into its service and care one,
two, or more entire families, lodging them in tenements fitted in
the attic stories of their own residences, rather than below on the
streets, thus at the same time holding surveillance and compelling
_respectability_. I liked the plan. I don’t know if it is one of
Victor Emmanuel’s ideas. You know that Turin was always his Capital
residence, till a few years ago, when he established himself at
Florence, which now is in turn abandoned for Rome. It has over one
hundred churches, very rich in jewels and antiquities. I remember
in the Metropolitan Church to have seen the marble figure, sitting,
lifelike, of Marie Adelaide, the wife of Victor Emmanuel, and mother
of Princess Clothilde of France. The private jewels of the church were
shown us (for a consideration--everything in Italy is displayed for a
consideration), but for no consideration could I undertake to describe
them; images of solid silver, men and women, weighing hundreds of
pounds and covered with jewels, where sometimes one was of greater
value than the massive silver image it adorned. The Royal Palace was
most magnificent; the rooms were all shown. Here, in this gilded salon
where their busts stand, were married Princess Clothilde, and the
Queen of Portugal. The plate-glass mirrors are twenty feet high, and
everything accords with them. The armory contains an entire gallery of
mounted knights in armor, full dress, horses like life, armed to the
teeth, and among them lies the sword that Napoleon used at Marengo.
Above the city is a fine old monastery to which we climbed for a
view of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, and all the chain of southern Alps,
snow-white and dazzling, stretching away into the eternal blue.
On the second of April, Tuesday, we took train for Milan, riding for
hours in the bright spring sunshine of northern Italy, the Alps behind
us, and the Apennines before, the wheat waving in all the freshness
of early green, and the vines just bursting into leaf. Here at Milan,
we were met by a young lady protégée of Mr. Holmes, a young American
girl who is to come out soon as a prima donna. She is finishing her
musical studies in Milan, and, while we were installed at an excellent
hotel, our dinners were always with Mademoiselle Katrina.
The great sight of Milan is its cathedral, the second in size and
magnificence in Europe; this also I could not justly describe. It is
built entirely of marble, commenced in the thirteenth or fourteenth
century and, like all these old massive structures, never finished.
It covers many acres, and seems to be one sea of turrets rising at
irregular heights toward the clouds. Although the comparison would be
most inelegant, I will say that it reminded me of a shipping-yard,
where the marble turrets and statues take the place of thousands of
masts; indeed, if my memory serve me well, it has 135 spires, and 1923
statues on the outside from the ground to the top and 700 inside.
There is on one of the roofs, which you pass as you ascend (far above
to the top), an entire flower garden in marble, hundreds of flowers
forming minarets, and no two flowers carved alike or representing the
same flower. It was a long way to the top, which at length was gained
after many times of sitting, and (for me) even lying down to rest
on the various roofs passed in leading from one flight of stairs to
another, roofs of pure white marble polished and glistening in the
sunshine like the crust of the snowbanks on the New England hills on
bright winter days. (_I wonder_ if I ever will see them again.) Here
again we saw marvelous jewels, “gold, silver, and precious stones.”
The tomb of Carlo, who “stayed the plague,” is in a chapel beneath;
the coffin and even the roof of the chapel are of solid silver; mass
is held here each morning, and on certain days of the year miracles
are wrought. There are many sacred relics in the cathedral, as several
nails from the Cross, the Virgin’s shroud, and a seamless coat of the
Lord Jesus Christ, etc., etc. The picture _galleries_ were especially
fine, many celebrated originals, among which is Leonardo da Vinci’s
“Last Supper of the Master and Disciples” in the original fresco. And
the celebrated “Ambrosian Library,” so old and rare its volumes were
indeed a curiosity--illustrated volumes of the fourth century. And
the Royal Palace erected on the site of the old palace of the early
Dukes of Lombardy, where Attila thundered about in his destruction.
Later this _Palace_, like nearly all in Italy, had been at some time
or another occupied by Napoleon I. Here was his bedchamber, unchanged,
decorated in scarlet and gold, heavy velvet curtains richly wrought
in flowers of pure fine gold thread. Then the celebrated _theater_
“La Scala,” the largest in the world, its stage one hundred feet in
depth, and wide in proportion, and this, not including the recesses.
