It was spring, and in Italy! one of those half-dozen days, at very
most, when, the feeling of winter departed, a gentle freshness breathes
through the air; trees stir softly, and as if by magic; the earth
becomes carpeted with flowers, whose odors seem to temper, as it were,
the exciting atmosphere. An occasional cloud, fleecy and jagged, sails
lazily aloft, marking its shadow on the mountain side. In a few days--a
few hours, perhaps--the blue sky will be unbroken, the air hushed, a hot
breath will move among the leaves, or pant over the trickling fountains.
In this fast-flitting period,--we dare not call it season,--the Cascine
of Florence is singularly beautiful; on one side, the gentle river
stealing past beneath the shadowing foliage; on the other, the
picturesque mountain towards Fiesole, dotted with its palaces and
terraced gardens. The ancient city itself is partly seen, and the
massive Duomo and the Palazzo Vecchio tower proudly above the trees!
What other people of Europe have such a haunt?--what other people would
know so thoroughly how to enjoy it? The day was drawing to a close,
and the Piazzone was now filled with equipages. There were the
representatives of every European people, and of nations far away over
the seas,--splendid Russians, brilliant French, splenetic, supercilious
English, and ponderous Germans, mingled with the less marked
nationalities of Belgium and Holland, and even America. Everything that
called itself Fashion was there to swell the tide; and although a choice
military band was performing with exquisite skill the favorite overtures
of the day, the noise and tumult of conversation almost drowned their
notes. Now, the Cascine is to the world of society what the Bourse is to
the world of trade. It is the great centre of all news and intelligence,
where markets and bargains of intercourse are transacted, and where the
scene of past pleasure is revived, and the plans of future enjoyment are
canvassed. The great and the wealthy are there, to see and to meet with
each other. The proud equipages lie side by side, like great liners;
while phaetons, like fast frigates, shoot swiftly by, and solitary
dandies flit past in varieties of conveyance to which sea-craft can
offer no analogies. All are busy, eager, and occupied. Scandal holds
here its festival, and the misdeeds of every capital of Europe are
now being discussed. The higher themes of politics occupy but few; the
interests of literature attract still less. It is essentially of the
world they talk, and it must be owned they do it like adepts. The last
witticism of Paris,--the last duel at Berlin,--who has fled from his
creditors in England,--who has run away from her husband at Naples,--all
are retailed with a serious circumstantiality that would lead one to
believe that gossip maintained its “own correspondent” in every city of
the Continent. Moralists might fancy, perhaps, that in the tone these
subjects are treated they would mingle a reprobation of the bad, and a
due estimate of the opposite, if it ever occurred at all; but as surely
would they be disappointed. Never were censors more lenient,--never were
critics so charitable. The transgressions against good-breeding--the
“gaucheries” of manner, the solecisms in dress, language, or
demeanor--do indeed meet with sharp reproof and cutting sarcasm; but,
in recompense for such severity, how gently do they deal with graver
offences! For the felonies they can always discover “the attenuating
circumstances;” for the petty larcenies of fashion they have nothing but
whipcord.
Amidst the various knots where such discussions were carried on, one
was eminently conspicuous. It was around a handsome open carriage, whose
horses, harnessing, and liveries were all in the most perfect taste. The
equipage might possibly have been deemed showy in Hyde Park; but in
the Bois de Boulogne or the Cascine it must be pronounced the acme of
elegance. Whatever might have been the differences of national opinion
on this point, there could assuredly have been none as to the beauty of
those who occupied it.
Though a considerable interval of years divided them, the aunt and her
niece had a wonderful resemblance to each other. They were both--the
rarest of all forms of beauty--blond Italians; that is, with light
hair and soft gray eyes. They had a peculiar tint of skin, deeper and
mellower than we see in Northern lands, and an expression of mingled
seriousness and softness that only pertains to the South of Europe.
There was a certain coquetry in the similarity of their dress, which in
many parts was precisely alike; and although the niece was but fifteen,
and the aunt above thirty, it needed not the aid of flattery to make
many mistake one for the other.
Beauty, like all other “Beaux Arts,” has its distinctions. The same
public opinion that enthrones the sculptor or the musician, confers
its crown on female loveliness; and by this acclaim were they declared
Queens of Beauty. To any one visiting Italy for the first time, there
would have seemed something very strange in the sort of homage rendered
them: a reverence and respect only accorded elsewhere to royalties,--a
deference that verged on actual humiliation,--and yet all this blended
with a subtle familiarity that none but an Italian can ever attain to.
