It is a week since I wrote a line in my notebook, and, judging only from
my sensations, it seems like a year. Events rapidly succeeding, always
make time seem longer in retrospect. It is only monotony is brief to
look back upon.
I expected ere this to have been at Naples, if not Palermo; and here I
linger on the Lake of Como, as if my frail health had left me any choice
of a resting-place. And yet, why should this not be as healthful as it
is beautiful?
Looking out from this window, beneath which, not three paces distant,
the blue lake is plashing--the music of its waves the only sound
heard--great mountains rise grandly from the water to the very skies,
the sides one tangled mass of olive, vine, and fig-tree. The dark-leaved
laurel, the oleander, the cactus and the magnolia cluster around each
rugged rocky eminence, and hang in graceful drapery over the glassy
water. Palaces, temples, and villas are seen on every side; some, boldly
standing out, are reflected in the calm lake, their marble columns
tremulous as the gentle wind steals past; others, half hid among the
embowering trees, display but a window or a portico, or perchance a deep
arched entrance for the gondolas, above which some heavy banner slowly
waves its drooping folds, touching the very water. The closed jalousies,
the cloudless sky, the unruffled water, over which no boat is seen to
glide, the universal stillness, all tell that it is noon--the noon of
Italy, and truly the northern midnight is not a season of such unbroken
repose. Looking at this scene, and fancying to myself the lethargic life
of ease, which not even thought disturbs, of these people, I half wonder
within me how had it fared with us of England beneath such a sun, and in
such a clime. Had the untiring spirit of enterprise, the active zeal and
thirst for wealth, triumphed over every obstacle, and refused to accept,
as a season of rest, the hours of the bright and glaring sunshine?
Here, the very fishermen are sleeping beneath their canvass awnings,
and their boats lie resting in the dark shadows. There is something
inexpressibly calm and tranquillising in all this. The stillness of
night we accept as its natural and fitting accompaniment, but to look
out upon this fair scene, one is insensibly reminded of the condition
of life which leaves these busiest of mortal hours, elsewhere, free
to peaceful repose, and with how little labour all wants are met and
satisfied.
How came I here? is a question rising to my mind at every moment, and
actually demanding an effort of memory to answer. The very apartment
itself is almost a riddle to me, seeming like some magic transformation,
realising as it does all that I could ask or wish.
This beautiful little octagon room, with its marble “statuettes” in
niches between the windows, its frescoed ceiling, its white marble
floor, reflecting each graceful ornament, even to the silver lamp that
hangs high in the coved roof; and then, this little terrace beside
the lake, where under the silk awning I sit among a perfect bosquet of
orange and oleander trees;--it is almost too beautiful for reality. I
try to read, but cannot; and as I write I stand up at each moment to
peep over the balcony at the fish, as sluggishly they move along, or,
at the least stir, dart forward with arrowy speed, to return again the
minute after, for they have been fed here and know the spot. There is
a dreamy, visionary feeling, that seems to be the spirit of the place,
encouraging thought, and yet leading the mind to dalliance rather than
moody reverie. And again, how came I here? Now for the answer.
On Tuesday last I was at Varenna, fully bent on proceeding by Milan
to Genoa, and thence to Naples. I had, not without some difficulty,
resisted all approaches of Sir Gordon Howard, and even avoided meeting
him. What scores of fables did I invent merely to escape an interview
with an old friend!
Well, at eight o’clock, as I sat at breakfast, I heard the bustle of
preparation in the court-yard, and saw with inexpressible relief that
his horses were standing ready harnessed, while my valet came with the
welcome tidings that the worthy Baronet was starting for Como, near
which he had taken a Villa. The Villa Cimarosa, the most beautiful on
the lake,--frescoes--statues--hanging gardens--I know not how many
more charming items, did my informant recite, with all the impassioned
eloquence of George Robins himself. He spared me nothing, from the
news that Mademoiselle, Sir Gordon’s grandaughter, who was a prodigious
heiress, was ordered to Italy for her health, and that it was more than
likely we should find them at Naples for the winter, down to the less
interesting fact that the courier, Giacomo Bartoletti, was to proceed by
the steamer and get the Villa ready for their arrival. I could only stop
his communications by telling him to order horses for Lecco, pay the
bill, and follow me, as I should stroll down the road and look at the
caverns of rock which it traverses by the lake side.
