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

Also Said That Ever Since Dicky,  Doubtless Before His Affections Had

Become Involved,  Had Told Him That There Was A Possibility Of My

Changing My Mind--I Was Nearly False To Dicky At This Point--He Had Been

Giving The Matter His Best Consideration,  And He Had Finally Decided

That It Was Only Fair That I Should Have An Opportunity Of Doing So.

These Were Not His Exact Words,  But I Can Be Quite Sure Of My

Impression. We Were Trotting Past The Lake At Maloja When This Came Upon

Me,  And When I Reflected That I Owed It About Equally To Poppa And To

Dicky Dod I Felt That I Could Have Personally Chastised Them--Could Have

Slapped Them--Both. What I Longed To Do With Mr. Mafferton Was To Hurl

Him,  Figuratively Speaking,  Down An Abyss,  But That Would Have Been To

Send Him Into Mrs. Portheris'S Beckoning Arms Next Morning,  And I Had

Little Faith In any Floral Hat And Pink Bun Once Its Mamma'S Commands

Were Laid Upon It. I Thought Of My Cradle Companion--Not Tenderly,  I

Confess--And Told Mr. Mafferton That I Didn'T Know What I Had Done To

Deserve Such An Honour A Second Time,  And Asked Him If He Had Properly

Considered The Effect On Isabel. I Added That I Fancied Dicky Was

Generalising About American Girls Changing Their Minds,  But I Would Try

And See If I Had Changed Mine And Would Let Him Know In Six Days,  At

Harwich. Any Decision Made On This Side Of The Channel Might So Easily

Be Upset. And This I Did Knowing Quite Well That Dicky And Isabel And I

Were All To Elope From Boulogne,  Dicky And Isabel For Frivolity And I

For Propriety; For This Had Been Arranged. In Writing A Description Of

Our English Tour I Do Not Wish To Exculpate Myself In any Particular.

We Arrived Late At St. Moritz,  And The Little German,  On A Very

Fraternal Footing,  Was Still Talking As The Party Descended From The

_Interieur_. He Spoke Of The Butterflies The Day Before In Pontresina,

And He Laughed With Delight As He Recounted.

"Vorty Maybe Der Vas,  Vifty Der Vas,  Mit Der Diligence Vlying Along; Und

Der Brittiest Of All I Catch; He _Vill_ Come At My Nose"

Leaving Out The Scenery--The Senator Declares That Nothing

Spoils A Book Of Travels Like Scenery--The Impressions Of St. Moritz

Which Remain With Me Have Something Of The Quality,  For Me,  Of The

Illustrations In a French Novel. I Like To Consult Them; They Are So

Crisp And Daintily Defined And Isolated And Individual. Yet I Can Only

Write About An Upper Class German Mamma Eating Brodchen And Honey With

Three Fair Square Daughters,  Young,  Younger,  Youngest,  And Not A Flaxen

Hair Mislaid Among Them,  And The Intelligent Accuracy With Which They

Looked Out Of The Window And Said That It Was A Horse,  The Horse Was

Lame,  And It Was A Pity To Drive A Lame Horse. Or About The Two American

Ladies From The South,  Creeping,  Wrapped Up In Sealskins,  Along The

Still White Road From The Hof To The Bad,  And Saying One To The Other,

"Isn'T It Nice To Feel The Sun On Yo' Back?" Or About The Curio Shops On

The Ridge Where The Politest Little Frenchwomen Endeavour To Persuade

You That You Have Come To The Very Top Of The Engadine For The Purpose

Of Buying Japanese Candlesticks And Italian Scarves To Carry Down Again.

It Was All So Clear And Sharp And Still At St. Moritz; Everything Drew

A Double Significance From Its Height And Its Loneliness. But,  As Poppa

Says,  A Great Deal Of Trouble Would Be Saved If People Who Feel That

They Can'T Describe Things Would Be Willing To Consider The Alternative

Of Leaving Them Alone; And I Will Only Dwell On St. Moritz Long Enough

To Say That It Nearly Shattered One Of Mr. Mafferton'S Most Cherished

Principles. Never In His Life Before,  He Said,  Had He Felt Inclined To

Take Warm Water In His Bath In The Morning. He Made A Note Of The

Temperature Of His Tub To Send To The _Times_. "You Never Can Tell," He

Said,  "The Effect These Little Things May Have." I Was Beginning To Be

Accustomed To The Effect They Had On Me.

