A Voyage Of Consolation by Sara Jeannette Duncan (rm book recommendations .txt) 📕

Day,  And We Gathered That There Was Nothing Unusual About It. But Poppa

Said I Had Better Mention It So That People Might Be Prepared. Personally,

I Rather Liked The Display,  It Gave Such Unexpected Colour And Incident To

Those High-Shouldering,  Narrow By-Ways We Looked Down Into From The Upper

Level Of The Via Balbi,  Where Only Here And There The Sun Strove Through,

And All The Rest Was A Rich Toned Mystery; But There May Be Others Like

Momma,  Who Prefer The Clothes Line Of The Occident And The Privacy Of The

Back Yard.

The Two Sides Of The _Via Poverina_ Almost Touched Foreheads. "Yes,"

Said Alessandro Bebbini Apologetically,  "It Is A _Ver'_ Tight Street."

Poppa Was Extremely Pleased With The Appearance Of The House Of

Christopher Columbus,  Which Alessandro Pointed Out In The Via Assorotti.

It Was A Comfortable Looking Edifice,  With Stone Giants Supporting The

Arch Of The Doorway,  In every Respect Suitable As The Residence Of A

Retired Navigator Of Distinction. Poppa Said It Was Very Gratifying To

Find That Cristoforo Had Been Able,  In His Declining Years,  When He Was

Our Only European Representative,  To Keep His End Up With Credit To

America.

You So Often Found The Former Abodes Of Glorious Names With A Modern

Rental Out Of All Proportion With Their Historic Interest. This House,

Poppa Calculated,  Would Let To-Day At A Figure Discreditable Neither To

Cristoforo Himself,  Nor To The United States Of America. Mr. Bebbini,

Unfortunately,  Could Not Tell Him What That Figure Was.

On The Steps Of San Lorenzo Cathedral Momma Paused And Cast A Searching

Glance Into All The Corners.

"Where Are The Beggars?" She Inquired,  Not Without Injury. "I Have

_Always_ Been Given To Understand That Church Entrances In Italy Were

Disgracefully Thronged With Beggars Of The Lowest Type. I Have Never

Seen A Picture Of A Sacred Building Without Them!"

"So That Was Why You Wanted So Much Small Change,  Augusta," Said The

Senator. "Mr. Bebbini Says There'S A Law Against Them Nowadays. Now That

You Mention It,  I'M Disappointed There Too. Municipal Progress In Italy

Is Something You'Ve Not Prepared For Somehow. I Daresay If We Only Knew

It,  They'Re Thinking Of Lighting This Town With Electricity,  And The

Board Of Aldermen Are Considering Contracts For Cable Cars."

"Do Not Inquire,  Alexander," Begged Momma,  But The Senator Had Fallen

Behind With Mr. Bebbini In earnest Conversation,  And We Gathered That

Its Import Was Entirely Modern.

It Was Our First Italian Church And It Was Impressive,  For A President

Of The French Republic Had Just Fallen To The Knife Of An Italian

Assassin,  And From The Altar To The Door San Lorenzo Was In Mourning And

In Penance. Masses For His Soul'S Repose Had That Day Been Said And

Sung; Near The Door Hung A Request For The Prayers Of All Good

Christians To This End. Many Of The Grave-Eyed People That Came And Went

Were Doubtless About This Business,  But One,  I Know,  Was There On A

Private Errand. He Prayed At A Chapel Aside,  Kneeling On The Floor

Beside The Railings,  His Cap In His Hands,  Grasping It Just As The

Peasant In The Angelus Grasps His. Inside The Altar Hung A Picture Of A

Pitying Woman,  And There Were Candles And Foolish Flowers Of Tinsel,  But

Beside These,  Many Tokens Of Hearts,  Gold And Silver,  Thick Below The

Altar,  Crowding The Partition Walls. The Hearts Were Grateful

Ones--Alessandro Explained In an Undertone--Brought And Left By Many

Who Had Been Preserved From Violent Death By The Saint There,  And He Who

Knelt Was A Workman Just From Hospital,  Who Had Fallen,  With His Son,

From A Building. The Boy Had Been Killed,  The Father Only Badly Hurt.