I had seen Sir Gordon drive off--I had heard the accustomed “_Buon
viaggio_” uttered by the whole household in chorus--and now, I was
free once more; and so escaping this noisy ceremony of leave-taking, I
sauntered listlessly forth, and took my way along the lake. The morning
was delicious; a slight breeze from the north, the pleasantest of all
the winds on the Lake of Como, was just springing up.
It is here, opposite Varenna, that the lake is widest; but nothing of
bleakness results from the greater extent of water, for the mountains
are still bold and lofty, and the wooded promontory of Bellagio dividing
the two reaches of the lake, is a beautiful feature. Its terraced
gardens and stately palaces peeping amid the leafy shade, and giving
glimpses of one of the sweetest spots the “Villégiatura” ever lingered
in.
I had got a considerable distance from the town of Varenna without
feeling it. The enchanting picture, ever presenting some new effect, and
the light and buoyant breeze from the water, and a certain feeling of
unusual lightness of heart, all aiding, I walked on without fatigue; nor
was I aware of the distance traversed, till at a little bend of the lake
I saw Varenna diminishing away--its tall poplars and taper spires being
now the most conspicuous features of the town.
At a short distance in front of me lay a little creek or bay, from one
side of which a wooden pier projected--a station for the steamers that
ply on the lake. There now Sir Gordon Howard’s phaeton was standing,
surrounded with a most multifarious heap of trunks, packing-cases,
portmanteaus, and other travelling gear--signs that some portion of his
following, at least, were awaiting the arrival of the packet. Nor had
they to wait long: for as I looked, the vessel shot round the rocky
point and darted swiftly across the smooth water, till she lay scarce
moving, about a quarter of a mile from shore,--the shoal water prevented
her approaching nearer to the jetty.
With the idle curiosity of a lounger, I sat down on a rock to watch the
scene.
I know no reason for it, but I ever take an interest in the movements
of travellers. Their comings and goings suggest invariably some amusing
pictures to my mind, and many a story have I weaved for myself from
nothing but the passing glimpses of those landed hurriedly from a
steamer.
I watched, therefore, with all my usual satisfaction, the launching
of the boat laden heavily with luggage, on the top of which, like its
presiding genius, sat a burly courier, his gold-banded cap glistening
brightly in the sun. Then came a lighter skiff, in the stern of which
sat a female figure, shaded by a pink parasol. There was another parasol
in the phaeton too--I thought I could even recognise Sir Gordon’s figure
in the last boat: but as I looked the sky became suddenly overcast, and
round the rocky point, where but a moment before the whole cliff lay
reflected in the water, there now came splashing waves, tumbling wildly
by, till the whole creek suddenly was covered by them; dark squalls of
wind sweeping over the water, tossing the two boats to and fro, and even
heaving up the huge steamer itself, till her bows were bathed in foaming
cataracts. The suddenness of the tempest--for such it really was--was a
grand and sublime “effect” in such a scene: but I could no longer enjoy
it, as there seemed to be actual danger in the situation of the two
boats, which, from time to time, were hidden between the swelling waves.
At last, but not without a struggle, they reached the packet, and I
could plainly see, by the signs of haste on board, that the captain had
not been a very willing spectator of the scene. The luggage was soon on
board, and the figures of the lighter boat followed quickly after.
Scarcely was this effected when the boats were cast off, and again
the paddle-wheels splashed through the water. The gale at this instant
increased: for no sooner was the steamer’s bow to the wind, than the
waves went clean over her, washing her deck from stem to stern, and
dashing in columns of spray over the dark funnel. A great stir and
commotion on deck drew off my attention from the boats; and now I heard
a hoarse voice calling through a speaking-trumpet to those in the boats.
