Across Two Oceans.
_Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the northwest died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay:
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay:
In the dimmest northeast distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray
... While Jove's planet rises yonder silent over Africa_.
--BROWNING.
[Illustration: A BIT OF GENOA]
"Betty!" called Barbara.
"What, dear?" answered a weak voice from the berth below.
"Do you know how much more quiet the water is? and, Betty, I think Mrs.
Douglas looked really disappointed when she saw us still immovable in
our berths."
It was the third morning at sea. The fresh wind of the first afternoon
had blown a gale before morning. A storm followed, and for two days the
larger part of the passengers had been absent from saloon and deck.
Among these were Barbara, Bettina, and Margery. Mrs. Douglas and Malcom
had done their best to keep up the spirits of their little party, but
had found it difficult. Now for the third time they had gone to
breakfast alone.
Barbara was thinking hard; and, as she thought, her courage rose.
"Betty," said she again, "perhaps if you and I can get up and dress, it
may help Margery to try, and you know how much her mother wishes her to
do so, she so soon loses strength. And Mrs. Douglas is so good to you
and me! I wonder if we can take the salt-water baths that she thinks
help one so much on the sea. You remember how much pains she took as
soon as we came on board to get all our names on the bath-stewardess's
list for morning baths!"
"I believe I will try!" added she, after a long silence.
And when the broad-faced, smiling stewardess came to see if the young
ladies would like anything, Barbara gladdened her heart by saying she
would have her bath.
"Oh, Betty, Betty dear! you have no idea how nice it is! The ship is
quiet, the port is open in the bath-room, and it is just lovely to
breathe the fresh air. Do try it. I feel like a new girl!"
Before another hour had passed the girls said good-by to poor Margery
after having greatly encouraged her spirits, and climbed the stairs to
the deck, where they found Malcom just tucking his mother into her chair
after their breakfast and morning walk on the deck. Such a bright smile
as Mrs. Douglas gave them! It more than repaid for all the effort they
had made.
"You are just bricks!" cried Malcom, with a joyous look. "No more
seasickness! Now we will have jolly times, just so soon as Madge can
come up."
"Go down and persuade her, Malcom, after you have told the deck-steward
to bring some breakfast for these girls. I will help her dress, and you
can bring her up in your arms if she is too weak to walk."
Before noon, Margery, looking frail as a crushed white lily, lay on a
chair heaped with cushions and rugs close beside her mother; and the
sweet salt air and sunshine did their best to atone for the misery that
had been inflicted by the turbulent sea.
Bright, happy days followed, and sunsets and moonlight evenings, and the
girls learned to love sea life. They roamed over every part of the ship.
The good captain always had a smile and welcome for young people, and
told them many things about the management of vessels at sea.
There was no monotony, but every day seemed full of interest. All the
wonders of the great deep were about them--strange fish, sea porpoise,
and whales, by day, and ever-new phosphorescent gleams and starry
heavens by night. Then the wonderful interest of a sail at sea, or a
distant steamship; some other humanity than that on their own ship
passing them on the limitless ocean!
On the sixth day out the ship passed between Flores and Corvo, two of
the northernmost islands of the Azores; and, through the glass, they
could easily see the little Portuguese homes--almost the very
people--scattered on the sloping hill-sides.
After two days more, the long line of the distant shore of Cape St.
Vincent came into view, and Malcom, fresh from his history lesson,
recalled the the fact that nearly a hundred years ago, a great Spanish
fleet had been destroyed by the English under Admiral Nelson a little to
the eastward on these very waters.
The next morning was a momentous one. In the early sunshine the ship
entered the Bay of Gibraltar and anchored for several hours. Boats took
the passengers to visit the town, and to Barbara and Bettina the supreme
moment of travel in a foreign country had arrived; that in which they
found another land and first touched it with their feet; and entering
the streets found strange people and listened to a foreign tongue.
They drove through the queer, narrow, crooked streets, out upon the
"neutral ground," and up to the gardens; bought an English newspaper;
then, going back to the ship, looked up at the frowning rock threaded by
those English galleries, which, upon occasion, can pour forth from their
windows such a deadly hail.
Leaving the harbor, the ship passed slowly along between the "Pillars of
Hercules," for so many centuries the western limit of the Old World, and
entered the blue Mediterranean. And was this low dark line on the right
really Africa, the Dark Continent, which until then had seemed only a
dream--a far-away dream? What a sure reality it would ever be after
this!
Mrs. Douglas had chosen happily when she decided to land at Genoa
instead of at one of the northern ports; for aside from the fact that
the whole Atlantic passage was calmer than it otherwise could have been,
the beauty and interest of the days on the Mediterranean are almost
without parallel in ocean travel.
