A Voyage Of Consolation by Sara Jeannette Duncan (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Character Struck Me As Having Interesting Phases,  But I Did

Not Allow This Impression To Appear. I Looked Indifferently Out Of The

Window. Italian Sunsets Are Very Becoming.

 

"The Signora,  Your Mother,  Has Told Me That You Have No Brothers Or

Sisters,  Mees Wick. She Made Me The Confidence--It Was Most Kind."

 

"There Never Has Been Any Secret About It,  Count."

 

"Then You Have Not Even One?" Count Filgiatti'S Eyes Were Full Of

Melancholy Sympathy.

 

"I Think," I Said With Coldness,  "That In a Matter Of That Kind,  Momma'S

Word Should Hardly Need Corroboration."

 

"Ah,  It Is Sad! With Me What Difference! Can You Believe Of Eleven? And

The Father With The Saints! And I Of Course Am The Eldest Of All."

 

"Dear Me," I Said,  "What A Responsibility!"

 

"Ah,  You Recognise! You Understand The--The Necessities,  Yes?"

 

At That Moment The Train Stopped At Civita Vecchia,  And The Senator

Awoke And Put His Hat On. "The Eternal City," He Remarked When He

Descried That The Name Of The Station Was Not Rome,  "Appears To Have An

Eternal Railway To Match. There Seems To Be A Feeding Counter Here

Though--We Might Have Another Try At Those Slices Of Veal Boiled In

Tomatoes And Smothered With Macaroni That They Give The Pilgrim Stranger

In These Parts. You May Lead The World In Romance,  Count,  But You Don'T

Put Any Of It In Your Railway Refreshments."

 

As We Passed Out Into The Smooth-Toned Talkative Darkness,  Count

Filgiatti Said In My Ear,  "Mistra And Madame Wick Have Kindly Consented

To Receive My Visit At The Hotel To-Morrow. Is It Agreeable To You Also

That I Come?"

 

And I Said,  "Why,  Certainly!"

 

Chapter 11

We Descended Next Morning To Realise How Original We Were In being In

The Plains Of Italy In July. The Fulda People And The Miss Binghams And

Mrs. Portheris Had Prevented Our Noticing It Before,  But In The Hotel

Mascigni,  Via Del Tritone,  We Seemed To Have Arrived At A Point Of Arid

Solitude,  Which Gave Poppa A New And Convincing Sense Of All He Was

Going Through In Pursuit Of Continental Culture. We Sat In One Corner Of

The "Sala Di Mangiari" At A Small Square Table,  And In all The Length

And Breadth And Sumptuousness Of That Magnificent Apartment--Italian

Hotel Dining-Rooms Are Always Florid And Palatial--There Was Only One

Other Little Square Table With A Cloth On It And An Appearance Of

Expectancy. The Rest Were Heaped With Chairs,  Bottom Side Up,  With Their

Legs In The Air; The Chandeliers Were Tied Up In brown Holland,  And

Through A Depressed And Exhausted Atmosphere,  Suggestive Of Magnificent

Occasions Temporarily In eclipse,  Moved,  With A Casual Languid Air,  A

Very Tall Waiter And A Very Short One. At Mysterious Exits To The Rear

Occasionally Appeared The Form Of The _Chef_ Exchanging Plates. It Was

Borne In Upon One That In The Season The _Chef_ Would Be Remanded To The

Most Inviolable Seclusion.

 

"Do You Suppose Pompeii Will Be Any Worse Than This?" Inquired The

Senator.

 

"Talk About Americans Pervading The Continent," He Continued,  Casting

His Eye Over The Surrounding Desolation. "Where Are They? I Should Be

Glad To See Them. Great Scott! If It Comes To That,  I Should Be Glad To

See A Blooming Englishman!"

 

It Wasn'T An Answer To Prayer,  For There Had Been No Opportunity For

Devotion,  But At That Moment The Door Opened And Admitted Mr.,  Mrs.,  And

Miss Emmeline Malt,  And Miss Callis. The Reunion Was As Rapt As The

Senator And Emmeline Could Make It,  And Cordial In every Other Respect.

Mr. Malt Explained That They Had Come Straight Through From Paris,  As

Time Was Beginning To Press.

 

"We Couldn'T Leave Out Rome," He Said,  "On Account Of Mis' Malt'S

Mother--She Made Such A Point Of Our Seeing The Prison Of Saint Paul. In

Her Last Letter She Was Looking Forward Very Anxiously To Our Safe

Return To Get An Account Of It. She'S A Leader In Our Experience

Meetings,  And I Couldn'T Somehow Make Up My Mind To Face Her Without

It."

 

"Poppa," Remarked Emmeline,  "Is Not So Foolish As He Looks."

