Chapter 20

Return from Italy.

_To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play-- Amen, amen say I._

--ROSSETTI.

When Robert Sumner and Barbara returned, they found Mrs. Douglas alone. At the first glance she knew that all was well, and received them with smiles, and tears, and warm expressions of delight.

In a moment, however, Barbara--her eyes still shining with the wonder of it all--gently disengaged herself from Mrs. Douglas's embrace and went in search of her sister.

"Aren't you thoroughly astonished, Betty dear?" she asked, after she had told the wonderful news.

"Yes, Bab; more than astonished."

And Bettina's quibble can surely be forgiven. Not yet has she told her sister of the important part played by herself in bringing the love-affair to so happy a consummation; nor has Robert Sumner forgotten her prayer, "never, never tell Barbara!"

When evening came and Barbara was out on the balcony with Mr. Sumner, while the others were talking gayly of the happy event, Bettina suddenly felt an unaccountable choking in the throat. She hurried to her room, and there, in spite of every effort, had to give up to a good cry. She could not have told the cause, but we, the only ones beside herself who know this pitiful ending of all her bravery, understand and sympathize with her.

An hour later, when she had conquered herself and was coming slowly down the staircase, she found Malcom waiting to waylay her. Drawing her arm within his, and merrily assuming something of a paternal air, he said:--

"Now that this little family affair has reached a thoroughly satisfactory culmination, I trust that things will again assume their normal appearance. For the past month or so Barbara has been most _distraite_; uncle has so evidently tried to be cheerful that the effort has been distressing; and you, little Lady Betty, have been racking your precious brains for a scheme to make things better."

"And you, Malcom," she retorted, "have had so much sympathy with us all that wrinkles have really begun to appear on your manly brow." And she put up her hand lightly as if to smooth them away.

"Look out, Betty!" with a curious flash of the eyes, as he seized her hand and held it tightly. "The atmosphere is rather highly charged these days."

Bettina's face slowly flushed as she tried to make some laughing rejoinder, and a strange painful shyness threatened to overtake her when Malcom, with a smile and a steady look into her eyes, set her free.

Meanwhile Margery was saying to her mother:--

"How pleasant it is to have everybody so happy!"

"Yes, dear. Do you know why I am so very happy?" and as Margery shook her head, her mother told her that her Uncle Robert had decided to go home to America, and that never again would he live abroad.

"It is more like a story than truth. Uncle to go home, and Barbara to be his wife! You did not think, did you, mamma, what would come from our year in Italy? Just think! Suppose you had not asked Barbara and Betty to come with us! What then?"

"That is too bewildering a question for you to trouble yourself with, my child. There is no end to that kind of reasoning.

"And," she added gently, "it is not a question that Faith would ask. The only truth is that God was leading me in a way I did not know, and for ends I could not foresee. That which I did from a feeling of pure love for my dear neighbors and friends was destined to bring me the one great blessing I had longed for during many years. Oh! it does seem too good to be true that Robert is so happy, and that he is coming home."

And for the seventieth-times-seven time Mrs. Douglas breathed a silent thanksgiving as she heard the approaching footsteps of her brother.

For Barbara and Robert Sumner the last days spent in Venice were filled with a peculiar joy. The revulsion of feeling, the unexpected, despaired-of happiness, the untrammelled intercourse, the full sympathy of those dear to them,--all this could be experienced but once.

Only one person was out of tune with the general feeling. This was Lucile Sherman. She returned a polite note in reply to that which Mrs. Douglas had at once sent her containing information of her brother's engagement to Barbara. In it she wrote that her friends had very suddenly decided to leave Venice for the Tyrol, and she must be content to go with them without even coming to say good-by and to offer, in person, her congratulations. Mrs. Douglas at first thought of going to her, if but for a moment; then decided that perhaps it would be best to let it be as she had so evidently chosen.

