MUNICH:
My introduction to Bavaria was through Salzburg. It was a happy
presentation, as few towns can compare with it in situation.
Salzburg is surrounded by mountains with castles on every peak. It was
the home of Mozart, and is overflowing with interesting memoirs of that
great musician.
* * * * *
Munich is a city of wealth. It is the Mecca for students of art and
music and the starting-point for the three wondrous castles built by the
Mad King of Bavaria, as well as for Oberammergau. Nestling at the foot
of the Austrian Alps, a long chain of mountains may be seen on a clear
day, in all its splendor, from the statue of Bavaria. Munich possesses
a lion's share of public buildings architecturally notable.
NÜRNBERG:
While in Munich we were entertained in the home of Baroness von H.,
giving us a glimpse into German intimate life, and here I have had the
privilege again of being in the home of an American girl who married a
German officer. I find their life ideal.
I love Germany and the Germans. They move quicker than any of our
foreign cousins, notwithstanding the slowness ascribed to them in story,
and there is always something doing.
This fancy of mine about rapidity is, I presume, accentuated by a
hurried glimpse of the Empire which these German friends have given me.
And right here let me say that foreigners need no longer poke fun at
us for the "lightning conductor" manner with which some of us see the
world.
The itinerary took us first to Berlin; and dancing through my head
are pictures of Brandenburg Gates, Sieges-Allées and Thiergartens; of
Charlottenburg with its mausoleum of the much-loved Queen Louise of
pictured fame; of Potsdam with its Sans Souci; of Frankfort-on-Main
with the renowned Palmen Garten; of Dresden and its Academy of Arts; of
Wiesbaden, its tourists and springs; of Metz, with its Conservatory and
its high-bred women.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MODERN NÜRNBERG
OLD NÜRNBERG]
Nürnberg is unlike any other place in the world. I never have seen such
odd bridges, fountains and oriel windows. It is the home of the Faber
pencil, and leads the world in the manufacture of wonderful toys; and
yet this busy little city has preserved to a larger extent than any
other in Germany the appearance of the Middle Ages. Its quiet quaintness
makes it a gem.
If you can see but one place in Germany, let it be Nürnberg.
FRANCE
Je voudrais n'être pas Français pour pouvoir dire,—
Que je te choisis, France, et que
Je te proclame
Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour!
VICTOR HUGO, A LA FRANCE.
Oh, to have been born elsewhere, that I might choose
thee, France, and proclaim thee my country, my glory
and my own!
Translation by ELEANOR EVEREST FREER.
PARIS:
The captain advised us to remain on deck while the ship was entering
the harbor at Havre, and we were repaid for the midnight vigil by the
brilliancy of the scene. The port itself is narrow, but the effect of
space is given by the numerous basins and the canal, filled with craft
and sails of every description. The splendid masonry stands out strong
and beautiful under the multitude of electric lights which line the
shore on either side.
I was surprised to find Havre so large and fine a city. Neither Baedeker
nor Hare tell about its beauties nor its harbor. We had more time there
than we had counted on because we missed the early morning train to
Rouen, but we passed it very pleasantly in this bright Norman city.
It is the rural part that has made Normandy famous, and that part which
lies between Havre and Rouen is beautiful. It lies low and is checkered
with little silver streams that flow this way and that through every
section.
Rouen, too, keeps up the Normandy record for quaintness. Suzanne and
I would have been willing to settle right down there and stay, but we
stopped only long enough to see St. Ouen, one of the most beautiful
Gothic churches in existence, and the Palais de Justice, which is a
splendid copy of Belgian architecture.
* * * * *
I must tell you what a joy you are! You have contented yourself with
the daily post-card and the by-weekly _billet-doux_, which have been
_plus doux que long_, I fear, but without the usual weekly budget.
We have been going so fast that I think it wise to wait a bit and
endeavor to digest the knowledge gained in travel before writing of it.
As I look back over what I have seen in the last few months, both in art
and nature, I realize the truth of a little thing I once read, taken
from a letter by a well-known writer of short stories to William Dean
Howells.
She said that we must have some atmosphere, some distance, between
ourselves and our theme in order to get perspective, whether one be
painter or writer. So I feel sure that this budget will lose nothing by
the waiting when I tell you what I have picked up by the way in _Beau
Paris_.
