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Carrie
LeFlore Perry
From: Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911)
A Selected
Edition By Amanda L. Paige
Interlaken
My Dear Mother:
I am disappointed. I fully expected a letter
from you today Ed tried to cheer me by saying tomorrow would bring a
long one. I hope so.
We reached Bale about thirty minutes before the
arrival of Tour No.—from Heidelberg. We were joyfully welcomed,
and it was a delightful sensation to be “home again.”
At Berne a stop of thirty minutes afforded us a street car ride, and
I found a moment to purchase a spoon. As to the city, I can only say
it looked very prosperous, and the shops were inviting. When
we returned to the station we found Mr. B. anxiously checking off
his numerous charges. Our worthy professor and his wife came
hurriedly just as the train started. This, we thought completed the
number, but in a few moments we found that the two ladies from
Massachusetts were not with us. The conjectures were many as to
their behavior when they realized the situation, alone in a foreign
land. Ed declared that we need not worry; they were daughters of the
Pilgrim Fathers, and such a little adventure would only give them
pleasure. Mr. B. assured us that they would be in Interlaken in
thirty minutes after our arrival.
The first glimpses of the mountains were very
fascinating, and as we penetrated farther and farther the view
became more entrancing. The air is so invigorating, and the eye so
pleased by all the surroundings that it is impossible not to be
happy.
When we reached Interlaken we were in the very
center of beauty; green fields, torrents, everlasting hills clothed
in verdure, picturesque houses, and, above all, the shining,
snowcapped mountains. We are up the side of a little hill, in the
quaintest hotel, beneath whose many windows a mountain stream flows
noisily. Ed declares from our window he can see the fish leaping the
whirling waters. I think he has fish on the brain, for we did not
cross a bridge in our walk about the village without stopping to
learn over the side, and call, “See! There he is! What a
whopper!” I looked carefully, and not even a little fish would
jump for me. Ed can tell you the prices demanded for horses, the
wages of coachmen, the usual fares, etc. You see, he decided to
investigate a very fine livery stable, and after allowing him ample
time to inspect the horses, I found it necessary to pretend
faintness to get him away. He claimed he was in search of
"local color.” On the one principal street we found shops
galore, filled with every imaginable kind of souvenir. How can the
tourist escape? After dinner we again visited the shops, finding the
busy throngs very interesting. Here all are pursuing pleasure, and
the city has the air of a holiday. This evening I heard so many
English voices and saw so many faces typically American that it was
difficult to realize that this is Europe. Ed purchased souvenirs for
the ladies’ of my home club, dear little edelweiss pins. I am sure
they will be pleased.
Shopping wearies me, and thus quiet early I was
ready to return to the hotel. Ed is sleeping, with the noisy torrent
as a lullaby, and I think it would be wise for me to follow his
example. Mr. B. informed us that tomorrow would be spent in
carriages, climbing the mountains to the glacier of Grindewald. I
never know when to say good-night, dear mother. A talk with you is
such a pleasure. I always think of “just one more thing.” How I
pity the children who have never known a mother’s love. What a
dreary place this old world would be without you.
July 17.—We have been favored with glorious
weather; a brilliant sunshine, breezes blowing softly, like the
balmy days of Indian summer. The carriages accommodated six
passengers. The horses were noble animals, well fitted to draw such
a load and to add to their comfort, and thus to ours. A little
distance from the city boys appeared bearing monster bushes with
which to keep off the mountain flies. The youngsters also carried
blocks of wood, to place beneath a wheel when the driver wished to
rest his team. We were seldom without a child toddling beside the
carriage, urging us to purchase bits of lace. We only bought one
little doily, as I did not care for the kind shown. We had our two
young men and the “ lost” ladies in the carriage with us. Ed
asked the two ladies to accompany us, as he insisted that he deemed
it necessary to “have an eye on ‘em.” The company
increased our enjoyment of the drive, as you know we like to share
our enthusiasm. I wish I could paint you a word picture of that
still, slow climb, the winding road, the echoes here and there, the
sweet voices of children, the joyous laughter of care-free tourists,
torrents tumbling down the mountains, green fields, gardens so steep
that surely the plants dare not slumber lest they lose their
foothold and fall far below, goats everywhere, beautiful Swiss cows
with tinkling bells knee deep in the hillside grass; then, far
above, the vast panorama of the snow crowned Alpine giants. Mother,
our Rockies are so sombre in their limitless grandeur, the Alps are
so intimate in their beauty. Our mountains tolerate us; here you are
invited to rest and be happy. No long stretches of sage brush, of
dust blown valleys. You do not cry aloud at the awful loneliness.
Nature is kind, and has clothed her Alps in radiant garments. It is
like this, Mother mine. Our Rockies have been alone so many aeons
they do not need us. These Alps have so long cradled mankind they
would be inconsolable without them. Which do I prefer? Truly I
cannot say. I have Rocky mountain moods and Alpine moods, so I, like
the little boy, “choose both.”