His Heart Token Was The Last--A Little Common Thing--And Tied With No

Rejoiceful Ribbon But With A Scrap Of Crape. I Hoped Heaven Would See

The Crape As Well As The Tribute. When We Went Away He Was Still

Kneeling In His Patched Blue Cotton Clothes,  And As The Saint Had Very

Beautiful Kind Eyes,  And All The Tinsel Flowers Were Standing In The

Glowing Light Of Stained Glass,  And The Voice Of The Church Had Begun To

Speak Too,  Through The Organ,  I Daresay He Went Away Comforted.

Momma Says There Is Only One Thing She Recollects Clearly About San

Lorenzo,  And That Is The Chapel Of St. John The Baptist. This Does Not

Remain In Her Memory Because Of The _Cinquecento_ Screen Or The

Altar-Canopy'S Porphyry Pillars Which We Know We Must Have Seen Because

The Guide-Book Says They Are There,  But Because Of The Fact That Pope

Innocent The Eighth Had It Closed To Our Sex For A Long Time,  Except On

One Day Of The Year,  On Account Of Herodias. Momma Considered This

Extremely Invidious Of Innocent The Eighth,  And Said It Was A Thing No

Man Except A Pope Would Have Thought Of Doing. What Annoyed Poppa Was

That She Seemed To Hold Alessandro Bebbini Responsible,  And Covered Him

With Reproaches,  In The Guise Of Argument,  Which He Neither Deserved Nor

Understood. And When Poppa Suggested That She Was Probably As Much To

Blame For Herodias'S Conduct As Mr. Bebbini Was For The Pope'S,  She Said

That Had Nothing Whatever To Do With It,  And She Thanked Heaven She Was

Born A Protestant Anyway,  Distinctly Implying That Herodias Was A Roman

Catholic. And If Poppa Didn'T Wish Her Back To Give Out Altogether,

Would He Please Return To The Carriage.

We Wandered Through A Palace Or Two And Thought How Interesting It Must

Have Been To Be Rich In The Days Of "Sir Horatio Palavasene,  Who Robbed

The Pope To Pay The Queen." Wealth Had Its Individuality In Those Days,

And Expressed Itself With Truth And Splendour In Sculpture,  And Picture,

And Tapestry,  And Precious Things,  With The Picturesqueness Of Contrast

And Homage. As The Senator Said,  A Banquet Hall Did Not Then Suggest A

Fifth Avenue Hairdresser'S Saloon. But Now The Genoese Merchant-Princes

Would Find That Their State Had Lost Its Identity In Machine Made

Imitations,  And That It Would Be More Distinguished To Be Poor,  Since

Poverty Is Never Counterfeited. But Poppa Declined To Go As Far As That.

Alessandro,  As We Drove Round And Up The Winding Roads That Take One To

The Top Of Genoa--The Hotels And The Palaces And The Churches Are Mostly

At The Bottom--Was Full Of Joyous And Rapid Information. Especially Did

He Continue To Be Communicative On The Subject Of Christopher Columbus,

And If We Are Not Now Assured Of The School That Discoverer Attended In

His Youth,  And The Altar Rails Before Which He Took The First Communion

Of His Early Manhood,  And The Occupation Of His Wife'S Parents,  And

Many Other Matters Concerning Him,  It Is The Fault Of History And Not

That Of Alessandro Bebbini. After A Cathedral And A Palace And A Long

Drive,  This Was Bound To Have Its Effect,  And I Very Soon Saw Resentment

In The Demeanour Of Both My Parents. So Much So,  That When We Passed The

Family Group In Memory Of Mazzini,  And Alessandro Explained Dramatically

That "The Daughter He Sitta Down And Cryo Because His Father Is A-Dead,"

Poppa Said,  "Is That So?" Without The Faintest Show Of Excitement,  And

Momma Declined Even To Look Round.

It Was Not Until The Evening,  However,  When We Were Talking To Some

Milwaukee People,  That We Remembered,  With The Assistance Of Baedeker

And The Milwaukee People,  A Number Of Facts About Columbus That Deprived

Alessandro'S Information Of Its Commercial Value,  While Leaving His

Ingenuity,  So To Speak,  At Par. The Senator Was So Much Annoyed,  As He

Had Made A Special Note Of The State Of Preservation In Which He Had

Found The Dwelling Of Our Discoverer,  That He Had Recourse To The Most

Unscrupulous Means Of Relieving Us Of Alessandro--Who Was To Present

Himself Next Morning At Eleven. He Wrote An Impulsive Letter To "A.