In a few days they also left Venice,--for Milan, stopping on the way for a day or two at Padua. They were to visit this city chiefly for the purpose of seeing Giotto's frescoes in the Arena Chapel, and Mantegna's in the Eremitani, although, as Mr. Sumner said, the gray old city is well worth a visit for many other reasons. The antiquity of its origin, which its citizens are proud to refer to Antenor, the mythical King of Troy, accounts for the thoroughly venerable appearance of some quarters. It is difficult, however, to believe that it was ever the wealthiest city in upper Italy, as it is reported to have been under the reign of Augustus. During the Middle Ages it was one of the most famous of European seats of learning. Dante spent several years in Padua after his banishment from Florence, and Petrarch once lived here. All these things had been talked over before they alighted at the station, and, driving through one of the gates of the city, went to their hotel.

All were eager to see whatever there was of interest. As it would be best to wait until morning for looking at the pictures, they at once set forth and walked along the narrow streets lined with arcades, and through grassy Il Prato, with its fourscore and more statues of Padua's famous men ranged between the trees. They saw the traditional house of Petrarch, and that of Dante, in front of which stands a large mediæval sarcophagus reported to contain the bones of King Antenor, who, according to the poet Virgil, founded the city. They admired the churches, from several of which clusters of Byzantine domes rise grandly against the sky, noted the order, the quiet, that now reigns throughout the streets, and talked of the fierce, horrible warfare that had centuries ago raged there.

The next morning they spent among Giotto's frescoes, over thirty of which literally cover the walls of the Arena Chapel. The return to the work of the early fourteenth century, after months spent in study of the High Renaissance, was like an exchange of blazing noon sunshine for the first soft, sweet light that heralds the coming dawn. They were surprised at the freshness and purity of color and at the truth and force of expression. They had forgotten that old Giotto could paint so well. They found it easy now to understand in the artist that which at first had been difficult.

"Do you not think that Dante sometimes came here and sat while Giotto was painting?" by and by asked Margery, in an almost reverent voice.

"I do not doubt it," replied Mrs. Douglas. "Tradition tells us that they were great friends, and that when here together in Padua they lived in the same house. I always think of Giotto as possessing a jovial temperament, and as being full of bright thoughts. He must have been a great comfort to the poor unhappy poet. Without doubt they often walked together to this chapel; and while Giotto was upon the scaffolding, busy with his Bible stories, Dante would sit here, brooding over his misfortunes; or, perhaps, weaving some of his great thoughts into sublime poetry."

Afterward they went to the Eremitani to see Mantegna's frescoes, and thought they could see in the noble work of this old Paduan master what Giotto might have done had he lived a century or more later.

Mr. Sumner, however, said that he was sure that Giotto, with his temperament, could never have wrought detail with such exactness and refinement as did Mantegna--but also, that Giotto's color would always have been far better than Mantegna's. The likeness between the two artists is the intense desire of each to render expression of thought and feeling.

The following day, on their way from Padua to Milan, they were so fortunate as to be all in the same compartment, and as their train rushed on, their conversation turned upon Leonardo da Vinci, whose works in Milan they were longing to see.

During their stay in Florence they had read much about this great artist, and Mr. Sumner now suggested that each tell something he had learned concerning him.

Margery began, and told how he used always to wear a sketch-book attached to his girdle as he walked through the streets of Florence, so that he might make a sketch of any face whose expression especially attracted him; how he would invite peasants to his studio and talk with them and tell laughable stories, that he might study the changes of emotion in their faces; and how he would even follow to their death criminals doomed to execution, in order to watch their suffering and horror.

"He did not care much for the form or coloring or beauty of faces;--only for the expression of feeling," she added.

"But," said Malcom, after waiting a moment for the others to speak if they chose, "he studied a host of other things, also. For in the letter he sent to Duke Ludovico of Milan asking that he might be taken into his service, he wrote that he could make portable bridges wonderfully adapted for use in warfare, also bombshells, cannon, and many other engines of war; that he could engineer underground ways, aqueducts, etc.; that he could build great houses, besides carrying on works of sculpture and painting. And there were many other things that I do not now remember. It seems as if he felt himself able to do all things. I believe he did make a magnificent equestrian statue of the duke's father. And he studied botany and astronomy, anatomy and mathematics, and all sorts of things besides. I really do not see how he could have got much painting in."