It was the hour of noon when we clattered up
the main street of the village of Grindewald. At the hotel selected
by Mr. B. we descended from the carriages, and in a short while,
with a guide, proceeded to walk to the glacier. The tiny path was so
steep and the atmosphere so light I would have given up and sat by
the wayside if Ed had not urged me onward. When we reached the
entrance to the tunnel cut in the heart of the glacier for the
benefit of tourists, I was glad I had persevered. The ever watchful
Mr. B., before entering the cave, urged us to resume the wraps
discarded in the climb. We were so grateful for his thoughtfulness
when we retuned to the sun. At the very end, in a tiny chamber, we
were greeted by a dear little Christmas tree. It is a pleasing
climax, and I thought of the delight such a tunnel and then a tree
would afford sister’s boys. The descent was easily accomplished.
Being told our path was over age-old ice, Ed declared he shared the
sentiments of the people of Missouri, and hence he drew his knife
and investigated. Beneath a layer of earth he found the ice. It was
very warm, almost hot, and I could not suppress the wonder that the
ice did not melt. Ed wished to take a trip in a basket high about
the glacier. I saw many make the ascent, but I declined, having no
desire to hang suspended by a thread between heaven and earth. An
awkward waitress gave Ed’s London suit a gravy bath at luncheon.
The manager was apologetic, and the girl frightened, but alas! the
glory of the suit, wherein he hoped to dazzle his Oklahoma friends,
is forever dimmed.
The boys changed things a bit this afternoon,
Mr. R. returning to Interlaken, the willing captive of a young lady
of Tour No—, that he had met in Brussels. Mr. M. captured a pretty
girl from the same tour and brought her to the city in our carriage.
I know he hoped to occupy the high seat where he might whisper sweet
nothings, but Ed and Miss C. were in possession when he arrived. I
felt rather sorry for the young people, yet I was amused, they tried
so hard not to appear disappointed. The afternoon drive was far more
gorgeous than the morning, the western sun so longingly kissed the
earth, and, as the hour of his departure drew nigh, he excelled
himself, bathing the valleys in golden light, touching the
snow-capped mountains with vivid crimson, rapidly giving to us a
succession of impressions too beautiful to be real. Ed is sure this
is his “promised land” and now he wishes to live here.
I was so weary from the exertions of the day
that I determined to retire before dinner. After a rest of thirty
minutes, I arose, dressed and was not only desirous of dining, but
was ready to explore the city once more. There are so many Americans
here, and, as elsewhere, they are too noisy, too loud voiced in
their patriotism. I believe in loving your country, yet it is surely
unnecessary to parade the flag of the United States and swagger as
if the universe belonged to us, and it was only by our magnanimity
other countries are permitted to exist. I regret to state, Mother,
that women are the worst offenders in this manner. I often wish to
exclaim, “For heaven’s sweet sake, lower your voices; let your
country and your state have a rest. There are others, you know.”
Tomorrow we are off. Just think how we flit
from place to place. Ed is in his element. I must confess that I
would prefer my pleasures not so overwhelmingly rapid. Good night,
and goodbye until we reach fair Lucerne.
Lovingly,
C.
Lucerne
My Mother:
Where is my letter? Why do you not write every
day?
We left Interlaken by steamer to Brienz; thence
by rail to Meiringen; then over the Brunig Pass to Lucerne. Mother I
was so ill on the horrid boat that when we changed to the puffing
little train I felt like hugging the engine. The trip should have
been one of exceptional beauty, but Providence was unkind; the rain
came, obscuring all things. We reached Lucerne at noon hour, and
although the rain was falling forlornly, we decided to follow the
program, visit the points of interest this afternoon, and thus have
Sunday truly our own. Clad in short skirts and rubbers we braved the
weather. When I stood before the Lion of Lucerne1 I
exclaimed that to view it was worth the facing of an Oklahoma
cyclone. Could I say more, indicative of my appreciation? The
glacial gardens are a kind of pleasure ground, containing several
places of amusement and many things of interest. The glacial pots,
with rapidly whirling rocks, gave Ed much satisfaction, and in one
mysterious dark cave he boldly seized the gyrating rock to discover
how it worked. The lion was my delight, I loved him so I could
hardly tear myself away. How I wanted him for my own!
After leaving the gardens we walked across
the ancient covered bridges, inspecting their queer pictures. My me!
The olden days were strange days and tastes were odd. Think of
always passing to and fro over a bridge bedecked with startling
views of the vagaries of death. We located the cathedral, with the
monster organ, and tomorrow we attend mass there at nine-thirty. By
this hour Mr. B. had left us to our own devices, and the rain coming
in such torrents, we decided to see a few shops. We found them
filled with beautiful embroideries and also crowded by tourists. You
know how I declared that this American would not visit the stores.
Well, dear, I am sure Ed is not permitting me to miss many. He calls
shopping his recreation after so much history. Truly, I believe he
frequents them to chat with the clerks and see the beautiful women
who throng the aisles.
We have an elegant room on the second floor,
with a balcony, and oh, so many mirrors. Ed declares he will not be
able to exist any more without mirrors to see himself “all ways at
once.” He never before realized he was such a fine looking man.