The magnificent snow-capped mountains of the Spanish shore; the rugged
northern coasts of the Balearic Islands; the knowledge that out just
beyond sight lies Corsica, where was born the little island boy, so
proud, ambitious, and unscrupulous as emperor, so sad and disappointed
in his banishment and death; and then the long beautiful Riviera coast,
which the steamships for Genoa really skirt, permitting their
passengers to look into Nice, Bordighera, Monaco, San Remo, etc., and to
realize all the picturesque beauty of their mountain background--all
this gave three enchanting days to our little party before the ship
sailed into the harbor of Genoa, _La Superba_, a well-merited title.
The city seemed now like a jewel in green setting, as its softly colored
palaces, rising terrace above terrace, surrounded by rich tropical
foliage, glowed in the rays of the setting sun.
Here Mrs. Douglas was to meet her brother; and she, Malcom, and Margery
were full of eager excitement. It was hard to wait until the little
crowd of people collected on the wharf should separate into distinct
individuals.
"There he is! there is Uncle Robert! I see him!" cried Malcom. "He is
waving his handkerchief from the top of his cane!"
While Mrs. Douglas and Margery pressed forward to send some token of
recognition across the rapidly diminishing breadth of waters, Barbara
and Bettina sought with vivid interest the figure and face of one whom
they remembered but slightly, but of whom they had heard much. Robert
Sumner was a name often mentioned in their home for, as a boy, and young
man, he had been particularly dear to Dr. Burnett and had been held up
as a model of all excellence before his own boys.
Some six years before the time of our story he was to marry a beautiful
girl, who died almost on the eve of what was to have been their
marriage-day. Stunned by the affliction, the young artist bade good-by
to home and friends and went to Italy, feeling that he could bear his
loss only under new conditions; and, ever since, that country had been
his home. He had travelled widely, yet had always returned to Italy.
"Next year I will go back to America," he had often thought; but there
was still a shrinking from the coming into contact with painful
associations. Only his sister and her children were left of the home
circle and it were happier if they would come to him; so he had stayed
on, a voluntary exile.
Not yet thirty years of age, he looked even younger as with shining eyes
he watched the little group on the deck of the big approaching
steamship. Of the strength of his affections no one could be doubtful
who witnessed his warm, passionate embraces when, after long delay, the
ship and shore were at last bound together.
"And can these be the little Barbara and Betty who used to sit on my
knees?" he asked in wonder, as Mrs. Douglas drew forward the tall girls
that they might share in his greeting.
"I thought I knew you, but am afraid we shall have to get acquainted
all over again."
The following morning when, after breakfast, the young people had been
put into a carriage for a drive all about the city, Mrs. Douglas had a
long conversation with her brother. He told her of the pleasant home in
Florence which he had prepared for her, and some of his plans for the
coming months.
"But will not the care of so many young people be too much for you, my
sister? Have you counted well the cost of added thought and care which
our dear Doctor's daughters will impose? Tell me about them. Are they as
sterling as their father and mother? I must believe they are neither
giddy nor headstrong, else you would never have undertaken the care of
them. Moreover, their faces contradict any such supposition. They are
beautiful and very attractive; but are just at the age when every power
is on the alert to have its fill of interest and enjoyment. Did you
notice how their eyes sparkled as they took their seats in the carriage
and looked out upon the strange, foreign sights?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Douglas. "We must do all we can for them that this
visit to the Old World shall be as truly a means of culture as their
parents desire. You know I wrote you that it is difficult for the
Doctor to afford it, but that he felt so earnestly the good that such an
opportunity must bring his girls that he could not bear to refuse it. As
for me, I love Barbara and Betty dearly and delight to care for them as
for my own. Their influence is wholesome, and our little Margery loves
them as if they were indeed sisters. I have thought much about what is
best for all our young people to do during the coming months in Italy.
Of course everything they see and hear will be an education, but I think
we ought to have some definite plan for certainly a portion of their
time. I have wished to talk to you about it.
"'Help my daughters to study,' said Dr. Burnett, and his feeling has
given me new thoughts regarding my own children. Now there is one great
field of study into which one can enter in this country as nowhere
else--and this is art. Especially in Florence is the world of Italian
painting opened before us--its beginnings and growth. Ought we not to
put all of them, Barbara, Bettina, Malcom, and Margery into the most
favorable conditions for entering upon the study of this great subject,
which may prove a source of so much enjoyment and culture all their
lives? I well remember my own wonder and pleasure when, years ago, our
dear mother called my attention to it; and how much it has been to both
you and me! You can help me here, Robert, for this is so much a part of
your own life."