If you can come but once, do not come in July or August, the tourist
season. Paris is a dream of beauty at all seasons, but the charm of any
city is obscured when it is crowded as Paris is during those months.
Come in May. Do you not remember what Victor Hugo said in "Le
Proscrit"?
"Le mois de mai sans la France,
Ce n'est pas le mois de mai."
We did a wise thing in choosing from among our numerous addresses a
_pension_ "downtown." It saves us time, strength and money. It is
not one of those _pensions_ Longfellow used to tell about, which had
inscribed on its front:
"Ici on donne à boire et à manger;
On loge à pied et à cheval!"
Literally, "Here we give to drink and to eat; we lodge on foot and on
horseback." Our _pension_ only gives to eat and to lodge "on foot."
I do not mention the drinking, for seldom, I find, can one get a good
cup of coffee anywhere. The chocolate and tea are perfect, however,
and the little crescent-shaped rolls and the fresh, unsalted butter are
delicious.
We are on the Rue de la Bienfaisance, just off the Boulevard Haussman,
not far from the beautiful _église_ Saint Augustin, where many of
the weddings of the Paris four hundred are celebrated, and only a few
minutes' walk from the Gare Saint Lazare.
We call each morning for our English friends, who live in the Rue des
Pyramides, near the Rue de Rivoli, at the place where stands the bronze
statue of Jeanne d'Arc.
The Louvre Palais, which contains the Musée, and the Tuileries are just
across the Rue de Rivoli, with the Place de la Concorde a little farther
up. The Grand Opéra is but a few squares away, with the American Express
office near it, and the Church of the Madeleine hard by.
[Illustration: RUE DE RIVOLI, SHOWING TUILERIES GARDENS]
The Place de la Concorde is an immense square with mammoth pieces of
sculpture at each corner, representing the provinces taken from the
Germans. One of these provinces was recaptured by the Germans, but
instead of marring the Place by removing the statue, it is kept draped
with crêpe and wreaths of flowers. In the center of the square is the
obelisk, with fountains playing about it.
The roads are as white as snow, both through and around the Place. It
is framed in green by the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées, and the banks
of the Seine.
There is a view one gets right here which cannot, perhaps, be excelled
in all the world. If you stand at the court of the Louvre in the space
where the Arc du Carrousel meets the Louvre Palais, and look through
the arch, the eye catches at once the green of the Tuileries garden and
its trees, the dazzling brightness of its marbles, the sparkling of its
fountains, the obelisk, and far on through the Champs Elysées, the Arc
de Triomphe, which makes a fitting finish for this most glorious vista.
I am at loss to tell you just what to do with only a week in this little
world, but let nothing deter you from coming. I would rather have come
for one day than never to have seen it at all. With a week on your
hands, and an inclination in your heart, you can do wonders in this the
most fascinating city on the globe.
Were one to be here but a short time, a drive over the city should
occupy the first day. Parties are sent out every day, with guides who
know the best routes, and it is not a bad idea to join one of them. Do
not, however, go with a party to see interiors or the works of art, for
one is so hurried that one scarcely knows what has been seen.
As an illustration: Two young girls stopping at our _pension_ joined
one of these parties going to Versailles the same day that Suzanne and
I went.
We had seats on top of the steam tram which leaves every hour from the
foot of the Place de la Concorde Bridge. We spent the entire day at
Versailles, and came away after dark feeling that we had had the merest
peep at the parks and gardens, vast with miles of marble terraces, miles
of lime-tree bowers, fountains of gold, of silver and of bronze, green
of all shades, flowers of all colors, staircases of onyx, paintings,
sculptures and relics of untold value. We walked miles and had been
driven tens of miles through the parks and gardens of the Grand and
Petit Trianon. We had stood by the most stupendous series of fountains
the world has ever known. And we crawled home weary, but happy at heart
for all this beauty, to find that our poor little friends had been there
but two hours,—that they had galloped from place to place, catching but
little, if anything, of the foreign names pronounced so differently from
the way we are taught.
Versailles is one of the places where there are official guides, and it
pays to hire one by the hour.
Of the museums, see the Luxembourg first, because, while the gardens are
beautiful, they are not so well kept nor to be compared with those of
the Louvre or Versailles. The works of art are placed in the Luxembourg
gallery during the lifetime of an artist, if his works merit that honor;
if his fame lives for ten years after his death, they are transferred to
the Louvre. Hence it is in the Luxembourg one will find the best works
of living artists.