 

"We Were Just Wondering," Exclaimed Momma,  "Who That Table Was Laid For.

But We Never Thought Of _You_. Isn'T It Strange?"

 

We Agreed That It Was Little Short Of Marvellous.

 

The Tall Waiter Strolled Up For The Commands Of The Malt Party. His

Demeanour Showed That He Resented The Malts,  Who Were,  Nevertheless,

Innocent Respectable People. As Emmeline Ordered "_Café Au Lait Pour

Tous"_ He Scowled And Made Curious Contortions With His Lower Jaw.

"Anything Else You Want?" He Inquired,  With Obvious Annoyance.

 

"Yes," Said Miss Callis. He Further Expressed His Contempt By Twisting

His Moustache,  And Waited In Silent Disdain.

 

"I Want," Said Miss Callis Sweetly,  Leaning Forward With Her Chin

Artlessly Poised In Her Hand,  "To Know If You Are Paid To Make Faces At

The Guests Of This Hotel."

 

There Was Laughter,  Above Which Emmeline'S Crow Rose Loud And Clear,  And

As The Waiter Hastened Away,  Suddenly Transformed Into A Sycophant,

Poppa Remarked,  "I See You'Ve Got Those Hotel Tickets,  Too. Let Me Give

You A Little Pointer. Say Nothing About It Until Next Day. They Are Like

That Sometimes. In being Deprived Of The Opportunity Of Swindling Us,

They Feel That They'Ve Been Done Themselves."

 

"Oh," Said Mr. Malt,  "We Never Reveal It For Twenty-Four Hours. That

Fellow Must Have Smelled 'Em On Us. Now,  How Were You Proposing To Spend

The Day?"

 

"We'Re Going To The Forum," Remarked Emmeline. "Do Come With Us,  Mr.

Wick. We Should Love To Have You."

 

"We Mustn'T Forget The Count," Said Momma To The Senator.

 

[Illustration: "Are You Paid To Make Faces?"]

 

"What Count?" Emmeline Inquired. "Did You Ever,  Momma! Mis' Wick Knows

A Count. She'S Been Smarter Than We Have,  Hasn'T She? Introduce Him To

Us,  Mis' Wick."

 

"Emmeline," Said Her Mother Severely,  "You Are As Personal As Ever You

Can Be. I Don'T Know Whatever Mis' Wick Will Think Of You."

 

"She'S Merely Full Of Intelligent Curiosity,  Mis' Malt," Said Mr. Malt,

Who Seemed To Be In The Last Stage Of Infatuated Parent. "I Know You'Ll

Excuse Her," He Added To Momma,  Who Said With Rather Frigid Emphasis,

"Oh Yes,  We'Ll Excuse Her." But The Hint Was Lost And Emmeline Remained.

Poppa Looked In His Memorandum Book And Found That The Count Was Not To

Arrive Until 3 P.M. There Was,  Therefore,  No Reason Why We Should Not

Accompany The Malts To The Forum,  And It Was Arranged.

 

A Quarter Of An Hour Later We Were Rolling Through Rome. As A Family We

Were Rather Subdued By The Idea That It Was Rome,  There Was Such Immense

Significance Even In The Streets With Tramways,  Though It Was Rather An

Atmosphere Than Anything Of Definite Detail; But No Such Impression

Weighed Upon The Malts. They Took Rome At Its Face Value And Refused To

Recognise The Unearned Increment Heaped Up By The Centuries. However,  As

We Were Divided In Two Carriages,  None Of Us Had All The Malts.

 

It Was Warm And Dusty,  The Air Had A Malarious Taste. We Drove First,  I

Remember,  To The American Druggist'S In The Piazza Di Spagna For Some

Magnesia Mrs. Malt Wanted For Emmeline,  Who Had Prickly Heat. It Was

Annoying To Have One'S First Roman Impressions Confused With Emmeline

And Magnesia And Prickly Heat; But Mrs. Malt Appeared To Think That Rome

Attracted Visitors Chiefly By Means Of That American Druggist. She Said

She Was Perfectly Certain We Should Find An American Dentist There,  Too,

If We Only Took The Time To Look Him Up. I Can'T Say Whether She Took

The Time. We Didn'T.

