Another month, or nearly so, has elapsed since last I opened this book;
and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict who has slept soundly
during the night before his doom, and passed in forgetful-ness the hours
he had vowed to thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo’s
“Dernier Jour d’un Condamné” last evening, and falling asleep with it in
my hand, traced out in my dreams a strange analogy between my own fate
and that of the convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life
crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate of death--the
redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder sympathies--how delightful
would these be if they did not suggest the wish to live! But, alas!
the sunbeam lights not only the road before us, but that we have been
travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back and linger! To
understand this love of life, one must stand as I do now; and yet, who
would deem that one so lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone,
would care to live? It is so, however: sorrow attaches us more strongly
than joy; and the world becomes dearer to us in affliction as violets
give out their sweetest odours when pressed.
Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and remember, if I can,
why and how I am here alone. My last written sentence was dated “Como,
the 29th October,” and then comes a blank--now to fill it up.
Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I came up with him, nor
was he aware of my approach till I had my hand on his arm. Whether that
I had disturbed him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in my
own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, but he did not speak,
and merely drawing my arm within his own, we wandered along the waters
edge. We sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, with
stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. It belonged to the
Villa d’Esté, and was one of those many little ornamental buildings that
were erected by that most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would
seem inscribed on every tree and rock around.
To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever been associated
with deep gloom. I never could tread the walks, nor sit to gaze upon the
lake from chosen points of view, without my memory full of her who, in
her exile, pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history, save
what all others know; I am neither defender nor apologist--too humble
and too weak for either. I would but utter one cry for mercy on a memory
that still is dearly cherished by the poor who dwelt around her, and by
whom she is yet beloved.
Whatever were Sir Gordon’s thoughts, it was clear the few efforts
he made to converse were not in accordance with them. The rumours of
disturbance in Switzerland--the increasing watchfulness on the Lombard
frontier--the growing feeling of uncertainty where and how far this new
discord might extend--these he spoke of, but rather as it seemed to mask
other themes, than because they were uppermost in his mind.
“We must think of leaving this,” said he, after a brief pause. “‘Where
to?’ is the question. How would Genoa agree with _you?_”
“With _me!_ Let there be no question of _me_.”
“Nay, but there must,” said he, eagerly. “Remember, first of all, that
we are now independent of Climate, at least of all that this side of the
Alps possesses; and, secondly, bethink you that _you_ are the pilot that
weathered the storm for us.”
“Happily, then,” said I, laughing, or endeavouring to laugh, “I may
sing,--
‘The waves are laid, My duties paid.’
I must seek out some harbour of refuge and be at rest.’”
“But with us, Templeton--always with us,” said the old man,
affectionately.
“Upon one condition, Sir Gordon--short of that I refuse.”
I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a rising emotion I threw into
these words an accent of almost stern and obstinate resolution; for as
he replied, “Name your condition,” his own voice assumed a tone of cold
reserve.
It was full a minute before I could resume; not only was the subject one
that I dreaded to approach from fear of failure, but I felt that I had
already endangered my chance of success by the inopportune moment of its
introduction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. As much to
give myself time for a little forethought, as to provide myself with a
certain impulse for the coming effort, as leapers take a run before they
spring, I threw out a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before
leaving England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. “I knew
well,” said I, “better far than all the skill of physicians could teach,
that no chance of recovery remained for me; Science had done its utmost:
the machine had, however, been wound up for the last time--its wheels
and springs would bear no more. Nothing remained, then, but to economise
the hours, and let them glide by with as little restriction as might be.
There was but one alloy to this plan--its selfishness; but when may
a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to part with what
comprises it?
“I came away from England, then, with that same sentiment that made the
condemned captain beg he might be bled to death rather than fall beneath
the axe. I would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and
unruffled, even by fear--little dreaming how vain are all such devices
to cheat one’s destiny, and that death is never so terrible as when
life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, such has been my fate; in the calm
happiness of home here--the first time I ever knew the word’s true
meaning--I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful happiness
where the present is tempered by the past, and hope has fewer checks,
because it comes more chastened by experience. You little thought, that
in making my days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be
a heavy recompense.... Nay, hear me out; words of encouragement only
increase my misery--they give not hope, they only awaken fresh feelings
of affection, so soon to be cold for ever.”
How I approached the subject on which my heart was set I cannot now
remember--abruptly, I fear; imperfectly and dubiously I know: because
Sir Gordon, one of the most patient and forbearing of men, suddenly
interrupted me by a violent exclamation, “Hold! stay! not a word more!
Templeton, this cannot be; once for all, never recur to this again!”
