Robert Sumner is Imprudent.
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well—
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
—Shakespeare.
CAMPO SANTO, BOLOGNA.
Early one morning very soon after the return to Rome, Bettina, with a troubled face, knocked at Mrs. Douglas's door.
"Barbara is ill," said she. "I knew in the night that she was very restless, but not until just now did I see that she is really ill."
"What seems to be the matter?"
"I think she must be very feverish."
"Feverish?" repeated Mrs. Douglas, with a startled look, as she hastily prepared to accompany Betty back to her room. In a few minutes she sought her brother, her face full of anxiety.
"Robert, I fear Barbara has the fever. Her temperature must be high; her face is greatly flushed, and her eyes dull, and she says her whole body is full of pain."
"We must take her away at once out of the atmosphere of Rome," exclaimed Mr. Sumner, with decision.
"But she feels so wretchedly ill."
"Never mind that. If she can only endure the fatigue for a few hours, we may save her weeks of suffering and possible danger," and his voice faltered.
"Remember, sister," he continued, "that I am at home here in this climate, and trust me. Or, better still, I will at once consult Dr. Yonge, and I know you will trust him. And, sister, get everything ready so that we—Barbara, you, and I—may take the very first train for Orvieto. That will take her in two hours into a high and pure atmosphere. The others can follow as soon as possible."
Quickly the plans were made. Malcom, Margery, and Bettina were to be left to complete the packing of trunks. Dr. Yonge agreed fully with Mr. Sumner, and on the nine o'clock train northward Mrs. Douglas, Barbara, and Mr. Sumner left Rome.
Miss Sherman, quite upset by the rapid movement of affairs, decided to remain a little longer in Rome with friends whom she had met there, and join the others later in Venice.
It was a severe trial to poor Bettina to see her darling sister thus almost literally borne away from her. But she tried to put faith in Mr. Sumner's assurances, and bravely resisted the anxious longing to go with her. She immediately gave herself up to the work of finishing the packing of their own trunks and of helping Margery all she could.
Mr. Sumner had commissioned Malcom to go up to his studio and gather into boxes all his canvases and painting materials; and soon all three were working as fast as they could, with the design of following the others the next morning.
Presently Malcom appeared at Bettina's door with the request that she should go up to the studio when she could leave her work for a minute.
"Come alone—by yourself," he added in a low voice.
Wondering a little at the singular request and the peculiar expression of Malcom's face, Bettina soon followed him.
Entering the studio, she found him attentively regarding a small canvas which he had placed on an easel, and took her place beside him that she might look at it also.
"How lovely!" she cried, and then a puzzled look came into her eyes.
"Why, it is Barbara! It is like Barbara," she added.
"And what do you think of this—and this—and this?" asked Malcom, rapidly turning from the wall study after study.
After a few moments of silence, she said solemnly: "They're all Barbara. Here she is thinking earnestly; here she is throwing her head proudly back, as she so often does; and here she is merry and smiling in her own adorable way. O you darling Barbara!" with a pathetic little catch of the breath; "how are you feeling just this minute?" and Bettina sank upon the floor beside the pictures, looking as if she longed to hug them all.
"But what does it mean?" persisted Malcom.
"What do you mean?" springing up with a quick look into his eyes. "You—foolish—boy!" as an inkling of Malcom's meaning crept into her mind.
"What does it mean, Betty Burnett, that my uncle has had nothing better to do when he has so zealously labored up here, than to paint your sister's face in every conceivable way?" slowly and impressively asked Malcom, as he put still another tell-tale sketch over that on the easel.
"You do not really mean!—it can't be!—Oh!" uttered Bettina in diverse tones and inflections as she rapidly recalled, one after another, certain incidents.
Then there was silence in Robert Sumner's studio between these two discoverers of his long-cherished secret.
"Malcom," at length whispered Bettina, "we must never breathe one word about what we have found here. You must not tell Margery or your mother. Promise me that it shall be a solemn secret between you and me."
"I promise, Lady Betty. Your behest shall be sacredly regarded," replied Malcom with mock gravity. "But," after a little, "shall you tell Barbara?"