The room assigned us was tucked away off upstairs. My lord would not
permit me to seek it by elevator or stairway, declaring that a
second floor room must be given us. How he manages without paying
any extra charge I know not, yet always the man in control yields,
and we are comfortably located according to Ed’s desires. For some
reason our party was divided here, half at this hotel, half at
another. We are so sorry. “The family” are all so charming, we
can ill spare one. Mr. B. is with us, hence we feel that we have a
distinct advantage. The rain has not abated; I am inclined to think
it will continue for forty days and nights. We have not left the
hotel since dinner. The streets are not alluring in their wet state,
and the storm is too electrical for pleasure. I shall retire early
and try to sleep ten hours, so until tomorrow, good night, sweet
Mother.
Sunday—Raining, raining! The heavens
frowning with disdain, caring little for our disappointment. We
toiled through the storm to the cathedral at nine-thirty, listened
to a long sermon in French. I trust Ed’s soul was benefited
thereby. As I could not comprehend a word and my skirts were far
from dry, I sat there in a very uncomfortable state. At last it
ended and the great organ pealed forth in the music of a magnificent
Mass. I could not pray, so I folded my hands and whispered, “Dear
Lord, do please consider this rapture a prayer of praise.” I
forgot the rain, my wet garments, all my little woes, and ascended
right to the gates of paradise.
Sunday is not a day of absolute rest in
Lucerne. Many of the shops were open, but the rain was so wet we did
not linger, too eager to reach the hotel and dry shoes. We spent the
day in visiting with the members of the party, recalling past
pleasures and anticipating the future. I confess to several waves of
homesickness.
The ocean looms so formidable on such a
stormy day, and my heart cries out for you.
Our hostess is a remarkably handsome woman,
with a wonderful figure, so tall and willowy. She said her brother
resided in the Indian Territory, U.S.A., but seemed to think the
name of a town a superfluity; persisted in saying, “ surely you
know him, such a little place is the Indian Territory.” The hotel
is filled to overflowing, the parlors are utilized as bedrooms. We
are quite near to the barracks and this appears a favorite place for
the soldiers to dine. Today a dinner was served quite a number of
them in the private dining room. Many ladies were of the party, and
the merriment was prolonged and hearty. It is very cold this
evening, I am wrapped in a feather quilt, and even then am cold. Is
it possible that you are struggling to keep cool in our far-off
home? There is a strange little porcelain stove concealed in a hole
in the wall of this room, and I am tempted to request a fire. Ed has
retired beneath an avalanche of feathers. I have, until tonight,
persuaded him to use only the blanket provided. I am sure to be
awakened by a fearful tumult. As I know he will dream horribly
beneath such warm coverings. We lose two of the party here, the
Misses—. They go directly to Paris to select a trousseau for the
younger sister, and then home and a wedding.
You will pardon me, dear heart, for leaving you
so early. This has been an uneventful day, yet I am so cold if I
had the most interesting news to chronicle I could not do it with
the smallest degree of comfort. If the rain would cease, and the
good old sun shine out.
Goodnight—goodnight.
Monday.—First by boat, then by rail, to the
summit of Mount Rigi, on the stormiest day we have encountered. The
wind blew in great gusts, the rain came in vast sheets, and the
vivid flashes of lightning made me sit very near to my dearest. All
the beauties of nature were hidden by the dense rain and thus we
have missed some of the most magnificent views in Switzerland. Mr.
B. brought us out to be happy, and we determined to be happy, so we
beguiled the hours with laughter and song. “How Dry I Am,” was a
favorite ditty, and “the Old Folks at Home,” second choice.
There are several good voices in the party, and Miss L., of New
York, is a most obliging leader, always ready to warble, tell
stories or join in a laugh.
When the station at the summit was attained it
surely required courage to face the storm and thus reach the
hostelry many steps above us. We were sadly buffeted by the wind and
drenched by the rain ere we entered its hospitable doors. We were
huddled about a monster porcelain stove, half frozen this July day
when Mrs.—created a diversion by fainting, and in our solicitude
for her welfare we forgot our discomfort. I am glad to state she
soon recovered and was quite able to enjoy the excellent lunch
served. The question how to make the hours pass pleasantly was
quickly settled, an excellent floor and a piano suggested dancing.
In a short while all who could were “tripping the light
fantastic.”
Your son could not dance because of the
altitude. He tried courageously, but his breathing was so labored I
begged him to desist. I did not notice the change, except a slight
sensation of fullness in my ears. When one by one the dancers
dropped exhausted, we gathered around the great stove, told stories,
and persuaded the young lady from Australia to read our palms. I
think, mother, you would like Miss B. I am greatly interested in
her, more so because she can ill conceal her dislike of Americans. I
must become better acquainted with her and learn of her country.
The return to Lucerne was accomplished
without accident, but not a glimpse of the far-famed scenery was
afforded us. Ed purchased thirty-seven Edelweiss flowers for one
franc on the summit of Rigi. I was so afraid he would lose them I
determined to carry them myself, and thereby hangs a tale. When we
left the boat at Lucerne we hurried to the cathedral, as it was the
hour of the organ recital, tickets one franc-fifty. We seated
ourselves well to the front and I went without delay to paradise.
