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.
XVIII
ANGELA'S LETTER
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.