 

It Was Interesting,  The Piazza Di Spagna,  Because That Is Where

Everybody Who Has Read "Roba Di Roma" Knows That The English And

Americans Have Lived Ever Since The Days When Dear Old Mr. Story And The

Rest Used To Coach It From Civita Vecchia--In Hotels,  And Pensions,  And

Apartments,  The People In Marion Crawford'S Novels. We Could Only Decide

That The Plain,  Severe,  Many-Storied Houses With The Shops Underneath

Had Charms Inside To Compensate For Their Outward Lack. Not A Tree

Anywhere,  Not A Scrap Of Grass,  Only The Lava Pavement,  And The View Of

The Druggist'S Shop And The Tourists' Agency Office. Miss Callis Said

She Didn'T See Why Man Should Be For Ever Bound Up With The Vegetable

Creation--It Was Like Living In a Perpetual Salad--And Was Disposed To

Defend The Piazza Di Spagna At All Points,  It Looked So Nice And

Expensive. But Miss Callis'S Tastes Were Very Distinctly Urban.

 

That Druggist'S Establishment Was On The Pincian Hill! It Seemed,  On

Reflection,  An Outrage. We All Looked About Us,  When We Discovered

This,  For The Other Six,  And Another Of The Foolish Geographical

Illusions Of The School-Room Was Shattered For Each Of Us. The Rome Of

My Imagination Was As Distinctly Seven-Hilled As A Quadruped Is

Four-Legged,  The Rome I Saw Had No Eminences To Speak Of Anywhere.

Perhaps,  As Poppa Suggested,  Business Had Moved Away From The Hills And

We Should Find Them In The Suburbs,  But This We Were Obliged To Leave

Unascertained.

 

Through The Warm Empty Streets We Drove And Looked At Rome. It Was

Driving Through Time,  Through History,  Through Art,  And Going Backward.

And Through The Christian Religion,  For We Started Where The Pillar Of

Pius Ix.,  Setting Forth The Doctrine Of The Immaculate Conception,

Reaffirmed A Modern Dogma Of The Great Church Across The Tiber; And We

Rattled On Past Other And Earlier Memorials Of That Church Thick-Built

Into The Middle Ages,  And Of The Early Fathers,  And Of The Very

Apostles. All Heaped And Crowded And Over-Built,  Solid And Ragged,

Decaying And Defying Decay,  Clinging To Her Traditions With Both Hands,

Old Rome Jostled Before Us. Presently Uprose A Great And Crumbling Arch

And A Difference,  And As We Passed It The Sound Of The Life Of The City

Died Indistinctly Away And A Silence Grew Up,  With The Smell Of The Sun

Upon Grasses And Weeds,  And We Stopped And Looked Down Into CæSar'S

World,  Which Lay Below Us,  Empty. We Gazed In Silence For A Moment,  And

Then Emmeline Remarked That She Could Make As Good A Forum With A Box Of

Blocks.

 

"I Shouldn'T Wonder But What You Express The Sentiments Of All

Present," Said Her Father Admiringly. "Now Is It Allowable For Us To Go

Down There And Make Ourselves At Home Amongst Those Antique Pillars,  Or

Have We Got To Take The Show In From Here?"

 

"No,  Malt," Said The Senator,  Helping The Ladies Out,  "I Can'T Say I

Agree With You. It'S A Dead City,  That'S What It Is,  And For My Part

I'Ve Never Seen Anything So Impressive."

 

"Mr. Wick," Remarked Miss Callis,  "Has Not Visited Philadelphia."

 

"Well,  For A Municipal Cemetery," Returned Mr. Malt,  "It'S Pretty

Uncared For. If There Was Any Enterprise In This Capital It Would Be

Suitably Railed In With Posts And Chains,  And A Monument Inscribed 'Here

Lies Rome'S Former Greatness' Or Something Like That. But The Italians

Haven'T Got A Particle Of Go--I'Ve Noticed That All Through."

 

We Went Down The Wooden Stair,  A Century At A Step,  And Presently Walked

And Talked,  We Seven Americans,  In That Elder Rome That Most People Know

So Much Better Than The One With St. Peter'S And The Corso,  Because Of

The Clinging Nature Of Those Early Impressions Which We Construe For

Ourselves With Painful Reference To Lists Of Exceptions. We All Felt

That It Was A Small Place To Have Had So Much To Say To History,  And

Were Obliged To Remind Ourselves That We Weren'T Looking At The Whole Of

It. Poppa Acknowledged That His Tendency To Compare It Unfavourably,  In

Spite Of The Verdict Of History,  With Chicago Was Checked By A Smell

From The Cloaca Maxima,  Which Proved That The Ancient Romans Probably

Enjoyed Enteric And Sewer Gas Quite As Much As We Do,  Although Under

Names That Are To Be Found Only In dictionaries Now. Mrs. Malt Said The

Place Surprised Her In being So Yellow--She Had Always Imagined Pictures

Of It To Have Been Taken In The Sunset,  But Now She Saw That It Was

Perfectly Natural. Acting Upon Mr. Malt'S Advice,  We Did Not Attempt To

Identify More Than