They, however, either did not hear or heed the command, for they rowed
boldly towards the shore, nor once paid any attention to the signals
which, first as a flag, and afterwards as a cannon-shot, the steamer
made for them.
While I was lost in conjecturing what possibly all this might mean, the
vessel once more rounded to her course, and with full steam up breasted
the rolling water, and stood out towards the middle of the lake. A
fisherman just then ran his boat in to land, in a little creek beneath
me, and from him I asked an explanation of the scene.
“It’s nothing, Signor, but what one sees almost every day here,” said
he, jeeringly: “that ‘_canaille_’ of Pellagino have taken people out to
the steamer, and would not wait to bring them back again; and now, they
must go to Como, whether they will or no.”
This explanation seemed the correct one, and appeared to be corroborated
by the attitude of the party on shore, for there stood the phaeton,
still waiting, although all chance of the others’ returning was totally
by-gone. Concluding that, Sir Gordon thus carried off without his will,
his servants might possibly need some advice or counsel--for I knew they
were all English, except the Courier--I hastened down to the jetty,
to offer them such aid as I possessed. As I came nearer, I was more
convinced that my suspicions were correct. About thirty ragged and
not over-prepossessing-looking individuals were assembled around the
phaeton; some busily pressing the groom, who stood at the horses’ heads,
with questions he could not answer; and others imploring charity with
all that servile tone and gesture your Italian beggar is master of.
Making my way through this assemblage, I accosted the groom, who knew me
to be an acquaintance of his master’s, and instead of replying to me, at
once cried out,--“Oh, Miss Lucy, here is Mr. Templeton! You need not be
afraid, now.” I turned at once, and instead of a lady’s-maid, as I had
believed the figure to be, beheld a very lovely but delicate-looking
girl, who with an expression of considerable anxiety in her features,
was still following the track of the departing steam-boat. At the
mention of my name she looked hurriedly around, and a deep blush covered
her face as she said,--
“I am so happy to see Mr. Templeton! Perhaps he will forgive me if I
make the first moment of our acquaintance the burden of a request?” And
then, in a very few words, she told me how her Grandfather, having gone
on board the steamer to give some particular orders and directions about
his baggage, was unwillingly carried off, leaving her with only a groom,
who could speak no language but his own. She went on to say, that they
had taken the Villa Cimarosa on the lake, and were then proceeding
thither by Lecco, when this _mésaventure_ occurred.
“I now must ask Mr. Templeton’s counsel how to act--whether to return to
the inn at Varenna, and wait there till I can hear from my Grandfather,
or venture on to Como with the carriage?”
“If you will take my carriage, Miss Howard, it will be here in a few
minutes. My servant is a most experienced traveller, and will not suffer
you to endure the slightest inconvenience; and I will follow in yours.
“But perhaps you cannot travel in an open carriage? I have heard that
your health is delicate.”
“I prefer it greatly.”
“And I too----”
She stopped suddenly, feeling that she was about to utter what might
seem an ungracious acknowledgment. There was such an evident regret in
the dread of having offended me, that, without pausing to reflect, I
said,--
“There is another alternative; I am a very safe whip, and if you would
permit me to have the honour of accompanying you, I should be but too
happy to be your escort.”
She tried to answer by a polite smile of acceptance, but I saw that
the proposition was scarcely such as she approved of, and so at once I
added,--
“I will spare you the pain of rejecting my offer; pray, then, abide by
my first suggestion. I see my carriage coming along yonder.”
“I don’t know,” said she, with a kind of wilfulness, like that of one
who had been long accustomed to indulgence; “it may seem very capricious
to you, but I own I detest post-horses, and cracking whips, and
rope-harness. You shall drive me, Mr. Templeton.”
I replied by a very sincere assurance of how I esteemed the favour, and
the next moment was seated at her side. As I stole a glance at the pale
but beautifully-formed features, her drooping eyelashes, dark as night,
and her figure of surpassing symmetry and grace, I could not help
thinking of all the straits and expedients I had practised for three
entire days to avoid making her acquaintance. As if she had actually
divined what was then passing in my mind, she said,--
“You see, Mr. Temple ton, it was like a fate; you did your utmost not to
meet us, and here we are, after all.”