How I dreamed, and dreamed again. Life was all before me, now
joyous, now sad. I ached with the pleasure of existence, then
stumbled beneath the burden of life. I was weary, I was triumphant,
I was a distressed mortal, I was a god. I had lost all count of
time, the world was no longer my resting place. When Ed touched me
as the last note died away, I arose and left the church as in a
dream—the said dream cost me my precious flowers. I did not
discover my loss until the hotel was reached. Ed declares the moral
is: “Wives, trust your husbands.” Lucerne, her lion and her
organ shall be locked in my memory cabinet, and when I am home again
I shall open the door for you, dear. Tomorrow we bid Switzerland
goodbye, for “across the Alps lies Italy,” and oh, I am so eager
to see that fair country. Do not let the children forget Auntie. I
am always thinking of them, and hardly a day passes without their
uncle mailing a card to one of them. I wish you, sister, and the
children were with me, then my happiness would be complete.
Sweet dreams of me.
Lovingly,
C.
Milan
My Dear Mother:
Your letter, blue skies, sunshine and the odor
of flowers. What more can I ask?
We left Lucerne in a furious storm, which did not abate until we
passed the part of which the guide book says, “it is crowded with
visions of gorges, snowy peaks, inaccessible heights, etc.” We
passed through eighty tunnels, mother mine, aggregating over thirty
miles, What do you think of that for a smoky time? The change in
temperature come suddenly, and I found it disagreeable—so much so
I could not enjoy the luncheon served en route. Such a
conglomeration of odors in the little stations. Mr. B. says it is
better not to have an acute sense of smell if you would enjoy fair
Italia. Do you know, the only handsome men I have seen so far have
been Americans. How can a girl from the United States prefer the
little fellows you see over here? We have been warned not to indulge
too freely in cold water and I am striving to be a moderate drinker
of “Father Adam’s ale,” but I find it very hard. Wine is
considered the proper beverage here. I have tried it, and do not
consider it palatable. Wish I could have a whole pot—no, two
pots—of uncolored Japan tea, served piping hot in real china cups.
Two weeks in Italy and ever to remember that an indulgence in much
cold water is likely to produce bowel trouble. Will you believe me
when I state that several of this party have not tasted water since
leaving the vessel at Antwerp? How can they exist without it?
This hotel, as usual, is very centrally
located. Cook & Sons are thoughtful of their “little
Cookies.” After thirty minutes to remove the dust of travel,
carriages appeared and a guide also, to show us the sights of Milan.
I have always thought of this city in connection with a kind of hat.
Wonder if I shall find it here? At three-thirty, so we were
informed, Italians begin to awaken for the evening. If so, today
they overslept. Not many were astir at four o’clock. At the great
cathedral, the pride of Milan, I was rendered speechless, it so far
surpassed my preconceived ideas of its magnitude. Its loftiest tower
stands four hundred feet above mother earth. The entire edifice is
of marble; 2,500 statues adorn it, and there are niches for many
more. Fifty superb columns, each cut from a solid block of marble
were pointed out by the guide. Altars, altars everywhere. We saw the
body of St. Charles Borromeo lying in state and marvelously
preserved. The jewels within the casket are worthy to ransom a king,
one ruby being of fabulous value. Think of the years he has lain
there for the veneration of the faithful and the flippant remarks of
tourists. We were told many things of his charity and of the love
the Milanese bear him, their patron saint. I used to think the nose
embellishing his pictures was exaggerated. Nay, nay, mother mine,
the saint possessed a regular Cyrano de Bergerac affair. I wonder if
he is troubled in heaven by knowledge that his body is gazed upon by
hundreds of scoffers. Would he not be happier if it was hidden away
until the resurrection morn? In the sacristy were vestments so
gorgeous and altar vessels so rare my eyes ached and my mouth formed
the exclamation “Ah!” so frequently I have difficulty this
evening to keep it closed. Above the high altar in the wall is a
niche wherein is a nail from the true cross. Once a year the
Archbishop comes in state and is drawn up there in a basket, opens
the door, exposes the sacred relic to the faithful, gives with it a
blessing, and returns it to its resting place until another twelve
months roll by. Ed stopped with me at a small table near to an
entrance to purchase a medal of St. Charles Borromeo, and when we
turned our party had disappeared. The edifice is so vast we were
fifteen minutes locating them. Does that sound incredible? We
visited several churches of minor importance. In one we were shown
the only altar whereon a priest offers the sacrifice of the Mass
with his face toward the people. In this same church is a bronze
serpent which we were gravely assured was the one elevated in the
wilderness for the children of Israel. I regret to state that I
giggled ecstatically, thus obtaining a reproachful glance from our
Milanese instructor, and a murmured, “Why inquire too closely
concerning a beautiful myth?” We had expected to see “The Last
Supper,” by Leonardo de Vinci, but were informed that it was being
restored and would not be shown to the public for several days. “I
am sorry,” said Mr. B. in true English style.