"I will think it all over, sister, and we will see what we can do. As
for me, I am too happy just now in having you and the children with me
to give thought to anything else. So talk to me to-day of nothing but
your own dear selves."
Two days later our travellers were on their way down the western coast
of Italy, threading tunnels, and snatching brief views of the
Mediterranean on one side and smiling vineyards and quaint Italian
cities on the other.
"We will not stop at Pisa," said Mr. Sumner, "but will come to visit it
some time later from Florence; but you must watch for a fine view from
the railway of its Cathedral, Leaning Tower, Baptistery, and Campo
Santo. The mountains are withdrawing from us now, and I think we shall
reach it soon."
"Oh! how like the pictures we have seen!" cried Malcom. "How fine! The
tower does lean just as much as we have thought!"
"How beautiful it all is,--the blue hills, the green plain, and the soft
yellow of the buildings!" said Bettina.
"Will you tell us something of it all, Mr. Sumner?" asked Barbara. "I
know there is something wonderful and interesting, but cannot remember
just what."
"There are many very interesting things about this old city," answered
Mr. Sumner. "First of all, the striking changes through which it has
passed. Once Pisa was on the sea, possessed a fine harbor, and in rich
commerce was a rival of Genoa and Venice. She was a proud, eager,
assertive city; of such worth that she was deemed a rich prize, and was
captured by the Romans a few centuries B.C. Now the sea has
left her and, with that, her commerce and importance in the world of
trade. She is to-day so poor that there is nothing to tempt travellers
to come to her save a magnificent climate and this wonderful group of
buildings. The inhabitants are few and humble, her streets are
grass-grown. Everything has stopped in poor old Pisa. Here Galileo was
born, and lived for years; and in the Cathedral is a great swinging lamp
which is said to have first suggested to his mind the motion of the
pendulum, and from the top of the Leaning Tower he used to study the
planets. The Tower is the Campanile, or Bell Tower, of the Cathedral.
With regard to its position, there are different opinions. Some writers
think it only an accident,--that the foundation of one side gave way
during the building, thus producing the effect we see. Others think it
was purposely so built, planned by some architect who desired to gain a
unique effect and so prove his mastery over the subtleties of building.
I confess that since I have seen the leaning towers of Bologna, which
were erected about the same time, I am inclined to agree with the latter
view."
"I should think, uncle," said Malcom, "that if such defective
foundations had been laid, there would have been further trouble, and
the poor Tower would have fallen long ago."
"Yes," replied Mr. Sumner, "it does not seem very reasonable to believe
that they would have given way just enough to make the Tower lean as it
does now, and that then it should remain stationary for so many
centuries afterward. The Baptistery, or place for baptism, was formerly
built in Italy separate from the Cathedral, as was the Campanile, just
as we see them here. In northern countries and in more modern Italian
cathedrals, we find all united in one building. The most interesting
thing in this Baptistery is a magnificent marble pulpit covered with
sculptures designed by Nicholas Pisano. To see it alone is worth a visit
to Pisa. The long, low building that you saw beyond the other buildings
is the Campo Santo, a name given to burial places in Italy, which, as
you know, is a Latin term, and means 'holy ground.'"
"I think it is a beautiful name," said Bettina.
"Yes, there is a solemn rhythm about the words that pleases the ear
rather more than does our word 'cemetery,'" said Mr. Sumner.
"But there is something especially interesting about this Campo Santo,
isn't there?" queried Barbara, and added: "I do hope I shall remember
all such things after I have really seen the places!"
"You surely will, my dear," said Mrs. Douglas; "ever afterward they will
be realities to you, not mere stories."
Mr. Sumner resumed: "The Campo Santo of Pisa is the first one that was
laid out in Italy, and it is still by far the most beautiful. It
possesses the dimensions of Noah's Ark, and is literally holy ground,
for it was filled with fifty-three shiploads of earth brought from Mount
Calvary, so that the dead of Pisa repose in sacred ground. The inner
sides of its walls were decorated with noble paintings, many of which
are now completely faded. We will come to see those which remain some
day."
"How strange it all is!" said Bettina. "How different from anything we
see at home! Think of ships sent to the Holy Land for earth from Mount
Calvary, and their coming back over the Mediterranean laden with such a
cargo!"
"Only a superstitious, imaginative people, such as the Italians are,
would have done such a thing," said Mrs. Douglas; "and only in the
mediæval age of the world."
"But," she went on with a bright smile, "it is the same spirit that has
reared such exquisite buildings for the worship of God and filled them
with rare, sacred marbles and paintings that are beyond price to the
world of art. I always feel when I come hither and see the present
poverty of the beautiful land that the whole world is its debtor, and
can never repay what it owes."