Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
There was much to see
here, and they saw it so energetically that when they boarded the train
for Florence they were all fagged out and could remember nothing clearly
except the Coliseum and the Baths of Carracalla.
Florence was just now a bower of roses and very beautiful. But Kenneth
lugged them to the galleries day after day until Uncle John declared he
hated to look an "old master" in the face.
"After all, they're only daubs," he declared. "Any ten-year-old boy in
America can paint better pictures."
"Don't let anyone hear you say that, dear," cautioned Patsy. "They'd
think you don't know good art."
"But I do," he protested. "If any of those pictures by old masters was
used in a street-car 'ad' at home it would be money wasted, for no one
would look at them. The people wouldn't stand for it a minute."
"They are wonderful for the age in which they were painted," said
Kenneth, soberly. "You must remember that we have had centuries in which
to improve our art, since then."
"Oh, I've a proper respect for old age, I hope," replied Uncle John;
"but to fall down and worship a thing because it's gray-haired and
out-of-date isn't just my style. All of these 'Oh!'s' and 'Ahs!' over
the old masters are rank humbug, and I'm ashamed of the people that
don't know better."
And now Arthur Weldon was obliged to bid good-bye to Louise and her
friends and take a train directly to Paris to catch the steamer for
home. His attorney advised him that business demanded his immediate
presence, and he was obliged to return, however reluctantly.
Kenneth and Mr. Watson also left the party at Florence, as the boy
artist wished to remain there for a time to study the pictures that
Uncle John so bitterly denounced. The others went on to Venice, which
naturally proved to the nieces one of the most delightful places they
had yet seen. Mr. Merrick loved it because he could ride in a gondola
and rest his stubby legs, which had become weary with tramping through
galleries and cathedrals. These last monuments, by the way, had grown to
become a sort of nightmare to the little gentleman.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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