"He has left only a very few pictures to the world," said Barbara. "We saw two or three at Florence, but I think only one--that unfinished _Adoration of the Magi_--is surely his. We shall see the _Last Supper_ and _Head of Christ_ at Milan. Then there are two or three in Paris and one in London I think these are all," and she looked inquiringly at Mr. Sumner, who smilingly nodded confirmation of her words.

"But," she went on, with an answering smile, "I do not think this was due to lack of time, for on these few pictures he probably spent as much time as ordinary artists do in painting a great many. He was never satisfied with the result of his work. His aims were so high and he saw and felt so much in his subjects that he would paint his pictures over and over again, and then often destroy them because he could not produce what he wished. I think he was one of the most untiring of artists."

"I have been especially interested," said Bettina, after a minute or two, "in the story of the _Last Supper_ which we shall soon see."

She then went on to tell the sad tale of Beatrice d'Este,--the good and beautiful wife of harsh, wicked Duke Ludovico. How she used to go daily to the church Santa Maria delle Grazie to be alone,--to think and to pray; and how, after her early death, the duke, probably influenced by remorse because of his cruelty to her, desired Leonardo to decorate this church and its adjoining monastery with pictures in memory of his dead young wife. The only remaining one of these is the _Last Supper_ in the refectory of the old monastery. And the famous _Head of Christ_ in the Brera Gallery, Milan, is only one of perhaps hundreds of studies that he made for the expression which he should give to his Christ in the _Last Supper_,--so dissatisfied was he with his renderings of the face of our Saviour. And even with his last effort he was not content, but said the head must ever go unfinished.

"I am glad to hear you say that this _Head of Christ_ was produced simply as a study of expression," remarked Mr. Sumner. "I am sure this fact is not understood by many who look upon it. I know of no other artistic representation in the world that is so utterly just an expression and nothing more;--a fleeting expression of some inner feeling of which the face is simply an index. And this feeling is the blended grief and love and resignation that filled the heart of our Saviour when He said to His disciples, 'One of you shall betray me.' It is a simply wrought study, made on paper with charcoal and water-color. The paper is worn, its edges are almost tattered; yet were it given me to become the possessor of one of the world's art-treasures--whichever one I should choose--I think I should select this. You will know why when you see it."

"What a pity that the great picture, the _Last Supper_, is so injured," said Malcom, after a pause. "Is it as bad as it is said to be, uncle?"

"It is in a pretty bad condition, yet, after all, I enjoy it better than any copy that has ever been made. The handiwork of Leonardo, though so much of it has been lost, is yet the expression of a master; any lesser artist fails to render the highest that is in the picture. Both the Duke and Leonardo were in fault for its present condition. The monastery is very low, and on extremely wet ground. Water has often risen and inundated a portion of the building. It is not a fit place for any painting, as the Duke ought to have known. And, then, Leonardo, instead of painting in fresco, used oils, and of course the colors could not adhere to the damp plaster; so they have dropped off, bit by bit, until the surface is sadly disfigured."

"Why did Leonardo do this?" inquired Margery.

"He was particularly fond of oil-painting, because this method allowed him to paint over and over again on the same picture, as he could not do in fresco."

Mr. Sumner looked out of the window, and then hastened to say:--

"I think you all have learned that the chief quality of Leonardo da Vinci's work is his rendering of facial expression--complex, subtile expression: yet he excelled in all artistic representation;--in drawing, in composition, in color, and in the treatment of light and shade. He easily stands in the foremost rank of world painters. But, see! we are drawing near to Milan,--bright, gay little Milan,--the Italian Paris."