Shocked, almost terrified by the agitation in his looks, I was unable
to speak for some seconds; and while I saw that some misconception of
my meaning had occurred, yet, in the face of his prohibition, I could
scarcely dare an attempt to rectify it. While I remained thus in painful
uncertainty, he seemed, by a strong effort, to have subdued his emotion,
and at length said, “Not even to you, my dear friend--to you, to whom I
owe the hope that has sustained me for many a day past, can I reveal
the secret source of this sorrow, nor say why what you propose is
impossible. I dreaded something like this--I foresaw how it might
be; nay, my selfishness was such that I rejoiced at it, for her sake.
There--there, I will not trust myself with more. Leave me, Templeton;
whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.”
I left him, and, hastening towards the lake side, soon lost myself in
the dark groves of chestnut and olive, the last words still ringing in
my ears--“Whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.”
Such complete pre-occupation had his agitation and trouble over my mind,
that it was long ere I could attempt to recall how I had evoked this
burst of passion, and by what words I had stirred him so to address me.
Suddenly the truth flashed boldly out; I perceived the whole nature of
the error. He had, in fact, interrupted iny explanation at a point
which made it seem that I was seeking his grandaughter in marriage. Not
waiting to hear me out, he deemed the allusions to my name, my family
arms, and my fortune, were intended to convey a proposal to make her
my wife. Alas! I needed no longer to wonder at his repugnance, nor
speculate further on the energy of his refusal. How entertain such a
thought for his poor child! It were, indeed, to weave Cyprus with the
garland of the Bride!
Impatient any longer to lie under the misconception--at heart, perhaps,
vexed to think how wrongfully he must have judged me when deeming me
capable of the thought--I hastened back to the Villa, determined at
once to rectify the error and make him hear me out, whatever pains the
interview should cost either.
On gaining the house I found that Sir Gordon had just driven from the
door. Miss Howard, who for two days had been indisposed, was still in
her room. Resolving, then, to make my explanation in writing, I went to
my room; on the table lay a letter addressed to me, the writing of which
was scarcely dry. It ran thus:--
“My dearest Friend,
“If I, in part, foresaw the possibility of what your words
to-day assured me, and yet did not guard against the hazard,
the sad circumstances of my lot in life are all I can plead
in my favour. I have never ceased to reproach myself that I
had not been candid and open with you at first, when our
intimacy was fresh. Afterwards, as it became friendship, the
avowal was impossible. I must not trust myself with more. I
have gone from home for a day or two, that when we meet
again the immediate memory of our last interview should have
been softened. Be to me--to her, also--as though the
words were never spoken; nor withdraw any portion of your
affection from those you have rescued from the greatest of
all calamities.
“Yours ever,
“Gordon Howard.”
The mystery grew darker and more impenetrable; harassing, maddening
suspicions, mixed themselves up in my brain, with thoughts too terrible
for endurance. I saw that, in Sir Gordon’s error as to my intentions,
he had unwittingly disclosed the existence of a secret--a secret whose
meaning seemed fraught with dreadful import; that he would never have
touched upon this mysterious theme, save under the false impression my
attempted proposal had induced, was clear enough; and, that thus I had
unwittingly wrung from him an avowal which, under other circumstances,
he had never been induced to make.
I set about to think over every word I had used in our last
interview--each expression I had employed, torturing the simplest
phrases by interpretations the most remote and unlikely, that thereby
some clue should present itself to this mystery: but, charge my memory
how I could, reflect and ponder as I might, the words of his letter had
a character of more deep and serious meaning than a mere refusal of my
proposition, taken in what sense it might, could be supposed to call
for. At moments, thoughts would flash across my brain so terrible in
their import, that had they dwelt longer I must have gone mad. They were
like sudden paroxysms of some agonising disease, coming and recurring
at intervals. Just as one of these had left me, weak, worn out, and
exhausted, a carriage, drawn by four post-horses, drew up to the door of
the Villa, and the instant after my servant knocked at my door, saying,
“La Comtesse de Favancourt is arrived, sir, and wishes to see you.”
Who was there whose presence I would not rather have faced?--that gay
and heartless woman of fashion, whose eyes, long practised to read
a history in each face, would soon detect in my agitated looks that
“something had occurred,” nor cease till she had discovered it. In Sir
Gordon’s absence, and as Lucy was still indisposed, I had no alternative
but to receive her.
Scarcely had I entered the drawing-room than my worst fears were
realised. She was seated in an arm-chair, and lay back as if fatigued by
her journey; but on seeing me, without waiting to return my greeting of
welcome, she asked, abruptly,--
“Where’s Sir Gordon?--where’s Miss Howard? Haven’t they been expecting
me?”