The drive was glorious, beneath waving trees,
blue sky, hot glimmering sunshine, and everywhere children. The Arch
of Triumph is quite magnificent, a copy of the one in Paris.
The carriages provided by our good Cook &
Son are so comfortable that a drive is never too long. This
afternoon, our first in Italy, was far too short, and our
impressions have been so agreeable that surely nothing can make us
dislike the “land of flowers and sunshine.”
It was quite dark when we returned to the
hotel, and after dining sumptuously we sought the streets and the
shops, where Ed gets his local color. He will have more anecdotes to
relate when he returns than you can find time to hear. There is a
vast glass covered shopping district in this city which would
certainly prove a bonanza in Lucerne, if the weather is often as we
found it. I am dead tired; the heat has wilted me, although I do not
consider this so hot as our summers at home. The mosquitoes are
blood-thirsty creatures and my pillow is of cotton, so I have a few
grievances even in this Eden. Mr. B. offered consolation in this
manner, “Ach! await Venice before you complain of mosquitoes, and
no feather pillows in Italy.”
The morning is to be spent as we please. Ed and I have planned to
attend High Mass at the cathedral and enjoy the music. We have a
corner room, with a full view of the long street. It is quite
pleasant tonight, if the mosquitoes would cease calling “consin,
consin.”
Ed is sleeping as usual. He is so thoughtful of
my comfort. Knowing how nervous I am he never leaves me alone in
these vast hotels. I cannot bear to think of what life would be
without his watchful care.
We walked miles after dinner, even entering a
church and listening to a sermon, evidently very impassioned, as
many were weeping audibly.
It is always hard to leave the throngs and the
lights, afraid we might miss something.
Until we are enjoying the “Queen of the
Adriatic,” I shall bid you farewell, mother mine. I just wish I
could fly to you this night, clasp you within my arms and hurry back
to Italy with my precious burden. How good it is to realize dreams.
I am glad I am alive, glad I am young. “God is in His heaven, all
is right with the world.”
Good night. I am afraid fair Luna will affect
me, if I do not hurry to my little bed.
Lovingly ever,
C.
- The Lion of Lucerne is a
monument to the Swiss Guards who died defending the Bastille in
1792 in Paris. Mark Twain has called this monument, “…the
most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world.”
Venice
My Dear Mother:
The day has been hot and dusty, yet we have
been fairly comfortable, compartments were reserved for us and we
were not crowded. I miss the ice water provided in our country; here
you are expected to purchase drinks at the stations from the
numerous vendors. At Verona the train stopped for fifteen minutes
and we braved the sun, walking the long platform wishing we had time
to visit the city of the immortal lovers, Romeo and Juliet. Verona
and queer lemonade must always be associated in my memory. You see
Ed thought I ought to have a drink, and as I would not have wine he
purchased, “lemonade.” Perhaps it was that beverage, as made in
Italy. I do not care to try another glass. Swiftly passing through
lazy, sleepy, entrancing Italia. The very fields bask idly in the
sun as if they were sentient things, and everywhere we caught
glimpses of strenuous workers stretched peacefully in the blazing
sun. In Oklahoma the sun is man’s enemy, in this clime God made it
for his comfort.
At the first sight of Venice I found myself
whispering the lines:
“She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean
Rising with her tiara of proud towers, At airy distance, with
majestic motion: A ruler of the waters and their powers.”
At the station we found gondolas awaiting us
and within a few minutes we were gaily afloat. In Venice you
know the streets are canals and the carriage swiftly gliding
gondolas. Oh, dear heart, the grand canal, palaces here and there
and beyond, the dome of St. Mark, with its winged lions the symbol
of fair Venice!
We lost nothing of her beauty as she lay soft
and breathless beneath the western sun, the water gently lapping the
time-worn palaces of her prime. “She to me was a fairy city of the
heart, rising like water columns from the sea, of joy the sojourn,
and of wealth the mart.”
Our gondolier was persistent in his soft appeal
for money with which to drink our health, so I tossed him a coin. I
do wish you could have seen his contemptuous expression, heard his
tones of disgust. “Merci, Merci,” and he tossed the piece upon
the floor. Ed reached over and quite coolly pocketed it. The man
grew violent in his demands, begged, stormed and even swore in
liquid Italian. Ed smoked steadily, not even vouchsafing a glance. I
confess I was frightened and only the knowledge that we were on the
grand canal and surrounded by friends sustained my courage. The
gondolier looked so wicked, not at all like our western bad men, but
just like a dark-browed devil, you know. When we reached the hotel
he exhausted his fury and came cringingly to beg for money. Ed
assisted me to alight and said, “not a cent.” Cook had
hired him, and of course we are not even supposed to tip, yet had
not the man so rudely spurned my gift he would have been some
richer.