The Louvre Musée is a vast collection of classified art, and occupies
the palace of that name, any room of which will repay one's effort to
see it.
Just wander about alone until some work of art compels you to stop
before it. Then look at your Baedeker and see if it is something
noted. It tickles one's vanity to find one has selected a masterpiece
without having it pointed out. Speaking of guide-books, Baedeker is
by far the best, and rarely fails one excepting in galleries, where
it is impossible to keep an accurate list of the works of art, as they
are frequently moved from room to room, or are loaned to some world's
exposition.
In the Louvre are many of the pictures which every boy or girl knows.
Well-known masterpieces of Titian, Raphael, Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Rubens,
Murillo and Fra Angelico make one agree with Marie Corelli, that the
old masters took their secret of colors away with them.
I astonished my English friends by announcing that I did not like
Dickens, and now I'll shock my Holland friends by not liking Rubens.
One should get catalogues of both the Louvre and Luxembourg galleries.
If you can make time see Cluny, Guimet, the Musée des Religions, the
Musée Gustave Moreau, the Musée Cernuski—almost wholly oriental,—the
Musée Brignoli-Galliera, the magnificent display of stained glass
in the Sainte-Chapelle—this on a bright, sunshiny day,—and that most
wonderful of modern paintings on the wall of the large amphitheatre of
the Sorbonne University done by Puvis de Chavannes.
The best manner to see the Bois de Boulogne is to take a boat on the
Seine at the Pont Royal, stopping at St. Cloud and Sèvres, and, after an
hour of exquisite rest amid the dreamland on either side, disembark at
Suresnes, cross the bridge, and walk back to Paris through the forest.
We took the earliest morning boat. As it chanced to be the day of the
_Bataille des Fleurs_, we spent some time viewing this beautiful
scene. We stopped frequently at little cafés for tea or rest, and
six o'clock found us at the Arc de Triomphe hailing a cab to take us
home. It was fatiguing, but in no other way could we have seen so well
the splendid woods and the glimpses of family life among the _haute
bourgeoisie_.
The day you go to Notre Dame, cross the Pont d'Arcole, and that brings
you right into the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, which is beyond doubt
the most magnificent palace of justice in the world. Its decorations
rival those of the Louvre. The entrance, the galleries, the ballroom
and the banquet hall are splendid beyond description. The ceiling
decorations are all by noted artists, and represent some type of Plenty,
Music, or Love. It is marvelous, the art these French have put into
their architecture.
The crowning delight, that of a visit to the tomb of Napoleon, awaits
your week's end. The tomb is in the crypt under the Dome des Invalides,
a home for old soldiers, and is reached by walking through the gardens
and long, cloister-like passages of the Invalides. As I entered, my eyes
fell on an immense altar, through the amber window of which a flood of
golden light poured on a colossal cross, lighting the face of the bronze
figure of Christ nailed to it, making a most dramatic picture. This
figure was cast from one of Napoleon's cannons.
The tomb itself is a large marble basin, over the edge of which you
look down onto the sarcophagus cut out of a huge block of reddish-brown
granite. It stands on a mosaic pavement, in the form of a laurel wreath,
and around the walls are twelve colossal statues representing the twelve
victories.
* * * * *
"I wish I had been born either rich or a hod-carrier!" The very idea
of a woman of my parts counting _centimes_! Instead of telling my
friends how to come on the least money, I'd rather say, Wait—until you
have millions to buy the dainty confections with which Paris abounds.
It gives me heartaches "to look and smile and reach for, then stop
and sigh and count the aforesaid _centimes_." From this you have,
perhaps, surmised that we have been going over the _pros_ and _cons_ of
shopping—principally the _cons_.
* * * * *
How foolish of me to tell any one not to come to dear, mad, wild,
glorious Paris! Why, I'd come, if only to remain a day, and though I
had nothing to eat for a year thereafter.
Last night when I wrote, I was "way back at the end of the procession,"
but this morning I am "right up behind the band." And the reason? Never
ask a woman sojourning on foreign shores for a _motif_. There is but
one that, far from those she loves, makes or mars the pleasure of being,
brings the sunshine or the cloud, regulates the pulse-beats of her very
existence, and that is—A LETTER!