"Tell Barbara? No! no! How could I tell her! Malcom, don't you know that it is only by a chance that we have found these pictures? That, whatever they may mean is absolutely sacred to your uncle? Perhaps they mean nothing—nothing save that he, from an artist's stand-point, admires my sister's face. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that is all," she persisted, as she saw Malcom's expressive shrug and the comical look in his eyes as he moved them slowly along the half-dozen sketches that were now standing in a row.
"And I shall think no more about it," she added, "and advise you to do the same."
Bettina, who was usually so gentle, could be prettily imperious when she chose. And now, wrought up by Malcom's reference to Barbara and her own fast crowding thoughts, her voice took on this tone, and she turned with high head to leave the studio.
"Betty! Betty!" pleaded Malcom, running after her. "Why, Betty!" and the surprised, pained tone of his voice instantly stopped her on the staircase.
"I do not mean anything disagreeable, Malcom," she conceded, "only I could not bear to have anything said about Barbara or to Barbara, that might in any way disturb her. That is all,—forgive me, Malcom." And the two friends clasped hands.
Malcom went back into the studio, his pursed lips emitting a low, meditative whistle, while Bettina hurried downstairs, her mind beset with conjectures.
It was not Mr. Sumner of whom she was thinking, but her sister. A veil seemed to withdraw before her consciousness, and to reveal the possible meaning of much that had perplexed her during the past months. For if Mr. Sumner had really been learning to love Barbara, might it not also be that Barbara cared more for him than Bettina had been wont to think?
Her thoughts went back to many of their first conversations after coming to Florence; to Barbara's intense absorption in Mr. Sumner's talks about the old painters; to her unwearied study of them; to her evident sympathy with him on all occasions.
Then, in a flash she remembered her faintness in the carriage on the drive to Sorrento and connected it, as she had never before dreamed of doing, with the conversation then going on; and recalled all those days since when she had been so different from the old-time Barbara.
And poor Bettina sat, a disconsolate little figure, before her half-filled trunk, just ready to cry with sheer vexation at her blindness. Then, the thought came that if Mr. Sumner did really love Barbara all would be well. But, alas! the doubt followed whether, after all, the pictures meant anything more than the artist's love for a beautiful face, and his desire to render it on his canvas. She grew more and more miserable in her sympathy for her sister, and at her enforced separation from her, and the hours of that day, though of necessity busy ones, seemed almost interminable.
The following noon found them together again.
Bettina entered her sister's room, which opened full upon the rose-garden they had enjoyed before,—now filled with blossoms and fragrance,—to find Barbara sitting in a big easy-chair, with a tray before her, on which were spread toast and tea, flanked by a dainty flask of Orvieto wine, while the same wrinkled old chambermaid who had served them two and a half months ago stood, with beaming face, watching her efforts to eat.
Barbara's eyes were brighter, the flush gone from her face, and she said she did not feel like the same girl who had been half carried away from the hotel in Rome the morning before. So much improved did she seem that the present plan was to take a late afternoon train for Florence, for Mr. Sumner said the sooner they could get farther north, the better it would be. This was carried out, and night found them back in the dear Florence home, there to spend a few days.
The city was very lovely in its May foliage and blossoms,—too lovely to leave so soon, they all averred. But it must be, and after having taken again their favorite drives, and having given another look at their favorite pictures, with an especial interest in those by the Venetian masters whom they would study more fully in Venice, they turned their faces northward.
The journey at first took them through rich Tuscan plains, and later through wild, picturesque ravines of the Apennines. Higher and higher the railway climbed, threading numberless tunnels, and affording magnificent views as it emerged into opening after opening, until finally it passed under the height that divides the watershed of the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian seas, and entered the narrow and romantic valley of the Reno. Not long after they were in the ancient city of Bologna. After a few minutes in their several rooms, all gathered in the loggia of their hotel, which commanded a grand survey of the city.
"How fine this air is after our long, dusty ride!" exclaimed Margery, tossing back her curls to catch the breeze.
"I did not expect to find Bologna so curiously beautiful," said Bettina, after she had seen that Barbara was comfortable in the big chair Malcom had wheeled out for her—for she was still languid from her recent illness, and tired easily.
"Please tell us something about it, uncle," said Malcom. "I am afraid I have not looked it up very thoroughly."
So Mr. Sumner told them many interesting things about the old city,—and how it had figured largely in Italian history from the Punic wars soon after Christ, down to the middle of the present century, when it finally became a part of United Italy.