This hotel is all O.K. in appearance, yet it
has the odor of a closed cellar. We were assigned a third floor
room, oh, so smelly. That husband of mine ordered the man to return
the grips to the office, and absolutely refused to occupy the
chamber. Now we are on the second floor with plenty of ventilation
and mosquitoes galore. More cotton pillows. I am glad I have an air
one with me. We spent the evening on the Plaza of St. Mark’s
listening to the music, sipping wine and resting. Ed, of course,
made excursions into the near-by shops, investigating, and airing
his French. The Plaza is like a big café, with numerous little
tables and white aproned waiters darting here and there. The tables
encroach upon the walk, pedestrians wind in and out, and shop
keepers standing in doorways call attention to their wares.
July 23—Do you know, dear, I was so sleepy
last evening I crawled off to bed without writing you goodnight.
Never mind, mother dear, I whispered it when I said my prayers. This
day has been a Rooseveltian interpretation of the simple life. If we
have many more in this climate I shall rebel.
We left the hotel promptly at nine. The guide is an old man, and I
think he suffers from insomnia, hence the early hours. Fed the doves
of St. Mark and listened to a dissertation by a man not thoroughly
conversant with English as she is spoken. Ed caught a dove and the
man ceased his flow of eloquence to warn him that a large fine and
three months in prison follow the killing of a bird. As were served
the little things in a pie at dinner Ed was eager to know when our
landlord will occupy a cell.
How can I describe St. Mark’s? My, me, you
just use your imagination, stretch it and then stretch it some more,
and perhaps you may reach its magnificence. It is a mass of color,
gleaming crimson and gold everywhere; above it the lion of St. Mark
and the bronze horses once carried by Napoleon to his beloved Paris,
but finally returned to heart broken Venice. You see the Venetians
have forgotten that once they stole them from Constantinople. Here
Frederic Barbarossa knelt and made his peace with God and Holy
Church. Within we were shown treasures beyond price, everywhere
magnificent columns all of one block of marble, crosses from Santa
Sophia, alabaster pillars from the temple of Solomon, and the best
of all the very doors are from the wondrous temple, built of the
cedar of Lebanon. The guide related to us many a tale of “ye
ancient days,” and in the very midst of a most unlikely one, Ed
was quite sure to whisper, “now, honey, would you believe it;”
thus destroying my poise. We have several in the tour who are
evidently gathering material for class-room use, and their numerous
questions are often trying the to patience of us on pleasure bent.
The new Campanile is near completion. Ed asked, “What happened to
the old tower,” and our instructor replied, “Oh, the Campanile,
he sat down.” That finished me, I sat down and wept with laughter.
I do wish, dear Cook and Sons would provide a guide not quite so
funny.
In the palace of the Doges we were shown Venice
in the hey-day of her glory. Our instructor gave us much valuable
information in his inimitable way. For instance we were grouped
before an historic painting; he pointed with dramatic gesture,
saying “see, there stands the artist all covered with nothing.”
It was literally true and many of us chocked with repressed
laughter. Ed alone as unmoved, urging him always to newer and more
fantastic remarks, gravely supplying him wit choice slang to serve
the next party of tourists.
“I stood on the bridge of sighs. A palace and
a prison on each hand.”
Yes, I stood there quite a while, then gently
fainted. The professor from Kansas City was in search of information
and the guide was eager to impart it. We were huddled in that narrow
place, and the oxygen soon became too diminished for me. It was
impossible to get out and when I regained consciousness I was far
from the approved position for a fainting person. Ed had me high in
his arms, my face at a tiny port hole, Mr. B. was frantically
fanning me, Mr. M. was holding beneath my nose pungent salts. I was
led to the balcony of the condemned and given a chair. Of course all
I needed was fresh air, and I was quickly myself, yet I yielded to
Ed’s request and did not go below to the dungeons. Mr. B. remained
with me and told me so many interesting stories of days in Venice I
was glad I fainted. I have a fair share of teasing at my choice of a
place to faint, being accused of doing it for effect.
We returned to the hotel at twelve to enjoy a
lunch and a sleep before the gondola ride. Out into the grand canal
we swung, the gondolas swaying and dipping like birds at sea. I
urged our gondolier not to try any fancy antics, for I felt a touch
of my old enemy, sea sickness. Now, will you think of that, to be
sick on a peaceful canal in a dear gondola. Ed declares he is
ashamed of me, he brings me out to be happy and I waste golden
moments in that manner. When we reached the steps of Santa Maria
della Salute, I almost shouted, “Glory Hallelujah!” It was like
a church in the books of fairy land, marble steps to the very
water’s edge, showing dazzling white in the glaring sunlight. Up
we climbed out of the glare into the cool dimness of the house of
God. In this we were shown many paintings. The one remaining in my
memory is that of St. Mark, the work of Titian when a youth of
twenty. The professor from Kansas City refuses to enter another
church until we reach Rome, he declares he is “dead tired of
cathedrals.” You will be surprised when I give you the list of
edifices in which we have bade the Lord “Good day.” Sometimes I
feel like I am on a pilgrimage, not a Cook’s tour.
