The Story of a Summer | Page 4

Cecilia Cleveland
her as clearly as I could, that Pfingsten (Whit-Sunday)
was only a Fest-tag in her church, mine, and the Church of England,
and that it was never in this country a Fest-tag, outside of the religious
observance.
A very perplexed face was the result of my explanations; why Pfingsten
should not be Pfingsten the world over, and a public holiday with all
sorts of merry-makings, she could not understand.

CHAPTER II.
Arrival of the Piano--Routine of a Day--Morning Toilettes--The
Dining-room--Pictures--Ida and Gabrielle--How occupied--The
Evening Mail--Musical Evenings.
June 4.
Yesterday the piano was sent up from Steinway's, where it has been
stored since last fall, and now we have all settled to our different
occupations, and are as methodical in the disposition of our time as
though we were in school.
None of us are very early risers, for mamma, who should naturally set
us a good example, has been too long an invalid to admit of it, and we
girls have become habituated to the luxury of breakfasting in bed, from
residence abroad and in the tropics. Not that we breakfast in bed at the
"Villa Greeley," however; we are much too sociable, and our
dining-room is too attractive, for that. But we gratify our taste for
reasonable hours by assembling around the table at half-past eight.
"Shocking!" I fancy I hear Katie exclaim. "I breakfast at least two
hours earlier. How can you bear to lose so much of the beautiful
morning?"
Don't imagine, dear Katie, that I sleep till half-past eight: you must
know the wakeful temperament of our family too well for that. I find it,
however, very poetic and delightful to listen to the matins of the robins,
thrushes, and wrens, from my pillows; and by merely lifting my head I
have as extended a panorama of swelling hills and emerald meadows,
as though promenading the piazza.
I have been in my day as early a riser as any one--even you, dear Katie,
have not surpassed me in this, respect; for you recollect those cold
winter days when I arose at "five o'clock in the morning," not, however,
to meet Corydon, but to attack the Gradus ad Parnassum of Clementi
by gaslight, in my desire to accomplish eight hours of practice
undisturbed by visitors. At seven, however, I used to meet with an

interruption from my German professor. Poor man! I now pity his old
rheumatic limbs stumbling over the ice and snow to be with me at that
unreasonable hour of the morning. But I then was ruthless, and would
not allow him even five minutes grace, for my time was then regulated
like clockwork, and a delay of a few moments would cause an
unpardonable gap in my day. Now, however, that my education is
nominally finished, I feel that I may without self-reproach indulge in
some extra moments of repose, for it is impossible for one to work all
the time; and a quiet hour of reflection is often, I think, as useful as
continual reading or writing.
We indulge in very simple morning toilettes here, as we have no
gentleman guests for whom to dress, nor ladies to criticise us;
consequently a few brief moments before the mirror suffice to make us
presentable. A black print wrapper made Gabrielle-fashion, with our
hair brushed off plain from our faces, and flowing loosely _à la belle
sauvage_, or in cool braids, is the order of the day. Even Marguerite,
who is the most conventional of our quartette, has conformed to the
fashion reigning here, and no longer coiffed in the stylish Impératrice
mode, her sunny brown hair floats over her shoulders unconfined by
hair-pins, cushions, or rats. Truly we live in Arcadian simplicity, for
under our roof there are neither curling nor crimping irons, nor even a
soupçon of the most innocent poudre de riz.
At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone,
summons us to the breakfast-room. This room is on the ground floor,
and is one of the prettiest in the house. Four windows give us an
extended view of our Dame Châtelaine's sloping meadows and wooded
hills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and the
house in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls--first a
portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue eyes,
and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine it to be
the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when he
was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, taken early
last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are to the
pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor and
mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad intellectual

brow, and the
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