“Exceedingly pleasant!”
“How cool it is here!”
They had entered S. Pedro de Alcantara. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. The ground, hard and free from dust, still showed traces of the rain of the night before, and, notwithstanding the brightness of the sun, the blue sky seemed far off. The counsellor spoke of the summer; it had been a horrible one. In his dining-room the thermometer had stood as high as 102 degrees in the shade,—102 degrees! And he added ingenuously, by way of apology for this excessive heat,—
“It has a southern exposure. Let us be just,—it has a southern exposure. But to-day it is truly delightful.”
He invited Luiza to take a turn through the Garden. Luiza hesitated, and the counsellor took out his watch—which he held at a distance from him as he looked at it—and said it was not yet twelve o’clock. It kept time with the clock of the Arsenal; it was an English watch.
“Very much preferable to the Swiss ones,” he added, with an air of conviction.
Dominated, notwithstanding her annoyance, by the pompous tones of the counsellor, Luiza descended the steps that led into the Garden. There was time enough, she thought, and if necessary she could take a carriage. They seated themselves on a bench. Through the trees they could see, in gradual descent, the dark roofs of houses interspersed with courtyards and walled gardens, and in the background the mass of foliage of the public gardens, with here and there some bare spot; farther on, the façades of the houses of Oriental Street, their windows brilliantly illuminated by the sunlight; and behind these green slopes, intersected by the dark walls of the Encarnação, of a sad-looking yellow, and by those of other detached buildings, the hill of Graça, covered with religious edifices, with their rows of conventual windows, and spires showing white against the blue sky; the Penha da França, more distant still, its solitary wall over-topped by a line of blackish green foliage. To the right, sharply defined against the bare slope, were the dark walls of the castle; the broken line of the roofs and projecting cornices of the houses of Mouraria and Alfama descended in abrupt angles to the massive and ancient towers of Sé. Farther on could be caught a glimpse of the river, shining in the sunlight, and two white sails gliding slowly by; on the opposite bank a row of houses gleamed white in the sun. From the city arose a monotonous murmur in which were blended the noise of carriages and wagons, the metallic vibration of iron transported in heavy carts, and the occasional shrill cry of a huckster.
“A fine panorama!” said the counsellor, with emphasis.
Then he proceeded to launch forth in praise of Lisbon. It was one of the most beautiful cities of Europe, he declared; its harbor was unrivalled, except, perhaps, by that of Constantinople. It was regarded with envy by foreigners. It had once been a celebrated emporium, and it was a pity that the municipality were so negligent, and that the water-works made so little progress.
“That ought to be in the hands of Englishmen,” he exclaimed.