The place which the Merediths had chosen for their residence was
Frascati, where everything was quieter, and most things cheaper, than in
Rome--to which, besides, the brother and sister had objections, founded
on former passages in their family history, of which their new friends
were but partially aware; and to Frascati, accordingly, the two Scotch
pilgrims were drawn with them. Colin had, as usual, persevered in his
own way, as Lauderdale prophesied, and the arrangement came about,
naturally enough, after the ten days’ close company on board ship, where
young Meredith, whom most people were either contemptuous of, or
inclined to avoid, found refuge with his new friends, who, though they
did not agree with him, at least understood what he meant. He slackened
nothing of those exertions which he thought to be his duty--and on
which, perhaps unconsciously, the young invalid rather prided himself,
as belonging to his _rôle_ of dying man,--during the remainder of the
voyage; but, finding one of the sailors ill, succeeded in making such an
impression upon the poor fellow’s uninstructed and uncertain mind as
repaid him, he said, for all the exertions he had made. After that
event, he went very often to the forecastle to pray with his convert,
being, perhaps, disposed to the opinion that they two were the salt of
the earth to their small community; for which proceeding he was called
fool, and fanatic, and Methodist, and a great many other hard names by
the majority of his fellow-passengers--some of whom, indeed, being, like
most ordinary people, totally unable to discriminate between things that
differ, confidently expected to hear of some secret vice on the part of
Meredith; such things being always found out, as they maintained, of
people who considered themselves better than their neighbours. “After a
while, it will be found out what he’s up to,” said a comfortable
passenger, who knew the world; “such fellows always have their private
peccadilloes. I daresay he doesn’t go so often to the forecastle for
nothing. The stewardess ain’t bad looking, and I’ve seen our saint
engaged in private conversation when he didn’t know I was there,” said
the large-minded Christian who denounced poor Meredith’s
uncharitableness. And, to be sure, he was uncharitable, poor fellow. As
for Colin, and, indeed, Lauderdale also, who had been attracted, in
spite of himself, they looked on with a wonderful interest, from
amid-ships, knowing better. They saw him dragging his sister after him,
as far as she could go, along the crowded deck, when he went to visit
his patient--neither he, whose thoughts were occupied solely with
matters of life and death, nor she, who was thinking entirely of him,
having any idea that the dark dormitory below, among the sailors’
hammocks, was an unfit place for her. It was Colin who stepped forward
to rescue the girl from this unnecessary trial: and Meredith gave her up
to him, with as little idea that this, too, was a doubtful expedient as
he had of anything unsuitable in his original intention. “It is a
privilege, if she but knew it,” the invalid would say, fixing his hollow
eyes on her, as if half doubtful whether he approved of her or not; and
poor Alice stayed behind him with a bad grace, without feeling much
indebted on her own account to her new friends. “It does not matter
where I go, so long as I am with him,” she said, following him with her
anxious looks; and she remained there seated patiently upon her bench,
with her eyes fixed on the spot where he had disappeared, until he
rejoined her. When Arthur’s little prayer-meeting was ended, he came
with a severe, and yet serene countenance towards the sister he had left
behind, and the two friends who did not propose to accompany him. “He is
a child of God,” said the sick man; “his experiences are a great comfort
to me”--and he looked with a little defiance at the companions, who, to
be sure, so far as the carnal mind was concerned, could not but be more
congenial to an educated man.
His new companions were indeed so interesting to Meredith, that the new
chapter of the “Voice from the Grave” was all about Lauderdale and
Colin. They were described under the initials L. and C., with a
heightening of all their valuable qualities, which was intended to make
more and more apparent their want of “the one thing needful.” They were
like the rich young man whom Jesus loved, but who had not the heart to
give up all and follow Him--they were like “him who, through cowardice,
made the great refusal--” the sick man wrote without, however, quoting
Dante; and he contrasted with their virtuous and thoughtful worldliness
the condition of his convert, who knew nothing but the love of God, poor
Meredith said. Perhaps it was true that the sick sailor knew the love of
God, and certainly the prayers of the volunteer missionary were not less
likely to reach the ear of the Divine Majesty for being uttered by the
poor fellow’s bedside. But, though he wrote a chapter in his book about
them, Meredith still clung to his friends. The unseen and unknown were
familiar to their thoughts--perhaps even too familiar, being considered
by them as reasonably and naturally interesting; and poor Meredith was
disposed to think that anything natural must be more or less wicked. But
still he considered them interesting, and thought he might be able to do
them good, and, for his own part, found all the human comfort he was
capable of in their society. Thus it was that, with mutual compassions
and sympathy, he sorry for them and they for him, and mutual good
offices, the three grew into friendship hour by hour.
As for Alice, her brother was fond of her, but had never had his
attention specially attracted to her, nor been led to think of her as a
companion for himself. She was his tender little nurse and attendant--a
creature with loving watchful eyes, and anxious little noiseless cares.