"What about the university?" queried Malcom again.
"It has had a grand reputation for about fourteen centuries, and thus is among the most ancient existing seats of learning in Christendom. During the Middle Ages students came to it from all parts of northern Europe."
Bettina laughed. "I read a curious thing about it in my guide-book," said she. "That it has had several women professors; and one who was very beautiful always sat behind a curtain while she delivered her lectures. This was in the fourteenth century, I believe."
"A wise precaution," exclaimed Malcom, with a quizzical look. "Even I sometimes forget what a pretty woman is saying, because my thoughts are wandering from the subject to her face. And the men of those times could not have had the constant experience we of this century in America have."
"Don't be silly," smiled Bettina; and Mrs. Douglas, slipping her hand through Malcom's arm, asked: "Do you see those towers?"
"Yes; and uncle, I remember you spoke of the leaning towers of Bologna when we were at Pisa; what about them?"
"I think I simply said that since I had seen these towers, I have believed that the one at Pisa had been intentionally built in the way it now stands. My reason is that in all probability one of these was purposely so built."
"Which was erected first?"
"This, about two hundred and fifty years."
"Let us go and see them at once!" exclaimed Malcom. "There is time to give a good long look at the city before dinner."
"That is a good plan," said his mother, "and we will not go to the picture-gallery until to-morrow morning. Then Barbara will be fresh, and can enjoy it with the rest of us."
Mr. Sumner turned solicitously toward Barbara, with a movement as if to go to her, but her hastily averted eyes checked him, and with an inward sigh, he went to order carriages for the proposed drive. He had grown to believe during the past week or two that Barbara had divined his love for her, and that the knowledge was very painful.
"I must have thoughtlessly disclosed it," said he to himself. "It has become so much a part of my every thought. The best thing I can do now is to convince her that it shall never cause her the slightest annoyance; that it shall not change the frankly affectionate relations that have heretofore existed between us. She is so young she will forget it as she grows stronger, or perhaps I can make her feel that she has mistaken me. Then she will be my little friend again."
The drive was thoroughly delightful. Bologna possesses many individual characteristics. The very narrow streets, the lofty arcades that stretch along on either side of them, the many venerable churches and palaces, the quaintly picturesque towers, kept them exclaiming with pleasure.
"Can we not walk to the Academy?" asked Margery, the next morning. "I do so wish to walk through some of these dear arcades."
So Barbara drove with Mrs. Douglas, and the others walked right through the heart of the old city, whose streets have echoed to the footfalls of countless and diverse people through a number of centuries that sounds appalling to American ears.
Arrived at the picture-gallery, Mr. Sumner told them that though not of very great importance when compared with many which they had visited, it yet is very interesting on account of its collection of the works of the most noted seventeenth-century Italian painters; especially those belonging to the Bolognese-eclectic school, which was founded by the Carracci.
"Nowhere else can these men, the Carracci, be studied as here in Bologna, where they founded their art-school just at the close of the sixteenth century. There are also some very good examples of the work of Domenichino, Guido Reni, Albani, and other famous pupils of the Carracci. You saw fine frescoes by Domenichino and Guido Reni in Rome and Naples, and I am sure you remember perfectly Domenichino's Communion of St. Jerome in the Vatican Gallery.
"Perhaps," he continued, with an inquiring look, "you know the principle on which this school of painting was founded, and which gave it its name."
Bettina answered: "I think they tried to select the best pictures from all other schools and embody them in their own pictures. I do not think," she added, with something of a deprecatory look, "that it can be called a very original style."
"Few styles of painting after the earliest masters can be called original, can they?" replied Mr. Sumner, with a smile. "One great lack of the human race is a spirit of originality. We all go to those who have thought and wrought before us, and hash and rehash their material. But few tell what they are doing so plainly as did the Carracci. The one great want in their painting is that of any definite end or aim."
"Whom do you call the greatest painters of the school, uncle?" asked Malcom, as they entered a large hall opening from the corridor in which they had been standing.
"Guido Reni and Domenichino merit that honor, I think. Domenichino died young, but painted some excellent pictures, notably the St. Jerome. Guido Reni lived long enough to outlive his good painting, but among his early works are some that may really be called the masterpieces of this school; such as the Aurora and the St. Michael which you saw in Rome."
