The Story of a Summer | Page 4

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 soup?on 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 Chatelaine'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 almost divine expression that plays about the mouth, are the same in each.
An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the Archangel Gabriel--the "patron," in Catholic parlance, of our little Gabrielle--hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa is a copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatière" in the Dresden Gallery. This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when there some years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine. Very pretty and coquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small, neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes. In her case
"My face is my fortune,"
was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is no wonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was,