He would have missed her terribly had she failed him, without quite
knowing what it was he missed. But, though he was in the habit of
instructing her now and then, it did not occur to him to talk to his
sister. She was a creature of another species--an awakened soul, with
few thoughts or feelings worth speaking of. At least such was the
estimate her brother had formed of her, and in which Alice herself
agreed to a great extent. It was not exactly humility that kept the
anxious girl in this mind, but an undisturbed habit and custom, out of
which no personal impulse had delivered her. The women of her kindred
had never been remarkable one way or another. They were good women,
perfectly virtuous and a little tiresome, as even Alice was sensible;
and it had not been the custom of the men of the house to consult or
confide in their partners. Her mother and aunts had found quite enough
to occupy them in housekeeping and needlework, and had accepted it as a
matter of faith that men, except, perhaps, when in love, or in “a
passion,” did not care to talk to women--a family creed from which so
young and submissive a girl had not dreamt of enfranchising herself.
Accordingly she accepted quite calmly Arthur’s low estimate of her
powers of companionship, and was moved by no injured feeling when he
sought the company of his new friends, and gave himself up to the
pleasure of conversation. It was the most natural thing in the world to
Alice. She kept by him, holding by his arm when he and his companions
walked about the deck together, as long as there was room for her; and,
when there was no room, she withdrew and sat down on the nearest seat,
and took out a little bit of needlework which never made any progress;
for, though her intellect could not do Arthur any good, the anxious
scrutiny of her eyes could, or at least so she seemed to think.
Very often, it was true, she was joined in her watch by Colin; of whom,
however, it never occurred to her to think under any other possible
aspect than that of Arthur’s friend. It might as well have been
Lauderdale who shared her anxieties, so far as that went--for,
notwithstanding a certain proclivity on the part of Colin to female
friendship, Alice was too entirely unconscious, too utterly devoid of
any sense or feeling of self, to be interesting to the young man.
Perhaps a certain amount of self-regard is necessary to attract the
regard of others. Alice was not conscious of herself at all, and her
insensibility communicated itself to her companion. He sometimes even
wondered if her intelligence was up to the ordinary level, and then felt
ashamed of himself when by chance she lifted upon him her wistful eyes;
not that those eyes were astonishingly bright, or conveyed any
intimations of hidden power--but they looked, as they were, unawakened,
suggestive eyes, which might wake up at any moment and develop
unthought-of lights. But, on the whole, this twilight was too dim to
interest Colin, except by moments; and it was incomprehensible and to
some extent provoking and vexatious to the young man, to see by his side
a creature so young, and with so many natural graces, who neutralized
them all by her utter indifference to herself.
So that after all it came to be a very natural and reasonable step to
accompany the Merediths, to whose knowledge of the country and language
even Lauderdale found himself indebted when suddenly thrown without
warning upon the tumultuous crowd of Leghorn boatmen, which was his
first foreign experience. “They all understand French,” a benevolent
fellow-passenger said, as he went on before them; which did not give the
consolation it was intended to convey to the two Scotch travellers, who
only looked at each other sheepishly, and laughed with a very mixed and
doubtful sort of mirth, not liking to commit themselves. They had to
give themselves up blindly into the hands of Meredith and his
sister--for Alice felt herself of some importance in a country where she
“knew the language”--and it was accordingly in the train of those two
that Colin and Lauderdale were dragged along, like a pair of English
captives, through the very gates of Rome itself, and across the solemn
Campagna to the little city set upon a hill, to which the sick man was
bound. They made their way to it in a spring afternoon when the sun was
inclining towards the west, throwing long shadows of those long, weird,
endless arches of the Claudian aqueduct across the green wastes, and
shining full upon the white specks of scattered villages on the Alban
hills. The landscape would have been impressive even had it conveyed no
associations to the minds of the spectators. But, as the reluctant
strangers left Rome, they saw unfold before them a noble semicircle of
hills--the Sabines, blue and mysterious, on one side, the Latin range
breaking bluntly into the centre of the ring, and towards the right hand
the softer Alban heights with their lakes hidden in the hollows, and the
sunshine falling full upon their crest of towns. When they had mounted
the steep ascent to Frascati, it was still more wonderful to look back
and see the sunset arranging itself over that great Campagna, falling
into broad radiant bands of colour with inconceivable tints and
shadings, betraying in a sudden flash the distant sea, and shining all
misty and golden over the dwarfed dome of St. Peter’s, which rose up by
itself upon the distant plain with a wonderful insignificance of
grandeur--all Rome around being blotted into oblivion. That would have
been a sight to linger over had not Meredith been weary and worn out,
and eager to get to his journey’s end.