Before We Got To Coire The Cool Rushing Night Had Come And The Glaciers

Had Blotted Themselves Out. I Find A Mere Note Against Coire To The

Effect That It Often Rains When You Arrive There,  And Also That It Is A

Place In Which You May Count On Sleeping Particularly Sound If You Come

By Diligence; But There Is No Reason Why I Should Not Mention That It

Was Under The Sway Of The Dukes Of Swabia Until 1268,  As Momma Wishes Me

To Do So. We Took The Train There For Constance,  And Between Coire And

Constance,  On The Bodensee,  Occurred Rorshach And Romanshorn; But We

Didn'T Get Out,  And,  As Momma Says,  There Was Nothing In The Least

Individual About Their Railway Stations. We Went On That Bodensee,

However,  I Remember With Animosity,  Taking A Small Steamer At Constance

For Neuhausen. It Was A Gray And Sulky Bodensee,  Full Of Little Dull

Waves And A Cold Head Wind That Never Changed Its Mind For A Moment.

Isabel And I Huddled Together For Comfort On The Very Hard Wooden Seat

That Ran Round The Deck,  And The Depth Of Our Misery May Be Gathered

From The Fact That,  When The Wind Caught Isabel'S Floral Hat Under The

Brim And Cast It Suddenly Into That Body Of Water,  Neither Of Us Looked

Round! Mrs. Portheris Was Very Much Annoyed At Our Unhappy Indifference.

She Implied That It Was Precisely To Enable Isabel To Stop A Steamer On

The Bodensee In an Emergency Of This Sort That She Had Had Her Taught

German. Dicky Told Me Privately That If It Had Happened A Week Before He

Would Have Gone Overboard In Pursuit,  For The Sake Of Business,  Without

Hesitation,  But,  Under The Present Happy Circumstances,  He Preferred The

Prospect Of Buying A New Hat. Nothing Else Actually Transpired During

The Afternoon,  Though There Were Times When Other Events Seemed As

Precipitant,  To Most Of Us,  As Upon The Tossing Atlantic,  And We Made

Port Without Having Realised Anything About The Bodensee,  Except That We

Would Rather Not Be On It.

Neuhausen Was The Port,  But Schaffhausen Was Of Course The Place,  Two Or

Three Dusty Miles Along A River The Identity Of Which Revealed Itself To

Mrs. Portheris Through The Hotel Omnibus Windows As An Inspiration. "Do

We All Fully Understand," She Demanded,  "That We Are Looking Upon The

Rhine?" And We Endeavoured To Do So,  Though The Senator Said That If It

Were Not So Intimately Connected With The Lake We Had Just Been

Delivered From He Would Have Felt More Cordial About It. I Should Like

To Have It Understood That Relations Were Hardly What Might Be Called

Strained At This Time Between The Senator And Myself. There Were

Subjects Which We Avoided,  And We Had Enough Regard For Our Dignity,

Respectively,  Not To Drop Into Personalities Whatever We Did,  But We Had

A _Modus Vivendi_,  We Got Along. Dicky Maintained A Noble And Pained

Reserve,  Giving Poppa Hours Of Thought,  Out Of Which He Emerged With The

Almost Visible Reflection That A Wick Never Changed His Mind.

There Was A Garden With Funny Little Flowers In It Which Went Out Of

Fashion In america About Twenty Years Ago. There Was Also A _Chalet_ In

The Garden,  Where We Saw At Once That We Could Buy Cuckoo Clocks And

Edelweiss And German Lace If We Wanted To. There Was A Big Hotel Full Of

People Speaking Strange Languages--By This Time We All Sympathised With

Mr. Mafferton In His Resentment Of Foreigners In continental Hotels; As

He Said,  One Expected Them To Do Their Travelling In england. There Were

The "Laufen" Foaming Down The Valley Under The Dining Room Windows,

There Were The Swiss Waitresses In Short Petticoats And Velvet Bodices

And White Chemisettes,  And At The Dinner Table,  Sitting Precisely

Opposite,  There Were The Malts. Mr. Malt,  Mrs. Malt,  Emmeline Malt,  And

Miss Callis,  Not One Of Them Missing. The Malts Whom We Had Left At

Rome,  Left In The Same Hotel With Count Filgiatti,  And To Some Purpose

Apparently,  For Seated Attentively Next To Mrs. Malt There Also Was

That Diminutive Nobleman.