I stammered out a very eager, but a very blundering attempt at denial,
while she resumed,--
“Pray do not make matters worse, which apologies in such cases always
do. Grandpapa told me that ill health had made you a recluse and avoid
society. This, and the mystery of your own close seclusion, were quite
enough to make me desirous to see you.”
“How flattered I should have been had I suspected so much interest could
attach to me! but, really, I dreaded to inflict upon a very old friend
what I found to be so tiresome, namely, my own company.”
“I always heard that you were fastidious about going into society; but
surely a visit to an old friend, in a foreign country too, might have
escaped being classified in this category?”
“I own my fault, which, like most faults, has brought its own penalty.”
“If this be meant to express your deep affliction at not coming to us, I
accept the speech in all its most complimentary sense.”
I bowed in acquiescence, and she went on:--
“You must forgive me if I talk to you with a freedom that our actual
acquaintanceship does not warrant, for, while _you_ never heard of me
before, _I_ have been listening to stories and narratives about _you_, I
cannot say how long.”
“Indeed! I scarcely suspected Sir Gordon had more than remembered me.”
“I did not say that Grandpapa was my informant,” said she, laughing.
“Lady Catherine Douglas--the Collingwoods--the Grevilles--and then that
delightful person, Madame de Favancourt,--all spoke of you.... For which
of my catalogue was that blush intended, Mr. Templeton?”
“I was only yielding to a very natural sentiment--call it shame, pride,
or pleasure--that so many fair friends should have deemed me worthy a
place in their memory. Is Mary Greville married?”
“Yes; about a month since she accepted the hand she had, it is said,
some half-dozen times rejected.”
“Sir Blake Morony?”
“The same: an intolerable bore, to my thinking; and, indeed, I believe
to poor Mary’s, too. But, then, ‘the’ man did not offer. Some say, he
was bashful; some, that he dreaded what he need not have dreaded--a
refusal; and so, Mary went but to the Cape when her father became
Governor there; and, like all governors’ daughters, took a husband from
the staff.”
“She was very pretty, but----”
“Say on; we were never more than mere acquaintances.”
“I was going to add, a most inveterate flirt.”
“How I do detest to hear that brought as an accusation against a girl,
from the very kind of person that invariably induces the error!--Young
men like Mr. Templeton, who, entering life with the prestige of ability
and public success, very naturally flatter the vanity of any girl by
their attentions, and lead to a more buoyant character of mind and a
greater desire to please, which are at once set down as coquetry. For
my own part, I greatly prefer old men’s society to young one’s, from the
very fact that one is permitted to indulge all the caprices of thought
or fancy without incurring the offensive imputation of a design on his
heart.”
“I should not always give a verdict of acquittal even in such cases.”
“Very likely not. There are old men whose manner and bearing are
infinitely more attractive than the self-satisfied, self-relying
composure of our modern young ones. Any thing, however, even boyish
awkwardness, is preferable to your middle-aged gentleman, who, with a
slight bald spot on his head, and a very permanent flush on his cheek,
adds the stately pomp of his forty autumns to a levity that has no touch
of younger days.”
“Heaven help us! what are we to do from thirty to fifty-five or sixty?”
“Marry, and live in the country. I mean, do not be young men about town.
_Apropos_ to nothing--are we not, this instant, in the very scene of
Manzoni’s novel, ‘I Promessi Sposi?’”
“Yes; the whole of our journey to-day lies through it, from Lecco to
Como; or rather, more to the northward again--what they call here, the
‘Brianza.’”
“The scene deserved better actors, in my opinion. I have always thought
it a very tiresome story, even among that most tiresome class--Pure
love-tales.”
“What say you to the ‘Bride of Lammermoor?’”
“That it is only inferior to ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ But how many interests
are there brought up before the reader in either of these--all
subordinate to the great one--but all exciting mingled and conflicting
emotions! The author, in neither case, was satisfied to dwell on the
daily and nightly sighings of a love-stricken pair. He knew better than
to weave his web of one tissue. In fact, the Master of Ravens-wood is
more the slave of his own blighted ambition than of his love, which, at
best, was only an element in his feeling of abasement.”
