Part 13 (2/2)

”Wait a moment. These fascinate me, they're so queer and so awful. I tell you those old codgers of the time you say these belong to had strong nerves and stomachs. All these wounds and dripping blood and hollow ribs and criminals being boiled in caldrons, and having their heads cut off and arrows shot into them!... I guess you're right; we'd better move on to something more cheerful.”

Miss Madison was never guilty of the foolishness that fell from Mrs.

Hawthorne's gross and unconcerned ignorance. Miss Madison took modesty and tact with her, as well as keenness of eye, when she went to picture-galleries and museums. But this, strange to say, did not make her the more acceptable companion of the two to their guide. What Miss Madison did never seemed so important as what her larger, weightier friend did. The one personality to a singular extent eclipsed the other, who was accustomed to this to the point of not feeling it. A laughing lack of conceit in both women marvelously simplified their relation.

Gerald, in choosing pictures for their enjoyment, avoided with a conscientiousness of very special brand to halt with them before paintings fit to please their unpracticed eyes but which he did not think worthy of admiration. He likewise pa.s.sed Venuses, Eves, Truths, all nudities, without remark or pause, acquainted of old with the simple-minded prudery of certain Americans, and not disrespectful to it.

”Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said, ”to be ignorant is no sin. One may have been doing beautiful, gracious, useful and merciful things while others were cultivating the arts and sciences. But ignorance on any subject is not in itself beautiful or desirable. One should therefore not be complacent in it, proud of it. With a little humility, Mrs. Hawthorne, what can one not hope to accomplish? Now, please, Mrs. Hawthorne, drop all preconception, and use your eyes. Look at that angel.”

”Do you mean to tell me I could live long enough to think that angel beautiful? With those Chinese eyes?... Give it up, my friend, why do you want to bother?”

”Because, Mrs. Hawthorne, you have essentially a good brain. You are at the back of all a very intelligent woman--”

”Go 'way with you! You know that if you feed me taffy enough you can make me see and say anything you want.”

”--a very intelligent woman. And I am so const.i.tuted that I simply cannot go on living in the same world with a really intelligent woman--my friend, besides--who does not see the difference between Raphael and Guido Reni, and likes one exactly as well as the other. I ache to change it!”

”Go ahead. We don't want you to die. But I'm afraid it'll take surgery.

You'll have to drill a hole in my thick head to get the things you mean into that good brain so full of real intelligence.”

”If you wouldn't be flippant!”

”What's that?”

”If you would bring reverence to the study of things done by great people, and that people of great taste and learning have collected for our joy and improvement!”

”See here! Don't you want me to have a little fun while we do Florence?

I don't see how I can stand it, if we're to be solemn as those old saints with mouldy green complexions.”

”We're not to be solemn. I have done these galleries solemnly times enough, Heaven knows. But we're to be attentive, respectful, of an open and receptive mind. We're not to say outrageous things in the mere desire to shock our guide, or tease him.”

”You don't mean to say you think that I--?”

”It's not funny.”

”It mayn't be funny--but it's fun! Go on and lecture. You haven't got a bit of fun in you.”

”Yes, I have!” said Gerald, and with a creeping smile--grudging at first, then brighter--looked Mrs. Hawthorne in the eye, while such fun as lived in him traveled over the bridge of their glances, and she was permitted to get a glimpse of his underlying relish.

”All I ask of you, Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said, finally, ”is that you will not let your innocence on these subjects appear when you are with others. I don't say pretend. Just keep still, be silent! It does not matter when you are with me. When you are with me I beg of you to be yourself. But with others.... You would become the talk of the town, and--” he shuddered, ”I should most horribly hate it!”

”Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said, with a quiver of annoyance in his voice a few days later, ”did I not implore you not to let it be known in Florence how you are affected by the proudest treasures of her world-famous collections?”

”Yes, you told me. But I didn't promise.”

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