"What do you mean by his outliving his good painting?" asked Margery.
"He grew most careless in his ways of living,—was dissipated we should call it,—squandered his money, and finally, in order to gain the wherewithal for daily life, used to paint by order of those who stood waiting to take his pictures with paint still wet, lest the artist should cheat them. To this we owe the great number of his worthless Madonna and Magdalen heads that have found their way into the galleries."
"How perfectly dreadful," chorused all.
"I am afraid we shall never see one of his pictures without thinking of this," said Bettina; "shall we, Barbara?" and she turned to her sister, who had been silent hitherto, as if longing to hear her talk.
"Try to forget it now as you look at these paintings, for this room contains many of his," continued Mr. Sumner, after waiting a moment as if to hear Barbara's answer, "and they are examples of his early work, and so stronger than many others. Notice the powerful action of this Samson and the St. John in that Crucifixion.
"Here are good examples of the work of the three Carracci," continued he, as after a time they entered the adjoining hall.
"But what does this mean?" cried Malcom, in an astonished voice, pausing before a large picture, the Communion of St. Jerome, which bore the name, Agostino Carracci. "How like it is to Domenichino's great picture in the Vatican! Do you suppose Domenichino borrowed so much from his master?"
"I fear so. Yet his picture is infinitely superior to this. And, look, here is Domenichino's Death of St. Peter, Martyr, which was borrowed largely from Titian's famous picture of the same subject, which has unfortunately been destroyed."
"But don't you call that a species of plagiarism?" queried Malcom.
"Undoubtedly it is. I must confess I am always sorry for Domenichino when I come into this hall. But we will pass on to better things. I wish you to study particularly these pictures by Francia," said he, as they entered a third hall.—"Yes, Betty, you are excusable. You all may look first at Raphael's St. Cecilia, for here it is."
All gathered about the beautiful, famous picture.
"How much larger than I have ever thought!" said Margery. "For what was it painted, uncle?"
"As an altar-piece for one of the oldest churches in Bologna. Do you recollect the story about Raphael's writing to Francia to oversee its proper and safe placing?"
"Oh, I do!" exclaimed Barbara, as Margery shook her head. "It was said that Francia never painted again, so overcome was he by the surpassing loveliness of Raphael's picture, and that he died from the effect of this feeling,—but," she went on impetuously, "I do not believe it; for see there!" pointing to Francia's Madonna with Sts. John and Jerome, "do you think that the artist who painted this picture is so very far behind even Raphael as to die of vexation at the difference between them?"
Barbara was so carried away by the picture that she had forgotten herself entirely, and spoke with her old-time frank eagerness, thereby thoroughly delighting Bettina and Mr. Sumner.
"I am glad you feel so," said the latter, very quietly, and with a strictly impersonal manner. "Francia, who belonged to the old Bolognese masters of the sixteenth century, was one of the most devout of painters, and everybody who studies his work must love it. See how pure and sweet are his expressions! How simple his composition! What harmony is in his coloring! How beyond those who painted after him!"
RAPHAEL. ACADEMY, BOLOGNA. SAINT CECILIA.
They tarried long before Francia's paintings and the St. Cecilia. Mr. Sumner told them to note the more subtle motif of Raphael's picture; the superior grace of the figures, their careful distribution, and the fine scheme of color; the sympathetic look in St. John's face; the grandly meditative St. Paul.
"I have a theory of my own about the meaning of this picture," said Bettina. "I thought it out one day when I was studying the photograph. I know it is always said, in descriptions of it, that all are listening to the music of the angels, but I do not think any of them save St. Cecilia hear the music of the angelic choir. She hears it, because she has so longed for it,—so striven to produce the highest music on earth. But the others are only moved by their sympathy with her. See the wistful look on St. John's face, and St. Augustine's also. And St. Paul is lost in wondering thought at St. Cecilia's emotion. And Mary Magdalene is asking us to look at her and try to understand her rapt upward look."
"I do not know," said Mr. Sumner, with a soft look in his eyes, "why you should not have your own private interpretation of the picture, dear 'Lady Betty';" and he smiled at Malcom as he used the latter's favorite appellation for Bettina.