“And yet, how faithfully was his love returned! Nothing short of a true
passion meets such requital.”
“If you said, that no heart incapable of feeling ever inspired such, I
would agree with you; but I fancy that women are often imposed upon,
by supposing that they possess the entire affection of those they know
capable of strong attachments.”
“That may possibly be true; but I suspect that in the world--in the
middle of that life where we daily meet and form friendships--there is
very little time or opportunity for any thing above a passing feeling of
admiration, that seldom reaches esteem. The Honourable Miss Tollemache
meets Captain Fitzherbert of the Guards. They are introduced and dance
together--the lady is pretty--the Captain amusing--they have a large
number of mutual acquaintances, whom they quiz and praise by turns,
with sufficient agreement to be mutually pleased. They separate; and the
Captain asks if the lady really have ‘twenty thousand pounds fortune.’
Match-making aunts and mothers arrange preliminaries; and the young
people have leisure to fail in love after the most approved fashion:
that is, they meet very often, and talk more together, than common
acquaintances are wont to do; but their talk is of Grisi and Lablache,
of the Duke’s fete at Chiswick, and Lord Donnington’s yacht excursion to
Malta. If the gentleman have a confidence to evoke, it is, possibly, the
state of his mind on the approaching ‘Derby.’ Now I would ask, How much
of mutual esteem, or even knowledge, grows out of all this?”
“Pretty much the same amount as exists in a French marriage, where M. le
Marquis having ‘_fait ses farces_,’ is fain to marry, being somewhat
too deep in debt to continue what his years admonish him to abandon.
Mademoiselle is brought from the convent, or the governess’s apartment,
to sign the contract and accept her husband. There is enough in the
very emancipation she obtains to be pleasurable, not to speak of a grand
_trousseau_, diamonds, cashmeres, and the prettiest equipage in Paris.”
“Hence,” said I, “we seem agreed, that one must not choose a wife or
husband _à la mode Anglaise ni Française_.
“I believe not,” said she, laughing; “for if marriages be made in
heaven, they are about the strangest employment for angels I ever heard
of.”
“It entirely depends on how you regard what are commonly called
accidents and chances, as to the interpretation you give that saying. If
you see, in those curious coincidences that are ever occurring in life,
nothing more than hazard, you at once abandon all idea of governing
human actions. If, on the other hand, you read them too implicitly, and
accept them as indications for the future, you rush into fatalism.
For my own part, I think less of the events themselves, than as they
originate or evoke sentiments in two parties, who, though previously
known to each, only discover on some sudden emergency a wonderful
agreement in sentiment and feeling. In the ordinary detail of life
they had gone on, each ignorant of the other’s opinions: so long as the
wheels of life revolved freely and noiselessly, the journey had called
for nothing of mutual interest; but some chance occurrence, some
accidental rencontre occurs, and they at once perceive a most fortuitous
similarity in taste or thinking. Like people who have suddenly
discovered a long-persisted-in mistake, they hasten to repair the past
by sudden confidences. Let me give an instance, even though it be almost
too bold a one for my theory. A friend of mine, who had served some
years with great distinction in the East, returned to England in company
with a brother officer, a man of high family, knowing and known to
every one of a certain standing in London. My friend, who, from a remote
province, had no town acquaintances, was, however, speedily introduced
by his friend, and, heralded by his reputation, was greatly noticed in
society. He soon wearied of a round of dissipations, wherein the great,
if not the only interest, lies in knowledge of the actors; and was one
night stealing away from a large evening party, secretly resolving
that it should be his last ball. He had, by dint of great labour and
perseverance, reached the last salon, and already-caught glimpse of the
stair beyond, when his progress was suddenly arrested by a very sweet
but excited voice, saying--‘One moment, sir; may I beg you will
release my scarf.’ He turned and beheld a very handsome girl, who was
endeavouring to disengage from her shoulders a rich scarf of lace, one
end of which was caught in the star he wore on his breast--a decoration
from the Nizam. He immediately began to detach the delicate tissue from
its dangerous situation. But his address was inferior to his zeal, so
that he continually received admonitions as to greater care and caution,
with mingled laments over the inevitable mischief that must follow.