“You will see it often enough,” he said, with a little petulance;
“neither the sunset nor St. Peter’s can run away:” for it was to himself
a sufficiently familiar sight. They went in accordingly to a large
house, which, a little to the disappointment of Colin, was just as
square and ugly as anything he could have found at home, though it stood
all the days and nights gazing with many eyes over that Campagna which
looked like a thing to dream over for ever. It was the third storey of
this house--- the upper floor--to which Meredith and his sister directed
their steps; Colin and Lauderdale following them--not without a little
expectation, natural enough under the circumstances. It was cold, and
they were tired, though not so much as the invalid; and they looked for
a bright fire, a comfortable room, and a good meal--with a little
curiosity, it is true, about the manner of it, but none as to the
blazing hearth and spread board, and all the other items indispensable
to comfort, according to English ideas. The room, when they got
admittance, was very large, and full of windows, letting in a flood of
light, which, as the sunshine was now too low to enter, was cold
light--white, colourless, and chilling. Not a vestige of carpet was on
the tiled floor, except before the fire-place, where a square piece of a
curious coarse fabric and wonderful pattern had been laid down. A few
logs were burning on the wide hearth, and close by was a little stack of
wood intended to replenish the fire. The great desert room contained a
world of tables and hard uncushioned chairs, but the tired travellers
looked in vain for the spread board which had pleased their imagination.
If Colin had thought the house too like an ordinary ugly English house
outside to satisfy him, he found this abundantly made up for now by the
interior, so unlike anything English; for the walls were painted with a
brilliant landscape set in a frame of still more brilliant scarlet
curtains, which the simple-minded artist had looped across his sky
without any hesitation; and underneath this gorgeous bit of fresco was
set a table against the wall, upon which were spread out a humble store
of little brown rolls, a square slice of butter, a basin full of eggs,
and a flask of oil--the humble provisions laid in by the attendant
Maria, who had rushed forward to kiss the young lady’s hand when she
opened the door. While the two inexperienced Scotch travellers stood
horror-stricken, their companions, who were aware of what they were
coming to, threw down their wraps and began to take possession, and to
settle themselves in this extraordinary wilderness.
Meredith for his part threw himself into a large primitive easy-chair
which stood by the fire. “This is a comfort I did not look for,” he
said; “and, thank heaven, here we are at last.” He drew a long breath of
satisfaction as he stretched out his long meagre limbs before the fire.
“Come in and make yourselves comfortable. Alice will attend to
everything else,” he said, looking back at his amazed companions, who,
finding themselves in some degree his guests, had to subdue their
feelings. They came and sat by him, exchanging looks of dismay--looks
which, perhaps, he perceived, for he drew in his long languid limbs, and
made a little room for the others. “Many things, of course, that are
necessary in our severe climate are unnecessary here,” he said, with a
slight shiver; and, as he spoke, he reached out his hand for one of the
wraps he had thrown off, and drew it round his shoulders. This movement
gave a climax to the universal discomfort. Colin and Lauderdale once
more looked at each other with mutual comments that could find no
utterance in words--the only audible expression of their mutual
sentiment being an exclamation of “Climate!” from the latter in an
undertone of unspeakable surprise and consternation. This, then, was the
Italy of which they had dreamed! The Mistress’s parlour on the Holy Loch
was, words could not tell how much warmer and more genial. The tired
travellers turned towards the fire as the only possible gleam of
consolation, and Meredith put out his long thin arm to seize another log
and place it on the hearth; even he felt the difference. He had done
nothing to help himself till he came here; but habits of indulgence
dropped off on the threshold of this Spartan dwelling. Colin repeated
within himself Lauderdale’s exclamation, “Climate!” as he shivered in
his chair. No doubt the invalid chair by the fire-side on the banks of
the Holy Loch was a very different thing, so far as comfort was
concerned.
In the meantime Alice found herself mistress of the position. Humble
little woman as she was, there came by moments, even to her, a
compassionate contempt for the male creatures who got hungry and sulky
after this fashion, and could only sit down ill-tempered and
disconsolate before the fire. Alice for her part sent off Maria to the
trattoria, and cheerfully prepared to feed the creatures who did not
know how to set about it for themselves. When she had done her utmost,
however, there was still a look of dismay on Colin’s face. The dinner
from the trattoria was a thing altogether foreign to the experiences of
the two Scotchmen. They suspected it while they ate, making secret wry
faces to each other across the equivocal board. This was the land of
poets into which they had come--the land of the ideal, where, according
to their inexperienced imagination, everything was to share the general
refinement! But, alas, there was nothing refined about the dinner from
the trattoria, which was altogether a native production, and with which
the Merediths, being accustomed, and knowing what they had to expect,
contented themselves well enough. When Lauderdale and his charge
retired, chilled to the bone, to their stony, chilly bedrooms, where
everything seemed to convey not warmth but a sensation of freezing, they
looked at each other with amazement and disgust on their faces.
“Callant, you would have been twenty times better at home,” said
Lauderdale with a remorseful groan; “and as for thae poor innocents, who
have nobody to look after them--But they kent what they were coming to,”
he continued, with a flash of momentary anger. Altogether it was as
unsuccessful a beginning as could well be imagined of the ideal poetic
Italian life.