On the other side of the canal, almost opposite
Santa Maria, is a house of ancient design, pointed out to tourists
as the home of Desdemona. I have mailed you a card with a good
picture of it. Let us believe, mother, that Desdemona leaned from
those windows watching her brave Moor, and sat within listening with
bated breath to his tales of martial deeds. On we swept with musical
dip of oars, past the home of Byron, the palace where Browning died,
and dear, so many, many more places that belong to history I dare
not attempt to enumerate. The church of the Jesuits was our next
stopping place. Here we were met by numerous beggars, young and old,
even the babies in arms are taught to extend their tiny hands for
alms. Our guide chased them with his stick, and indulged in violent
language, if we judged by the elevation of his voice. In this
country of superb churches, all built of marble, this building is
worthy of consideration. The design is unique and the black and
white is pleasing to the eye. The main altar is deserving of special
mention, and the tombs are magnificent. Really, mother, the houses
of God over here are treasure halls of art, relics of ages of faith,
when the very best was not considered too good for the Lord. A few
more canals were lazily traversed and we anchored before a glass
factory which proved interesting. The men were so courteous, so
willing to give us their time and attention. I had little idea of
the true beauty of Venetian glass, I wish I could bring home a car
load. From glass to lace, here hundreds of girls were busily engaged
in catering to the feminine love of the exquisite. I had always
imagined lace makers with stooped shoulders, dimmed eyes and unhappy
faces. I was agreeably surprised, the girls in this well equipped
factory were young and charming, with bright eyes and happy faces.
Ed conversed with many of them. Their wages are very low if we
compare them with America, yet when the cost of living is considered
they are not more to be commiserated than our work people. Indeed,
the advantage is with the Venetian girls, for they do not struggle
to keep up appearances, but are content with the position in life to
which they were born. Some of the girls would have been beautiful
had we fancied prominent noses. It seems all Italians are favored
with quite sufficient of that feature, far more than consonate with
my idea of beauty.
We cannot complain of the day’s pleasure as
arranged by Cook, for it is varied and comprehensive. The hours are
full, yet we are not hurried and our evening are always our own.
After dinner Mr. R. joined us and we indulged in our usual walk. The
streets are narrow beyond belief. Two persons are often a tight fit
therein. I am confident the sun strives without avail to peep into
many a crowded district. The city is so poorly lighted that burglars
and foot pads might operate without fear of detection. Even the
grand canal is not so brilliantly illuminated as our little western
town. In the evening the city is awake and the inhabitants gather on
the numerous squares, eat, drink and chatter. I wonder if Venetians
notice the musty odor of their old canals. After a while do you lose
your acute sense of smell, and do the mosquitoes cease to bite you?
If I could have those questions answered to my satisfaction Venice
as a home would call me in siren tones. Poor Ed looks like a person
with a bad case of measles. If the mosquitoes wish to bite him
tonight they will find it difficult to find a new spot. The call of
the gondoliers has been mastered by him and he finds pleasure in
standing beside a canal and giving it to the mystification of an
approaching gondola and its occupants. The call is always given at a
turn in the canal and when a collision is imminent. It doubtless
means “make way there.”
We were passing a shop on the Plaza of St. Mark
when a necklace within attracted my attention. I stopped to admire
and soon came out the “spider” to enveigle the “poor little
fly.” We were urged to enter. Ed politely refused saying he did
not wish to buy. The man insisted. He so longed to “fleece the
Americano.” With great seeming reluctance Ed entered. The necklace
was produced. “Twelve dollars,” said the man, then the fun
commenced. Fast and furious waxed the bargaining. Ed soon used
French, as he says it gives him greater scope for “artistic
work,” the man comprehended it better than English. The poor
shopkeeper tried to talk, but Ed had the lead and the political
meeting progressed. A free for all discussion, but one on the floor.
Ed offered one dollar and fifty cents for the bauble; the man was
aghast. “Let us talk it over,” said Ed. What arguments he used I
know not but the man was lost. We left the shop with the necklace,
and a dazed shopkeeper bade us a weary good night. He looked after
us so wistfully I know he was longing for the American’s gift of
gab. Mr. B. our book of general information, assured us that it was
a great bargain, each mosaic bangle being of great beauty.
Beneath my window is a chattering equaled only
by a meeting of crows in the springtime. When do Venetians retire?
At two-thirty last night the noises had not ceased.
This is one of our “three night stands,”
and we play to such “full houses” we cannot retire early. Ed is
restless for the mosquitoes are loving him and about every fifteen
minutes he arises and “shoos” desperately at his “foreign
cousins.” Goodnight, dear mother, perhaps I shall sleep,
perhaps I shall join my husband in the war with mosquitoes.
July 24.—The lark found us asleep, for the
fight was fast and furious for hours, then our friends in the street
did not sleep until two-thirty and they very inconsiderately arose
at three-thirty, to retire for the day just as the lark was opening
his sleepy eyes.
We were not personally conducted this morning,
so we were enabled to sleep until a late hour. After breakfast we
wandered where our fancy led and very much undressed boys directed.
You can always have a half dozen boy guides for a few pennies and Ed
finds them so entertaining, and so do I. We reached the Rialto after
many a twist and turn; as in the time of Shylock it is the place of
merchantism, and many are the close bargains made there. Ed talked
with the numerous Shylocks, so he named them. I was not attracted by
the display of goods, and the fruit stands were abominable places.