The pit alone holds eleven hundred people, and there are six rows
of galleries; one hundred musicians in the orchestra; the principal
boxes are purchased by the nobility for the season, a single box from
four hundred to five hundred dollars (the season). I name all these
particulars for Vester’s benefit; he may be interested in the facts.
Our young prima donna stepped upon the stage (as our visit was in the
daytime) and sang to us; she had sung there before to an audience of
five thousand, but I think she took just as much pains for us, and
I am sure we were not less enthusiastic. I expect some day to hear
her sing when she is _famous_, but it will never afford me greater
pleasure than when she sang to her audience of five in the great
“Scala” of Milan.
One little incident, happening not long before, was so pretty that I
am tempted to tell it you. “Katrina” (who is of German parents, but
born and always lived in New York) had only been led before the public
once,--i.e., last winter she was the “leading lady” of the first opera
in Turin,--and on the evening of the close of the engagement she was
“called out” to sing a little national air, in which she had been
exceedingly popular. When she stepped before the curtain she found the
entire house a _blaze of light_, which at first nearly “upset” her,
but, gathering up, she went through her air, to the last strain, when
four men entered and placed at her feet an enormous bouquet of the
choicest flowers, nearly four feet across. She managed to accept it,
but attached to it was a note which requested her, when it should be
faded, before throwing it away to open it with care, and at the end
of a week this was done, and hidden among the flowers were found a
magnificent gold watch and chain, pins, necklaces of coral, turquoises
and pearls, bracelets and rings, which I could not enumerate. It had
been ordered and arranged in Geneva, and sent all the way through
the mountain passes to her. I thought this was a pretty success for
the début of a little American girl, studying in a strange land with
little money. As a child she used to sing in New York with Patti.
But you must be tired of Milan, and wish I would hasten on if I am
going. Well, I will, and so imagine this to be Saturday the 6th of
April, 9 o’clock A.M., and I just taking the train eastward. The
day was so lovely, so full of the springtime, the grass and grain
so green, the swinging vines swaying over all the fields, the birds
literally bursting their little throats, the fields filled with
peasants in gay dress working to merry tunes, and when you could draw
the eyes away from these near scenes they fell to the northward, first
upon a line of dim, hazy blue, but over this, skirting the horizon
again, the whole chain, peak after peak, of ranging Alps, such an
unbroken line of glittering snow--here on the south only four miles
away the field of Solferino where France lost one thousand officers in
a day.
At 4 P.M. we were at “Verona” wondering if we should see its
“gentlemen” and giving certainly more than our usual interest to this
subject, and at five we halted at a singular dépôt, with no rattle
of cabs, or hacks, no tramping of horses, still as death all about
us, and as we walked out there lay waiting us hundreds of gondolas,
black as a pall, some covered, some open, all drawn up to the side
of the Canal to take us weary travelers to _our hotels_. This was,
indeed, novel, but we selected our _carriage_, stepped in with our
luggage, sat down, and, leaning lazily back, left it to our gondolier
to pick his way through the watery streets, some wide, some narrow,
leading into and out of each other, like veritable city streets and
lanes, the ways on each side lined perfectly thick with old palaces
and majestic buildings of centuries ago, their fronts to the sea and
their magnificent stone steps leading directly into the water, and
when one would pay a call, the gondolier had only to bring his boat
alongside and you stepped out as from another carriage to the steps of
a mansion. We were taken to “Hotel Victoria,” made as comfortable as
a first-class Italian hotel can make one, and after supper commenced
upon the sights. Ah, but there was so much to see, not that it is
a city of enterprise, a flourishing mart of trade or business. Oh,
no, far from it. Venice only exists upon the record of its former
greatness; take all this away and the travelers consequent upon it
and I believe twelve months would find a famine there, but there is
little danger of this while Byron and Shakespeare remain bright in
English literature.