One day, soon after their arrival, as they were in the Brera Gallery, looking for the third or fourth time at Leonardo's _Head of Christ_, Barbara remarked that she was disappointed because she could not find any particular characteristic of this great artist's work, as she had so often been able to do with others. "I feel that I cannot yet recognize even his style," she lamented.

"You have as yet seen none of the pictures which contain his characteristic ideal face," replied Mr. Sumner. "But there is work here in Milan by Bernardino Luini, who studied Leonardo so intimately that he caught his spirit in a greater degree than did any other of his followers. Indeed, several of Luini's pictures have been attributed to Leonardo until very recently. This is a picture by Luini--right here--the _Madonna of the Rose-Trellis_. The Madonna is strikingly like Leonardo's ideal in the long, slender nose, the rather pointed chin, the dark, flowing hair,--and, above all, in the evidence of some deep thought. If it were Leonardo's, there would be, with all this, a faint, subtile smile. See the treatment of light and shade,--so delicate, and yet so strong. This is also like Leonardo."

After a few minutes spent in study of the picture, Mr. Sumner continued: "There is a singular mannerism in the backgrounds of Leonardo's pictures. It is the representation of running water between rocks,--a strange fancy. We see the suggestion of it through the window behind Christ in the _Last Supper_, and it forms the entire background of the famous _Mona Lisa_, in the Louvre. There is a beautiful picture by Luini, _The Marriage of St. Catherine_, in the Poldi-Pezzoli Museum here in Milan, to which we will go at once. The faces are thoroughly Leonardesque, and through an open window in the background we clearly see the streamlet flowing between rocky shores.

"But first," he added, as they turned to go out, "let us go into this corridor where we shall find quite a large number of Luini's frescoes, which have been collected from the churches in which he painted them. I think you will grow familiar with Leonardo's faces through study of Luini."

During the stay in Milan they went down to Parma for a day, just to look at the fine examples of Correggio's works in the gallery and churches. In this city they could get the association of this artist with his works as nowhere else.

Mr. Sumner told them that it was a good thing to give especial attention to Correggio while studying Leonardo, because there is a certain similarity, and yet a very wide difference, between their works. Both painters were consummate masters of the art. Their beautiful figures, perfect in drawing and full of grace and life, melt into soft, rich shadows. Both loved especially to paint women, and smiling women; but the difference between the smiles is as great as between light and darkness. Leonardo's are inexplicable; are wrought from within by depths of feeling we cannot understand. Correggio's only play about the lips, and are as simple as childhood. Leonardo's whole life was given to the study of mankind's innermost emotions. Correggio was no deep student of human nature.

"When you go to Paris and see _Mona Lisa_, you will understand me better," he said in conclusion.

Delightful weeks among the Italian lakes and the mountains of Switzerland followed. Then came September, and it was time to turn their faces homeward. A week or two was spent in Paris, whose brilliance, fascinating gayety, and beauty almost bewildered them, and in whose great picture-gallery, the Louvre, they reviewed the art-study of the year.

Then they were off to Havre to take a French steamship home. Mr. Sumner had decided to return with them, and a little later in the fall to go back to Florence to settle all things there,--to give up his Italian home and studio. So there was nothing but joy in the setting forth.

* * * * *

"How can we wait a whole week!" exclaimed Bettina, as the two sisters were again unpacking the steamer trunks in their stateroom. "How long one little week seems when it comes at the end of a year, and lies between us and home!"

Barbara's thought flew back to the like scene on the _Kaiser Wilhelm_ a year ago, when her mind had been busy with her father's parting words, and her eyes were very dark with feeling as she spoke:--

"Have you thought, Betty, how much we are taking back?--how much more than papa thought or we expected even in our wildest dreams? All this intimate knowledge of Florence, Rome, and Venice! All these memories of Italy,--and her art and history!"

Then after a moment she continued with changed voice: "And our friendship with Howard!--and the great gift he gave by which we have been able to get all these beautiful things we are taking home to the dear ones, and by which life is so changed for them and us!--and--"

"Barbara!" softly called Mr. Sumner's voice from the corridor.