I have not told you. For some days I have had no word, hence my
lowly position of yesterday. But on this bright, beautiful morning I
found on my breakfast tray a packet of many-stamped, much-crossed and
often-forwarded letters. And now, although it is raining in torrents,
and the coffee is—not coffee,—I can see only golden words, and those
through rose-tinted glasses.
"Ah, what care I how bad the weather!"
* * * * *
Mademoiselle D. is here, the guest of friends at their country house at
Fontainebleau. The day she was our hostess she met us at the station,
and we were driven through a long lane, flanked on either side by
immense trees, to the Château of Fontainebleau.
No other palace has aroused so keen an interest as has the interior
of this noble old mediæval fortress, which Francis I. converted into
the present château. In this palace are tapestries of rare worth and
weave, jardinières in cloisonné, bas-reliefs in jasper, masterpieces of
marquetry, and priceless bric-a-brac, found nowhere else in such lavish
profusion.
Mademoiselle's hostess sent her servants with a dainty luncheon,
which they served for us on the marble steps leading from _l'Etang des
Carpes_ to the water's edge. The afternoon and early hours of the
evening were spent in driving through the forest and at Barbizon.
Oh, the air of artistic Bohemia, the atmosphere of achievement which
dominates this world-renowned Barbizon! It does not seem possible
that the Barbizon of which Will Low gives a description in his "A
Chronicle of Friendships" could have remained unaltered since the early
seventies, but it has. Both his brush and pen pictures are so vividly
accurate, that I pointed out many of his old and beloved haunts before
Mademoiselle had time to tell me. Often she would say, "You have been
here before, _n'est-ce-pas?_" I always assured her to the contrary,
but always added, "I shall surely come again."
At the very word "Barbizon" the thoughts fly back, involuntarily, to
those painters whose names stand for all that is highest and best in
Art. Their early life songs ran in minor chords, to be sure, but the
vibrations have lost the pathos, and we hear only of the beauty and joy
they have left behind them for their fellow men.
Every child knows "The Angelus," and every lover of the truth in
picture, song or story pauses a moment before the bronze face of Millet,
set into a rock that lies on the edge of this wee village.
* * * * *
The forest of Fontainebleau embraces over fifty square miles, and its
magnificent timber and picturesque splendor are not surpassed in all
France.
We were guests at the American Ambassador's reception yesterday. His
house, just off the Champs Elysées, is furnished with elegance and
taste. The gowns worn by both the French and American women were most of
them airy creations of lace, many of them gorgeous, all of them graceful
and fetching. Lace is the prominent factor in gowns here.
Refreshments were served from a _buffet_ set in one of the
drawing-rooms, and gentlemen, instead of ladies, assisted the hostess
about the rooms.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BOIS DE VINCENNES
CHÂTEAU D'AMBOISE]
The Bois of Vincennes is a park covering some two thousand acres laid
out with drives, walks, lakes and islands, and while less frequented
than the Bois de Boulogne, it is fully as attractive. Louis IX. hunted
in this forest in 1270, but Louis XV. transformed it into a park in
1731.
Fontenay-sous-Bois, an odd little village, is charmingly situated on
the edge of these woods. We had taken a great fancy to the _petits
gâteaux_ of France, and, happily for us, we found them at Fontenay as
good as in Paris. We would stop at the old _patisserie_ to get them,
on our way to the Bois, where we went every afternoon to write or to
study and to hear the band.
Not far from Fontenay is the antique _al fresco_ theatre of Champigny
where the leading actors of France can be seen during the summer months.
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER:
I started to spend a few days at Paris-Plage, one of the fascinating
seasides of France, where is found that rare combination, an excellent
beach with shade trees; but, instead, I stopped two months at Etaples,
a little fishing village, about a mile from the Plage, with a shady path
through the woods between the two places.
Etaples is the old sketching-ground of Millais and Whistler, near
Boulogne-sur-Mer, and is crowded with artists. It is on an arm of the
sea, when the tide is _in_, but when that incomprehensibly weird thing
is _out_, it is on a waste of dry sand. Etaples is but a short distance
from the village of Montreuil, with its outdoor summer school for
sketching. Because of the old Roman ramparts which are still standing
and because of its quaintness and its antiquity, Montreuil also attracts
a large colony of painters.