Ed found out from a boy in our train that the fish market was near
by, and do you know I had to entreat him not to visit it. Think of a
fish market, under an Italian sky. I was tired now, and the canopied
gondolas were very attractive. We selected a handsome one with a
pleasant faced man in charge and in luxury enjoyed the heat. We went
on and on like the brook, you know. A funeral cortege passed us. In
Venice the hearses are gondolas, as the streets are water, and the
only horses are the bronze ones over the portico of St. Mark’s. I
do believe I would prefer to seek my last resting place behind
high-stepping horses. You see the boat ride I am expecting in
purgatory will come soon enough.
At noon we clamored so for Mr. B. to make a
suggestion for the afternoon that he said, “let us go to Lido and
bathe in the Adriatic.” We hailed it with shouts of delight,
elected him chairman, and were soon enroute. As only a few of the
ladies wished to venture in the water Ed agreed to assist me in
chaperoning the girls of the party who desired to dip beneath the
waves. To have us all on the same side of the pavilion he purchased
tickets for himself, wife and daughters. The suits offered were
“fierce,” made of red and white bed ticking, all in one piece,
shapeless trousers to the ankles, at the belt line a “dust
ruffle” of about three or four inches, standing out belligerently,
something like the waist adornment of an African chief. This
attractive garment was buttoned “all the way down the front”
without due regard to proper spacing. I was amazed and positively
refused to don the ridiculous thing. As we were discussing it Ed
appeared, bearing a bit of cloth aloft, crying. “Just see, girls,
what your ‘dad’ is to wear.” We shouted. All the material had
been doubtless used in making the modest trousers for the women,
leaving the men to appear almost as nature made ’em. At last Ed
teased us into consenting to “dress up,” but I insisted that a
blue and white one must be found for me. When we retired to the
cubby holes provided for ladies I discovered my precious blue suit
was built for a woman of Herculean frame. I called; Ed said, “take
it off, dear, all that surplus cloth would drown you. Gee, I wish I
had a bit of it attached to my trousers.” And I assure you he
needed it. The woman in charge demurred at changing it, declared it
medium size. “Perhaps, madam, yet I dare not trust my wife within,
suppose she passed out of a leg or an arm into the sea.” The other
suit was given him, but to my horror it was of the despised red and
the trousers ended at the knee, the useless dust ruffle being
correspondingly placed. Fortunately I had a pair of black hose, so I
was quite covered, if not according to the standard here. We were
soon on the beach, where we were met by the men of the party,
suffering noticeably from the shock to their Anglo-Saxon modesty by
the scantiness of their attire. After the first dip our bed ticking
garments were clinging and to leave the water we dared not, until Ed
obligingly brought out linen sheets, off the line stretched along
the beach. We were like sheeted ghosts on the hot sands, but at
least we were safe from the Kodak fiends of our party. Such fun, we
found the water so warm, the sand so pleasant, that two hours passed
before we were aware of it. Truly, mother, some of the Venetians in
bathing, of the masculine gender, were dressed like Sandwich
Islanders. In this country modesty is not expected of men, on the
streets or elsewhere, you are always being surprised. I mailed you a
post card from Lido with bathers disporting thereon, thus hoping to
give you an idea of the appearance of your son and daughter while in
the Adriatic. As we were leaving the dressing rooms an attendant
appeared and gave us quite a lecture, of which we understood not a
word. When Ed came out he sent us forward, the man giving to him the
discourse—he was demanding extra pay because we had been out over
an hour.
Returning to the city, the Australian lady and
the Boston man of our party engaged in a battle of words. The
Massachusetts man made a slighting remark concerning the degree of
civilization of Australia, and as was quite natural she resented it.
I know her blood boiled at the ignorance and prejudice evinced, yet
I laughed at her, because I am accustomed to such expressions from
easterners in regard to the Indians and Indian Territory, and
consider them unworthy of notice. I would have agreed with him and
revenged myself by a marvelous tale of Australian wilds.
How do you think we have spent the evening? Can
you guess? Of course not. Well, here it is, in a gondola,
“spooning.” Ed hired a fancy affair with an equally fancy
gondolier, and then we sought the lover’s paradise. Ed singing
sweet songs of love, and by his actions convincing the man that we
were desirous of sequestered spots. I have always love Ed’s
tenor voice, but tonight it was heavenly on the water, and others
found it so, for many gondolas followed us, and applauded him often.
I am sure they wondered why he did not stop and pass his cap.
“In Venice Tasso’s echoes are no more, And
silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the
shore Those days are gone, but beauty still is here.”
Like Byron, my imagination is all sufficient,
fair Venice is peopled for me, as she was when, “a queen with an
unequalled dower,” she reigned supreme. Her glories are of the
past, yet how exquisite she is in her decay. I can ill bear the
thought that tomorrow we bid her, not farewell, but adieu.
Good night. In my dreams to night I shall be a
maiden of ancient Venice and Ed my lover.
Lovingly,
C.
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