Here, as everywhere in Italy, one must commence with the cathedral,
and having gone through this, and some scores of churches, the “Campo
Santo” and the Bell Tower, one is at liberty to enter upon the
palaces, gardens, and theaters. But Venice offers some deviations
from this general rule; most cities have prisons, but they have not
all the dungeons of Saint Marc. All have bridges, but all have not a
“Rialto” nor a “Bridge of Sighs.” I suspect I do not need to remind
_you_ of many old or historical facts. You who are always digging into
the past will have them all “papered and labeled” and stored away
ready for use. But I might mention the seventy-two little islands upon
which Venice was built, which were only a part of the Adriatic, and
not reckoned as land at all. A set of not warlike people from here and
there in the vicinity, having grown weary and afraid of their fighting
and troublesome neighbors, mostly from Austria, determined to place
themselves in a position more difficult to attack, came far over the
sea to these little islands and commenced a city, and gave a general
invitation to all war-pestered, peace-loving citizens of the world
to come and join them; from time to time they united their islands,
built their houses for dwelling and trade upon the streets laid down
upon the piles, with one side opening upon the street of earth and the
opposite upon the sea, as I have before described. But--_the depravity
of human nature_!! No sooner were they a little strong and comfortable
themselves than they sent out their ships to prey upon and plunder
their neighbors, and well-nigh ravaged the cities of the earth. They
decorated their palaces with the spoils of other nations, married
the sea, and declared themselves Omnipotent and Divine. Among other
things their religion and church must have a Hero, and they sent afar,
and got (as they said) the body of Saint Mark, brought it, and great
numbers of relics belonging to him, buried it with the divinest honors
in their principal church, and named it Saint Mark, or “San Marco.”
This was as early as the ninth century. It is a large but not handsome
edifice, facing a paved court, a “piazza” some six hundred feet in
length, surrounded by palaces, now used for public purposes, stores,
etc. All the world of Venice walks in the “Piazza of San Marco.” The
pigeon was esteemed a sacred bird with them, and he is still cherished
here and treated with great honor. One of the curiosities to be seen
are the “pigeons of San Marco.” I cannot at this moment recollect
definitely enough to state to you how many hundreds are supposed to
reside in the immediate vicinity, but their dinner hour is two o’clock
in the afternoon. The great bell of the clock strikes three quarters
past one and they commence wheeling and circling into the court, they
cover the fronts of all the buildings, sit as thickly as possible
upon every window seat, hang in all the cornices, and stand in full
platoons in every foot of spare pavement for a number of rods around
the especial corner where their dinner is served. A young man (it was
formerly a young girl) is appointed by the Government as feeder of
the pigeons. It is not necessary to say that he is punctual with his
repast--he could not live with his tumultuous boarders if he were not.
As the bell strikes two, he pours the grain from--
The rest of this letter is missing, but from this time on her letters
became frequent, and we are able to follow her, almost day by day.
Her health by this time was much improved. She established pleasant
lodgings in London, where her old friends the Sheldons and her new
friends the Taylors were, and followed her lifelong habits by rising
at five o’clock in the morning and getting in four and a half hours’
activity before any one else in the house appeared for breakfast.
She heard Stanley, who had just returned from Africa, and, in the
controversy which ensued between him and the Geographical Society, she
became a warm partisan of Stanley. Antoinette Margot joined her. She,
too, had lived through the war without breaking down, but, when she
had nothing to do but to sit down at Carlsruhe and paint, she gave way
to nervous overstrain. Mrs. Taylor found her Italian trip rather too
much for her and wanted a quiet place outside of London, so they rented
a summer home in the Isle of Wight and there spent some restful and
health-giving weeks. For a company of nervous invalids, they appear
to have had a very merry time. The following jingle was written in
London in 1872 for reading at a social gathering of a few families and
America’s friends, who met once a week for social intercourse over a
cup of tea and light refreshments, enlivened by recitations.
The family names are somewhat significant--Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mr. and
Mrs. Taylor, Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, Mr. and Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Cynthia
Care, a friend then absent.
Mr. Taylor was the inventor of the McKean drill.
Since time commenced its cycles, or the memory of man
Hath record or tradition of pastoral tribe or clan,
They have never failed to chronicle that men from far and near
Have met to sharp or blunt their wits in liquor, wine or beer.
This ancient custom, reaching back into the hoary past,
Wears a dignity and prestige that rivals even caste;
And bold are they who dare to meet in social gathering free,
And call not to the festal board one of the classic three.
But here’s a jolly company, from far across the sea,
Dares tune its mirth and sharp its wit in a cup of good Bohea.
We’re here from many hundred miles, where the western ocean foams,
But, though a paradox it seems, we have not left our Holmes.