* * * * *
I am often asked what foreign language I would suggest as most useful
for travelers. I answer unhesitatingly, "French!"
French is taught in the schools of every nation save our own, and it is
spoken by every educated foreigner. Whenever I could not ask for what I
wanted in the language of the country, invariably I was asked by host,
"boots," or with whomever I was gesticulating,—
"_Parlez vous Français?_"
The study of French is a subject to which every parent should give
serious consideration. No nation is so under-languaged as ours; and
no language is so necessary to a traveler as French. It helps one with
his own language and adds an interest and enjoyment to intercourse with
our foreign cousins; while _without_ it, we stand mute and helpless and
ofttimes bewildered, and advantage is taken of our seeming stupidity.
Study English first and always, and polish it by the study of French.
* * * * *
In spite of the fact that Boulogne-sur-Mer is full of English
pleasure-seekers, we spent restful, happy days there in a _pension_
which occupies an old monastery.
BLOIS:
Do you recall how Athos of "The Three Musketeers" fame was continually
reminding D'Artagnan that the "purest French in all France is spoken in
Blois"? And it was because of my interest in Dumas's heroes that, when
the time came for me to visit the château country I made Blois my home.
I am unable to pass upon the "purest French," but I can assure you
that I watch in vain for the polished Athos, or the reckless, dashing
D'Artagnan of former days. I _did_ find the youthful Aramis—but not at
Blois. This one was _en route_ to Waterloo.
The only time I feel inclined to forgive Henry James for the unkind
things he has said of my countrywomen, is when I read his French
sojourns and recall his advice that the best economy is to stop at Blois
first when on a visit to this fascinating region.
If you desire a unique experience and would have _entrée_ as a parlor
boarder to the fashionable school for _demoiselles_, go to Blois armed
with letters from the president, the king or emperor of your fatherland.
Fortunately, the day I arrived with my credentials, two English girls
had been called home, and when at last I was permitted to matriculate, I
had their room alone, with windows giving on the terrace and the Loire.
I fell into line with the rules of the institution, and studied,
recited, walked out each evening chaperoned by one of the mistresses,
and took my holiday every Thursday with the other students.
Sometimes I asked and was given permission to add Friday and Saturday
to my holiday when I wished to stop longer than one day at some of the
old châteaux. I always returned, however, proud that my Château of Blois
was the finest of them all.
The Château of Blois was erected on a colossal foundation, both
strong and high, but the castle itself is light and graceful, with its
wonderful staircase and court of François I. I used often to take my
book to the little park in front of the château and sit for hours—not
reading, but gazing at the old castle and dreaming of Bragelonne and
Louise.
* * * * *
The Château of Chambord is counted as one of the finest specimens of the
Renaissance in existence. Here is found that wonderful double spiral
staircase so arranged that one can go up and another down at the same
time without each seeing the other.
If your time is limited, make up a motor party and visit the Châteaux of
Cheverny and Beauregard on the same day you go to Chambord, returning
by the Valley of Cesson. In the same manner—that is, from Blois and by
motor—visit Amboise and Chaumont. Both can be explored in one day. Both
overhang the Loire, and both teem with history and beauty.
Make Tours your headquarters from which to visit the châteaux of
Touraine. Some one has said: "Normandy is Normandy, Burgundy is
Burgundy, but Touraine is France." It is the home of Balzac, Rabelais,
Descartes, châteaux, books, beautiful women and romance.
We lived in an old château on Rue de Cygne. You may have a suite of
rooms and keep house, if you wish, and Madame will find you an excellent
_bonne_; or, you may simply have lodgings and dine where you will.
Tours is a good place in which to spend an entire summer. From there
should be visited the châteaux and towns of Chinon, Azay-le-Rideau,
Montbazon, Loches, and, last, the exquisite Château of Chenonceaux with
its lemon color. It recalls Venice, for it is built on piles in the
River Cher.
MARSEILLES:
From Tours to Paris, from Paris to Geneva, to Aix-les-Bains, to Turin,
to Genoa and the French Riviera—such was our somewhat roundabout route
to Marseilles.
It would be difficult to imagine a journey filled with more magnificent
and varied scenery and with more of romantic interest.