I answered, that Sir Gordon had gone over to the Brianza for a day; that
Miss Howard had been confined to her room, but, I was certain, had only
to learn her arrival to dress and come down to her.
“Is this said _de bonne foi?_” said she, with a smile where the
expression was far more of severity than sweetness. “Are you treating me
candidly, Mr. Templeton? or is this merely another exercise of your old
functions as Diplomatist?”
I started, partly from actual amazement, partly from a feeling of
indignant shame, at the accusation; but, recovering at once, assured her
calmly and respectfully that all I had said was the simple fact, without
the slightest shade of equivocation.
“So much the better,” said she gaily; “for I own to you I was beginning
to suspect our worthy friends of other motives. You know what a tiresome
world of puritanism and mock propriety we live in, and I was actually
disposed to fear that these dear souls had got up both the absence and
the illness not to receive me.”
“Not to receive you! Impossible!” said I, with unfeigned astonishment.
“The Howards, whom I have always reckoned as your oldest and most
intimate friends----”
“Oh, yes! very old friends, certainly: but remember that these are
exactly the kind of people who take upon them to be severer than all the
rest of the world, and are ten times as rigid and unforgiving as one’s
enemies. Now, as I could not possibly know how this affair might have
been told to them----”
“What affair? I’m really quite in the dark to what you allude.”
“I mean my separation from Favancourt.”
“Are you separated from your husband, Lady Blanche?” asked I, in a state
of agitation in strong contrast to her calm and quiet manner.
“What a question, when all the papers have been discussing it these
three weeks! And from an old admirer, too! Shame on you, Mr. Templeton!”
I know not how it was, but the levity of this speech, given as it was,
made my cheek flush till it actually seemed to burn.
“Nay, nay, I didn’t mean you to blush so deeply,” said she, “And what a
dear, sweet, innocent kind of life you must have been leading here,
on this romantic lake, to be capable of such soft emotions! Oh, dear!”
sighed she, weariedly. “You men have an immense advantage in your
affairs of the heart; you can always begin as freshly with each new
affection, and be as youthful in sentiment with each new love, as we
are with our only passion. Now I see it all; you have been getting up a
‘_tendre_’ here for somebody or other:--not Taglioni, I hope, for I see
that is her Villa yonder,--There, don’t look indignant. This same
Lake of Como has long been known to be the paradise of _danseuses_ and
opera-singers; and I thought it possible you might have dramatised a
little love-story to favour the illusion. Well, well,” said she,
sighing, “so that you have not fallen in love with poor Lucy Howard----”
“And why not with her?” said I, starting, while in my quick-beating
heart and burning temples a sense of torturing pain went through me.
“Why not with her?” reiterated she, pausing at each word, and fixing
her eyes steadfastly on me, with a look where no affected astonishment
existed; “why not with her?--did you say this?”
“I did; and do ask, What is there to make it strange that one like her
should inspire the deepest sentiment of devotion, even from one whose
days are so surely numbered as mine are--so unworthy to hope--to win
her?”
“Then you really are unaware! Well, I must say this was not treating
you fairly. I thought every one knew it, however; and I conclude they
themselves reasoned in the same way. Come, I suppose I must explain;
though, from your terrified face and staring eyeballs, I wish the task
had devolved on some other. Be calm and collected, or I shall never
venture upon it.--Well, poor dear Lucy inherits her mother’s malady--she
is insane!”
Broken half-words, stray fragments of speech, met my ears, for she went
on to talk of the terrible theme with the volubility of one who revelled
in a story of such thrilling horror. I, however, neither heard nor
remembered more; passages of well-remembered interest flashed upon my
mind, but, like scenes lit up by some lurid light, glowed with meanings
too direful to dwell on.
How I parted from her--how I left the Villa and came hither, travelling
day and night, till exhausted strength could bear no more--are still
memories too faint to recall; the realities of these last few days have
less vividness than my own burning, wasting thoughts: nor can I, by any
effort, separate the terrible recital she gave from my own reflections
upon it.
I must never recur to this again--nor will I reopen the page whereon it
is written: I have written this to test my own powers of mind, lest I
too----
Shakspeare, who knew the heart as none, save the inspired, have ever
known it, makes it the test of sanity to recall the events of a story in
the same precise order, time after time, neither changing nor inverting
them. This is Lear’s reply to the accusation of madness, when yet his
intelligence was unclouded,--“I will the matter re-word, which madness
would gabble from.”