The _social_ homes of England draw us to her like a band,
For we are but the children of this true old glorious land.
Of the “_merry homes_” of England our great-grandsires used to tell,
But with pride and joy we prove it here, that we’ve Merry Holmes as
well.
Disclaiming all comparison, we write ours brave and free
And kindly and hospitable as any Holmes can be.
But we have very English grown, so soon we habits take on,
We cannot even sip our tea, but we must have our Bacon.
But English or American, it matters not a straw,
For both hang out before the world without a taint or flaw.
Go search through British literature, down to her Common Laws,
And find what strength and nourishment it from its Bacon draws;
And if you doubt America can follow in the van,
Go test our “Cincinnati sides,” and “West Virginia ham.”
So perfect in itself is each, it’s patent to my mind
The choicest Bacons that can be, are just the two combined.
By the watery distance we have come one might judge us merely sailors,
But we’re nae thoughtless nor improvident, for we’ve even bro’t our
Taylors.
One doesn’t know how long ago, the unjust trick began
To stigmatize a tailor as the ninth part of a man;
But though as old and honored as the Judge’s wig and gown,
Before the faithless falsehood I throw my gauntlet down:
Yes, tho’ it was with Adam for the modest blush that came
When he sewed his scanty fig leaves, and dropped his head for shame;
Tho’ old as this--and thick, and black, and firm as granite, too,
We’ll drill it to a honeycomb, and let the daylight through.
So lay upon our Taylor here your nicest chalk-line true,
And measure him, in soul and vim, as he would measure you;
You’ll find, Sir Scandal, when you’ve done the best you ever can,
In reach of thought, and breadth, and depth, he’s every inch a man.
What did I say? I’m wrong--crave grace--to err is ever human--
Ah, with what pride of sex I claim, his better half a woman--
Tho’ fair Fidele and tender she walketh by his side,
He can neither make nor mend her, but hold fast in his pride;
And though no mortal’s meeker, we find from far and wide
The best and wisest seek her, for a pattern and a guide.
And does the critic here step in, and call us frozen-hearted,
And lacking in paternal love, that we so long are parted
From clinging dear ones left to pine like caged and crying starlings?
Hold, sir! Here’s ointment for your wrath, for we have bro’t our
Darlings.
We hold them very near us, with tender love and true;
Their happiness and welfare are never from our view;
And though we’re willing sometimes that they abroad should roam,
We would not spare our darlings forever from our home.
There’s one, methinks, whose eloquence erst charmed this happy band,
Who stays away through many a day in a sunny foreign land--
Who lingered where the soft moonlight plays through the Colosseum,
And troops of idle beggars wait for strangers’ hands to fee ’em.
Or where the setting sun goes down on Monte Rosa’s crest,
And hoary Blanc bids grand good-night to the cloudlets in the west,
And who strays even now, ’mong the vines and the trees,
And walks the green slopes of the dark Pyrenees.
Given us to be jurors and judge of this action,
We’d reduce this delay to a very small fraction;
But being quite powerless our cause to defend,
We must learn to endure what we cannot amend.
As the best of a bad case, let’s forgive her, shall we,
And drink to her health in a cup of Bohea?
And now for our bumpers but one greeting waits
While we roll back our thoughts to the United States,
For United as one they must ever remain,
Since the blood of a million hath rusted the chain.
With a link in each hand died the true and the brave,
And sunk side by side in the low martyr’s grave.
Their bones rest in peace ’neath the soil of their love,
While their souls keep calm watch on the ramparts above.
We would hide nae her faults, this dear land of our pride;
We know she has errors on many a side;
She’s restless, impatient, hurries on through her day,
And treads on old customs that lie in her way.
She’s bold in her speech, but there’s nae lack of truth,
And her faults, let us hope, are the failings of youth.
Yes, she’s young--oh, so young--and her robes are so bright,
For she’s made herself gay with the stars of the night,
And thrown o’er her shoulders a mantle of light
That the oppressed of all nations keep ever in sight.
Oh! each grasp the tissue that floats on the wind,
For hid in its folds lie the hopes of mankind!
Oh! guard Thou her ways, Great Eternal Lord God;
Let her meekly but safely pass under thy rod!
With her faults and her virtues we trust her to Thee
And drink to her life in our cups of Bohea.
CLARA BARTON