[Illustration: CAMPO SANTO, GENOA]
We have climbed up and around and over the Alps, following the gorge of
the upper Rhone. For nearly a day we threaded the mountains, their tops
veiled by the clouds. Scarcely ever were we out of sight of a leaping
cascade or a picturesque village perched high above, or far below us,
except when rushing in and out of the countless short tunnels. Of only
less interest was the crossing of the Apennines from Turin to Genoa.
From Genoa, we have traversed the Riviera by train, tram, carriage and
on foot—from the Promenade d'Anglais at Nice to the famous Corniche road
between Nice and Monaco.
On a Sunday afternoon at Monte Carlo we had our tea on the terrace of
the Casino to the accompaniment of a sacred concert by an exquisite
orchestra on the one side, and the sharp click of the _croupier's_
rake in the gambling _salle_ on the other.
Amidst such bewitching surroundings—the balmy air, the profusion of
flowers, the towering Maritime Alps, and the blue Mediterranean at the
feet—one can easily fancy oneself in an earthly paradise.
You have, of course, read much of the principality of Monaco embracing
its eight square miles of territory, with its _opéra bouffe_
government, and how, surrounded by French territory, its independence
has been recognized for several centuries. It is needless to tell
you, too, of the gambling carried on in its Casino, hedged in by every
external element of alluring culture and refinement. But, I dare affirm
that, apart from its gambling, Monaco is one of the enchanted spots
of earth. The _Côte d'Azur_, as this coast is affectionately named,
haunts me still.
Have I mentioned the masonry of this region? All through the Alps, the
Apennines and along the Riviera are massive walls of masonry, supporting
a mountain road, forming the graceful arches of some viaduct or holding
back the mighty waves of the sea. Much of this work was completed by
Napoleon I. Coming, as I do, from a younger civilization, its magnitude
appears marvelous to me.
* * * * *
[Illustration: VALLEY OF THE RHONE
CORNICHE ROAD BETWEEN NICE AND MONACO]
Marseilles is a place about which the casual traveler knows but little,
and yet it is one of the oldest and most important seaports in the
world. So long ago as 600 years before Christ, the Greeks sailed into
this natural harbor and made it "master of the seas." Marseilles carries
on a large oriental trade, which accounts for the fancy-dress-ball
appearance of its quay and streets.
Then there is the Cannebière.
Do you know what the Cannebière is? Well, it's a street, or, rather,
three streets in one, each with a double row of trees meeting in an arch
overhead, and each of these rows of trees flanked by broad walks which
are formed into open-air cafés, served from the hotels and restaurants
which face them. Here the multitude gathered from all nations may be
found—quite the most cosmopolitan of my experience—and here we have our
tea each afternoon.
All European cities have open-air cafés, but none of them can duplicate
the Cannebière, The Marseillaise are very proud of it, and have a song
which runs:
"Si Paris avait une Cannebière,
Paris serait une petite Marseilles."
(If Paris had a Cannebière, it would be a little Marseilles.)
Those who named the streets in Marseilles must have had their share of
sentiment and romance. One of them is named "_Rue Paradis_," and its
principal shop is called "_Paradis de Dames_." Another _rue_ is
named "_Pavé d'Amour_," which doesn't quite harmonize with the odor
of the favorite dish, _bouillabaisse_, of which Thackeray wrote.
The Château d'If, made famous by Dumas's "Monte Cristo," is on a
barren rock which rises out of the sea within sight of the harbor of
Marseilles.
The château was, until recently, a political prison, and many notable
men have been confined within its dungeon cells. It is now kept for the
inspection of tourists, and one is shown the inscriptions carved on its
begrimed walls by Edmond Dante and the learned Abbe Faria during their
fourteen years' imprisonment in cells where daylight never penetrated.
* * * * *
If time should hang heavily on your hands at Marseilles, go to
Aix-en-Provence—not that there is anything especial to see at Aix except
the quaintly rural landscape, nor yet anything especial to do except
to taste the _calisson_, an almond cake of which Aix holds the secret
recipe. But, go! It is in the _going_ that your time will be _un_hung.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU D'IF
ALMERIA, SPAIN]
The tram leaves from the Vieux Port, and if you go down at the hour
advertised, just place a book or your top-coat on a seat to reserve it,
and then go to get your _grand déjeuner_, to take a nap, or to shop,
returning at your leisure, and you'll have ample time.