"_And_," repeated Bettina, archly, with a most mischievous look as her sister hastened from the room to answer the summons.

At last the morning came when the steamship entered New York harbor; and the evening followed which saw the travellers again in their homes,--which restored Barbara and Bettina to father, mother, brothers, and sisters. There was no end of joy and smiles and happy talk.

After a little time Robert Sumner came, and Dr. Burnett, taking him by both hands, looked through moist eyes into the face he loved, and had so long missed, saying:--

"And so you have come home to stay,--Robert,--my boy!"

"Yes," in a glad, ringing voice,--withdrawing one hand from the doctor's and putting it into Mrs. Burnett's eager clasp--"yes, Barbara and Malcom have brought me home. Malcom showed me it was my duty to come, and Barbara has made it a delight."

Epilogue.

Three Years After.

In one of New England's fairest villas, only a little way from the spot where we first found her, lives Barbara to-day. For more than two years she has been the wife of Robert Sumner. The faces of both tell of happy years, which have been bounteous in blessing. A new expression glows in Robert Sumner's eyes; the hint of a life whose energy is life-giving. All his powers are on the alert. His name bids fair to become known far and wide in his native land as a force for good in art, literature, philanthropy, and public service. And in everything Barbara holds equal pace with him. Whatever he undertakes, he goes to her young, fresh enthusiasm to be strengthened for the endeavor; he measures his own judgment against her wise, individual ways of thinking, and gains new trust in himself from her abiding confidence.

In the library of their home, surrounded by countless rare souvenirs of Italy, hangs a portrait of Howard Sinclair given to Barbara by his aged grandmother, who now rests beside her darling boy in beautiful Mount Auburn.

Dr. Burnett's low, rambling house has given place to a more stately one; but it stands behind the same tall trees, amidst the same wide, green spaces. And here is Bettina,--the same Betty,--broadened and enriched by the intervening years of gracious living; still almost hand in hand with her sister Barbara. Together they study and enjoy and sympathize; and together they are striving to bless as many lives as possible by a wise use of Howard's gift to Barbara.

They are not letting slip that which they learned of the art of the Old World, but are adding to it continually in anticipation of the time when they will again be in its midst. They believe that study of the old masters' pictures is a peculiar source of culture, and they delight in procuring photographs and rare reproductions for themselves and their friends. Their faces are familiar in the art-stores and picture galleries of Boston.

Good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett have grown more than three years younger by dropping so many burdens of life. They no longer count any ways and means save those of enlarging their own and their children's lives, and of making their home a happy, healthful centre from which all shall go forth daily to help in the world's growth and to minister to its needs.

Richard, Lois, Margaret, and Bertie, endowed with all the best available helps, are hard at work getting furnished for coming years.

Margery, entering into a lovely young womanhood, still lives with her mother and Malcom in the grand old colonial house in which many generations of her ancestors have dwelt.

Mrs. Douglas is quite as happy in the close vicinity of her brother as she thought she would be. Every day she rejoices in his home, in his work and growing fame. Barbara grows dearer to her continually as she realizes what a blessing she is to his life. Indeed, so wholly natural and just-the-thing-to-be-expected does it now seem that her brother should fall in love with Barbara, that she grows ever more amazed that she did not think of it before it happened; and, when she recalls her surmises and little sisterly schemes concerning him and Lucile Sherman, she wonders at her own stupidity.

For Malcom the three years have been crowded with earnest work. He fully justified the confidence his mother had reposed in him when she gave him the year abroad, by entering, on his return, the second year of the University course.

A few months ago he graduated with high honors, and is now just beginning the study of law. When admitted to the bar he will enter, as youngest partner, the law firm of which for over thirty years his grandfather was the head.

And through all he is the same frank, wholesome-hearted, strong-willed, but gentle Malcom that we knew in Italy.

The other day he entrusted to his mother and sister a precious secret that must not yet be divulged. They were delighted, but did not seem greatly surprised.

Bettina knows the secret.