Something abashed by his own awkwardness, his nervousness made him
worse, and he muttered to himself in German, thinking it was a
safe tongue for soliloquy--‘Why will ladies wear such preposterous
finery?--the spider’s web is not so fragile.’ To which at once the lady
replied, in the same language,--‘If men are vain enough to carry a coat
full of ‘_crachats_’ and orders, ladies ought, at least, to be careful
how they pass them.’ He blushed at the tart rebuke, and in his eagerness
he tore a little hoop or mesh of the scarf. ‘Oh, pray sir, permit me! It
is real Brussels!’ and so saying, she at once began, with a skill very
different from his, the work of disentanglement. My friend, however,
did not desist, but gave what aid he could, their fingers more than once
meeting. Meanwhile a running fire of pleasantry and smartness went on
between them, when suddenly his brother officer came up, saying,--
“‘Oh! Lydia, here is my friend Collyton. I have been so anxious you
should know him; and he leaves to-morrow.’
“‘I hope he will permit me to rescue my scarf first,’ said the lady,
taking no heed of the introduction.
“‘I am so sorry--I really am in despair,’ said Collyton, as the lady,
growing at last impatient, tore the frail web in order to get free.
“‘It was all your fault, sir, remember that--or rather that of your
star, which I’m sure I wish the Sirdar, or the Nizam, had reserved for a
more careful wearer.’
“‘I never deemed it would have done me such service,’ said Collyton,
recovering courage; ‘without it, I should have passed on, and you would
never have taken the trouble to notice me.’
“‘There, sir, I must leave you your prize,’ said she, smartly, as,
taking the arm of her partner, she joined the waltzers; while Collyton
stood with the folds of a Brussels veil draped gracefully on his arm.
“He went home; spent half the night disengaging the intricate web, and
the next day called to restore it, and apologise for his misfortune; the
acquaintance thus casually formed ripened into mutual liking, and, after
a time, into a stronger feeling, and in the end they were married; the
whole of the event, the great event of every life, originating in
the porcupine fashion of the Nizam’s star and the small loops of a
Brussels-lace scarf! Here, then, is my case; but for this rencontre
they had never met, save in the formal fashion people do as first
acquaintances. Without a certain collision, they had not given forth the
sparks that warmed into flame.”
“I call that a pure chance, just as much as--as----”
“Our own meeting this morning, you were about to say,” said I,
laughingly; and she joined in the mirth, but soon after became silent
and thoughtful. I tried various ways of renewing our conversation; I
started new topics, miles remote from all we had been talking of: but
I soon perceived that, whether from physical causes or temperament,
the eager interest she exhibited when speaking, and the tone of almost
excited animation in which she listened, seemed to weary and exhaust
her. I therefore gradually suffered our conversation to drop down to an
occasional remark on passing objects; and so we travelled onwards till,
late in the afternoon, we found ourselves at the gate of a handsome
park, where an avenue of trellised vines, wide enough for two carriages
to pass, led to a beautiful villa, on the terrace of which stood my old
friend, Sir Gordon Howard, himself.
For a few moments he was so totally engrossed by the meeting with his
grandaughter that he did not even perceive me. Indeed, his agitation was
as great as it might reasonably have been had years of absence separated
them, instead of the few brief hours of a twenty miles’ drive; and it
was only as she said, “Are you forgetting to thank Mr. Templeton, Papa?”
that he turned round to greet me with all the warmth of his kindly
nature.
It was to no purpose that I protested plans already formed, engagements
made, and horses written for; he insisted on my staying, if not some
weeks--some days--and at last, hours, at the Villa Cimarosa. I might
still have resisted his kind entreaties, when Miss Howard, with a smile
and a manner of most winning persuasiveness, said, “I wish you would
stay,”--and------here I am!