Bebbini,  Esq.," Which Ran:

     "Sir: I Find That We Are Too Credulous A Family To Travel In

     Safety With A Courier. When You Arrive At The Hotel

     To-Morrow,  Therefore,  You Will Discover That We Have Fled

     By An Earlier Train. We Take It From No Personal Objection

     To Your Society,  But From A Rooted And Unconquerable

     Objection To Brass Facts. I Enclose Your Month'S Salary And

     A Warning That Any Attempt To Follow Me Will Be Fruitless

     And Expensive."

                                        "Yours Truly,"

                                                 "J.P. Wick."

The Senator Assured Me Afterwards That This Was Absolutely

Necessary--That A. Bebbini,  If We Introduced Him In any Quantity,  Would

Ruin The Sale Of Our Work,  And If He Accompanied Us It Would Be

Impossible To Keep Him Out. He Said We Ought To Apologize For Having

Even Mentioned Him In a Book Of Travels Which We Hope To See Taken

Seriously. And We Do.

Momma Wishes Me To State That The Word Italy,  In any Language,  Will For

Ever Be Associated In Her Mind With The Journey From Genoa To Pisa. We

Had Our Own Lunch Basket,  So No Baneful Anticipation Of Cutlets Fried In

Olive Oil Marred The Perfect Satisfaction With Which We Looked Out Of

The Windows. One Window,  Almost The Whole Way,  Opened On A Low

Embankment Which Seemed A Garden Wall. Olives And Lemon Trees Grew

Beyond It And Dropped Over,  And It Was Always Dipping In The Sunlight To

Show Us The Roses And The Shady Walks Of The Villas Inside,  White And

Remote; Now And Then We Saw The Pillared End Of A Verandah Or A Plaster

Neptune Ruling A Restricted Fountain Area. Out Of The Other Window

Stretched The Blue Gulf Of Genoa All Becalmed And Smiling,  With Freakish

Little Points And Headlines,  And Here And There The White Blossom Of A

Sail. The Senator Counted Eighty Tunnels--He Wants That Fact Mentioned

Too--Some Of Them So Short That It Was Like Shutting One'S Eyes For An

Instant On The Olives And The Sea. Nevertheless It Was An Idyllic

Journey,  And At Four O'Clock In The Afternoon We Saw The Leaning Tower

From Afar,  Describing The Precise Angle That It Does In The Illustrated

Geographies. Momma Was Charmed To Recognise It,  She Blew It A Kiss Of

Adulation And Acclaim,  While We Yet Wound About Among The Environs,  And

Hailed It "Pisa!" It Was As If She Bowed To A Celebrity,  With The Homage

Due.

What The Senator Called Our Attention To As We Drove To The Hotel Was

The Conspicuous Part In Municipal Politics Played By That Little Old

Brown River Arno. In Most Places The Riparian Feature Of The Landscape

Is Not Insisted On--You Have Usually To Go To The Suburbs To Find It,

But In Pisa It Is A Sort Of Main Street,  With The Town Sitting

Comfortably And Equally On Each Side Of It Looking On. Momma And I Both

Liked The Idea Of A River In Town Scenery,  And Thought It Might Be

Copied With Advantage In america,  It Afforded Such A Good Excuse For

Bridges. Pisa'S Three Arched Stone Ones Made A Reason For Settling There

In Themselves In Our Opinion. The Senator,  However,  Was Against It On

Conservancy Grounds,  And Asked Us What We Thought Of The Population Of

Pisa. And We Had To Admit That For The Size Of The Houses There Weren'T

Very Many People About. The Lungarno Was Almost Empty Except For

Desolate Cabmen,  And They Were Just As Eager And Hospitable To Us And

Our Trunks As They Had Been In Genoa.

In The Piazza Del Duomo We Expected The Cathedral,  The Leaning Tower,

The Baptistry,  And The Campo Santo. We Did Not Expect Mrs. Portheris; At

Least,  Neither Of My Parents Did--I Knew Enough About Dicky Dod Not To

Be Surprised At Any Combination He Might Effect. There They All Were In

The Middle Of The Square Bit Of Meadow,  Apparently Waiting For Us,  But

Really,  I Have No Doubt,  Getting An Impression Of The Architecture As A

Whole. I Could Tell From Mrs. Portheris'S Attitude That She Had

Acknowledged Herself To Be Gratified. Strange To Relate,  Her

Gratification Did Not Disappear When She Saw That These Mediaeval

Circumstances Would Inconsistently Compel Her To Recognise Very Modern

American