Local freight is carried on a little trailer car, and the car is moved
alongside the freight that has been dumped in the middle of the street
near the track. This looks so easy that before the car is loaded, it is
moved a half block or so, and the freight is carried to the new location
of the car and again _dumped on the ground_. After this operation has
been repeated several times, the ludicrousness of it all dawns on one,
and turns the tears of anger caused by the delay, to laughter.
It really seems as though some of these foreign cousins of ours
endeavored to do things in the most difficult way.
ISCHIA
So waited I until it came—
God's daily miracle,—oh, shame
That I had seen so many days
Unthankful, without wondering praise.
LOWELL, "At Sea," _Fireside Travels_.
CASAMICCIOLA:
What slaves of sentiment we mortals are! Here I am at Ischia
again—Ischia that has been enshrined in our hearts for years! And yet
it is not the enchanted island of our younger dreams.
Will the memory of that first visit ever be effaced? Can you not recall,
as though it were yesterday, how our hearts beat when we found the
invitation to dine at the old _castello_ on a promontory of Ischia? How
we donned our spotlessest white, and boarded one of the smaller craft
that plies between the island towns! How we threaded our way through
the myriad of boats which crowded the Bay of Naples! How fascinated we
were with everything, from the fairyland of islands to the old captain
who would lean far over the rail and scold at people coming to meet
the boat, if they were late, and yet who would stop his boat anywhere
to take them on board! How even the rain that threatened to undo our
spotlessness seemed part of the scheme, and how, when the wind arose and
the waves ran high, you declared we would not go ashore like the common
herd! How, when we arrived at our destination, the young officer got the
biggest, whitest and cleanest of the rowboats around to the sea-side of
our ship, avoiding the crowd which was filling the boats on the other
side.
Will you ever forget the great wave that drenched the officer as he
stood at the bottom of the ladder trying to steady the smaller boat
that I might leap in, and, after we were pushed off, the feeling of
helplessness at tossing on that mighty sea so far from shore? How the
old oarsman stopped in the roughest part, demanding his fare, and after
you had paid him, insisted, like Oliver Twist, on more! How you shook
your fist at him, balancing yourself in that frail craft, and cried,
"_Allez!_" and how he _allezed_ before that fist!
How the handsome young Ischian had selected me as his _signorina's_
guest! How his frank eye inspired confidence, and I let him hand me
into the wee phaeton; and how we started up the mountain, wondering
all the while! How he seemed to remember something, stopped the pony
bedecked with ribbons and feathers, and gave me a note which proved my
confidence was not misplaced and that he was our hostess's coachman!
How he showed us the old castle from each vantage point, proud to be
serving the beautiful _signorina_, and bubbling over with joy at our
evident admiration!
All this is changed. The old castle still stands out, white and clear
cut, with the blue Mediterranean beating on three of its sides, but the
sunshine has flown.
No smiling mistress in silken robes, no Roman servants, no coachman of
polished bronze were here to welcome me now. The great hall with its
wealth of marble remains, but the _objets d'art_ brought from every
corner of the globe are gone, and all the warmth of heart that comes
from loving hospitality is missing. My hostess of former years has been
wooed away.
* * * * *
Let not my musing, however, deter any one from coming to Ischia.
Situated at the northern extremity of the Bay of Naples, as Capri is at
its southern extremity, it is at once unique and romantic.
ON SHIPBOARD:
We set sail from Marseilles one evening as the autumn sun was sinking
behind the distant Alps. Cruising along the Riviera and the rugged coast
of Corsica, on the second morning we were close to Italy's shore with
the environs of Naples in the misty background.
We remained in port three days, living on the ship the while. A drive
to Posilipo, the never-ending panorama of Neapolitan life, and the day
at Ischia, about which I told you in my last letter, filled the time,
and at midnight of the third day we weighed anchor for home.
ALMERIA:
It is to be regretted that the big packet of letters which awaited me
here, full to overflowing with questions, could not have been received
earlier. The twelve hours of unexpected waiting caused by the delayed
sailing of the ship will give me, however, an opportunity to answer a
limited number. You will receive this letter—one of you at least—before
that happy day when I shall set foot again upon my native land.
Does it pay to come abroad for a short time?
It pays to come for a day. The ocean voyage is compensation in itself.
Nothing broadens one's life like touching the lives of others.
And did request me to importune you,
To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age
In having known no travel in his youth.
SHAKSPERE, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_,