As A Family We Saw At A Glance That America Was Not Likely To Be The

Poorer By One Count In Spite Of The Way We Had Behaved To Him. Miss

Callis,  With Four Thousand Dollars A Year Of Her Own,  Was Going To Offer

Them Up To Sustain The Traditions Of Her Country. A Count,  If She Could

Help It,  Should Not Go A-Begging More Than Twice. Further Impressions

Were Lost In The Shock Of Greeting,  But It Recurred To Me Instantly To

Wonder Whether Miss Callis Had Really Gone Into The Question Of Keeping

A Count On That Income,  Whether She Would Be Able To Give Him All The

Luxuries He Had Been Brought Up In anticipation Of. It Was Interesting

To Observe The Slight Embarrassment With Which Count Filgiatti

Re-Encountered His Earlier American Vision,  And His Re-Assurance When I

Gave Him The Bow Of The Most Travelling Of Acquaintances. Nothing Was

Further From My Thoughts Than Interfering. When I Considered The Number

Of Engagements Upon My Hands Already,  It Made Me Quite Faint To

Contemplate Even An _Arrangimento_ In addition To Them.

We Told The Malts Where We Had Been And They Told Us Where They Had Been

As Well As We Could Across The Table Without Seeming Too Confidential,

And After Dinner Emmeline Led The Way To The Enclosed Verandah Which

Commanded The Falls. "Come Along,  Ladies And Gentlemen," Said Emmeline,

"And See The Great Big Old Schaffhausen Fraud. Performance Begins At

Nine O'Clock Exactly,  And No Reserve Seats,  So Unless You Want To Get

Left,  Mrs. Portheris,  You'D Better Put A Hustle On."

Miss Malt Had Gone Through Several Processes Of Annihilation At Mrs.

Portheris'S Hands,  And Had Always Come Out Of Them So Much Livelier Than

Ever,  That Our Aunt Caroline Had Abandoned Her To America Some Time

Previously.

"Emmeline!" Exclaimed Mrs. Malt,  "You Are _Too_ Personal."

"She Ought To Be Sent To The Children'S Table," Mrs. Portheris Remarked

Severely.

"Oh,  That'S All Right,  Mrs. Portheris. I Don'T Like Milk Puddings--They

Give You A Double Chin. I Expect You'Ve Eaten A Lot Of 'Em In Your Time,

Haven'T You,  Mis' Portheris? Now,  Mr. Mafferton,  You Sit Here,  And You,

Mis' Wick,  You Sit _Here_. That'S Right,  Mr. Wick,  You Hold Up The Wall.

I Ain'T Proud,  I'Ll Sit On The Floor--There Now,  We'Re Every One Fixed.

No,  Mr. Dod,  None Of Us Ladies Object To Smoking--Mis' Portheris Smokes

Herself,  Don'T You,  Mis' Portheris?"

"Emmeline,  If You Pass Another Remark To Bed You Go!" Exclaimed Her

Mother With Unction.

"I Was Fourteen The Day Before Yesterday,  And You Don'T Send People Of

Fourteen To Bed. I Got A Town Lot For A Birthday Present. Oh,  There'S

The French Gentleman! _Bon Soir,  Monsieur! Comment Va-T-Il! Attendez!_"

And We Were Suddenly Bereft Of Emmeline.

"She'S Gone To Play Poker With That Man From Marseilles," Remarked Mrs.

Malt. "Really,  Husband,  I Don'T Know----"

"You Able To Put A Limit On The Game?" Asked Poppa.

Everybody Laughed,  And Mr. Malt Said That It Wasn'T Possible For

Emmeline To Play For Money Because She Never Could Keep As Much As Five

Francs In Her Possession,  But If She _Did_ He'D Think It Necessary To

Warn The Man From Marseilles That Miss Malt Knew The Game.

"And She'S Perfectly Right," Continued Her Father,  "In Describing This

Illumination Business As A Fraud. I Don'T Say It Isn'T Pretty Enough,

But It'S A Fraud This Way,  They Don'T Give You Any Choice About Paying

Your Money For It. Now We Didn'T Start Boarding At This Hotel,  We Went

To The One Down There On The Other Side Of The River. We Were Very Much

Fatigued When We Arrived,  And Every Member Of Our