The uncovered head, the attitude of respectful attention, the patient
expectancy of notice, the glad air of him under recognition, were
all there; and yet, through these, there was dashed a strange tone of
intimacy, as though the observances were but a thin crust over deeper
feelings. “La Contessa”--for she was especially “the Countess,” as one
illustrious man of our own country was “the Duke”--possessed every gift
which claims preeminence in this fair city. She was eminently beautiful,
young, charming in her manners, with ample fortune; and, lastly,--ah!
good reader, you would surely be puzzled to supply that “lastly,” the
more as we say that in it lies an excellence without which all the rest
are of little worth, and yet with it are objects of worship, almost of
adoration,--she was--separated from her husband! There must have been an
epidemic, a kind of rot, among husbands at one period; for we scarcely
remember a very pretty woman, from five-and-twenty to five-and-thirty,
who had not been obliged to leave hers from acts of cruelty or acts of
brutality, etc., that only husbands are capable of, or of which their
poor wives are ever the victims.
If the moral geography of Europe be ever written, the region south of
the Alps will certainly be colored with that tint, whatever it be,
that describes the blessedness of a divorced existence. In other lands,
especially in our own, the separated individual labors under no common
difficulty in his advances to society. The story--there must be a
story--of his separation is told in various ways, all, of course, to his
disparagement. Tyrant or victim, it is hard to say under which title
he comes out best,--so much for the man; but for the woman there is no
plea: judgment is pronounced at once, without the merits. Fugitive, or
fled from,--who inquires? she is one that few men dare to recognize.
The very fact that to mention her name exacts an explanation, is
condemnatory. What a boon to all such must it be that there is a
climate mild enough for their malady, and a country that will suit their
constitution; and not only that, but a region which actually pays homage
to their infirmity, and makes of their martyrdom a triumph! As you go to
Norway for salmon-fishing,--to Bengal to hunt tigers,--to St. Petersburg
to eat caviare, so when divorced, if you really know the blessing
of your state, go take a house on the Arno. Vast as are the material
resources of our globe, the moral ones are infinitely greater; nor need
we despair, some day or other, of finding an island where a certificate
of fraudulent bankruptcy will be deemed a letter of credit, and an
evidence of insolvency be accepted as qualification to open a bank.
La Contessa inhabited a splendid palace, furnished with magnificence;
her gardens were one of the sights of the capital, not only for their
floral display, but that they contained a celebrated group by Canova, of
which no copy existed. Her gallery was, if not extensive, enriched with
some priceless treasures of art; and with all these she possessed
high rank, for her card bore the name of La Comtesse de Glencore, née
Comtesse della Torre.
The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much as we do
ourselves, all that we mean to impart to him; and now let us come back
to that equipage around which swarmed the fashion of Florence, eagerly
pressing forward to catch a word, a smile, or even a look, and actually
perched on every spot from which they could obtain a glimpse of those
within. A young Russian Prince, with his arm in a sling, had just
recited the incident of his' late duel; a Neapolitan Minister had
delivered a rose-colored epistle from a Royal Highness of his own
court. A Spanish Grandee had deposited his offering of camellias, which
actually covered the front cushions of the carriage; and now a little
lane was formed for the approach of the old Duke de Brignolles, who
made his advance with a mingled courtesy and haughtiness that told of
Versailles and long ago.
A very creditable specimen of the old _noblesse_ of France was the Duke,
and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Maréchal to
Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age, his dark eye
seemed to glisten the brighter beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. He
had served with distinction as a soldier, and been an ambassador at the
court of the Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining
the character of a true and loyal gentleman,--a man who could reflect
nothing but honor upon the great country he belonged to. It was amongst
the scandal of Florence that he was the most devoted of La Contessa's
admirers; but we are quite willing to believe that his admiration had
nothing in it of love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most
marked notice. He was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and
the constant visitor at her evenings at home. It was, then, with a
degree of favor that many an envious heart coveted, she extended her
hand to him as he came forward, which he kissed with all the lowly
deference he would have shown to that of his prince.
“_Mon cher Duc_” said she, smiling, “I have such a store of grievances
to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but
verbena.”
“Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's.”
“Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he
to be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?”
“Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last.”
“_Mais à quoi bon l'Emir_ if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the
very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights and the Calif Haroun.
By the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus, is it not?”
“Of course. I 'd not have dared--”
“To be sure not. I told the Archduchess it was. I wore it in my Turkish
dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, would n't come to admire me!”
“You know what a sad day was that for me, madam,” said he, solemnly. “It
was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as
she had no rival in undeserved misfortunes.”
“_Pauvre Reine!_” sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her face.
“What great mass of papers is that you have there, Duke?” resumed she.
“Can it be a journal?”
“It is an English newspaper, my dear Countess. As I know you do not
receive any of his countrymen, I have not asked your permission
to present the Lord Selby; but hearing him read out your name in a
paragraph here, I carried off his paper to have it translated for me.
You read English, don't you?”
“Very imperfectly, and I detest it,” said she, impatiently; “but Prince
Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige you.” And she turned away her head, in
ill humor.
“It is here somewhere. _Parbleu_, I thought I marked the place,”
muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the Russian. “Is n't that
it?”
“This is all about theatres,--Madame Pasta and the Haymarket.”
“Ah! well, it is lower down; here, perhaps.”
“Court news. The Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar--”
“No, no; not that.”
“Oh, here it is. 'Great Scandal in High Life.--A very singular
correspondence has just passed, and will soon, we believe, be made
public, between the Heralds' College and Lord Glencore.'” Here the
reader stopped, and lowered his voice at the next word.
“Read on, Prince. _C'est mon mari_,” said she, coldly, while a very
slight movement of her upper lip betrayed what might mean scorn or
sorrow, or even both.
The Prince, however, had now run his eyes over the paragraph, and
crushing the newspaper in his hand, hurried away from the spot. The Duke
as quickly followed, and soon overtook him.
“Who gave you this paper, Duke?” cried the Russian, angrily.
“It was Lord Selby. He was reading it aloud to a friend.”
“Then he is an _infame!_ and I 'll tell him so,” cried the other,
passionately. “Which is he? the one with the light moustache, or the
shorter one?” And, without waiting for reply, the Russian dashed between
the carriages, and thrusting his way through the prancing crowd
of moving horses, arrived at a spot where two young men, evidently
strangers to the scene, were standing, calmly surveying the bright
panorama before them.
“The Lord Selby,” said the Russian, taking off his hat and saluting one
of them.
“That's his Lordship,” replied the one he addressed, pointing to his
friend.
“I am the Prince Volkoffsky, aide-de-camp to the Emperor,” said the
Russian; “and hearing from my friend the Duke de Brignolles that you
have just given him this newspaper, that he might obtain the translation
of a passage in it which concerns Lady Glencore, and have the
explanation read out at her own carriage, publicly, before all the
world, I desire to tell you that your Lordship is unworthy of your rank;
that you are an _infame!_ and if you do not resent this, a _polisson!_”
“This man is mad, Selby,” said the short man, with the coolest air
imaginable.
“Quite sane enough to give your friend a lesson in good manners; and you
too, sir, if you have any fancy for it,” said the Russian.
“I'd give him in charge to the police, by Jove! if there were police
here,” said the same one who spoke before; “he can't be a gentleman.”
“There 's my card, sir,” said the Russian; “and for you too, sir,” said
he, presenting another to him who spoke.
“Where are you to be heard of?” said the short man.
“At the Russian legation,” said the Prince, haughtily, and turned away.
“You're wrong, Baynton, he is a gentleman,” said Lord Selby, as he
pocketed the card, “though certainly he is not a very mild-tempered
specimen of his order.”
“You did n't give the newspaper as he said--”
“Nothing of the kind. I was reading it aloud to you when the royal
carriages came suddenly past; and, in taking off my hat to salute, I
never noticed that the old Duke had carried off the paper. I know he
can't read English, and the chances are, he has asked this Scythian
gentleman to interpret for him.”
“So, then, the affair is easily settled,” said the other, quietly.
“Of course it is,” was the answer; and they both lounged about among
the carriages, which already were thinning, and, after a while, set out
towards the city.
They had but just reached the hotel, when a stranger presented himself
to them as the Count de Marny. He had come as the friend of Prince
Volkoffsky, who had fully explained to him the event of that afternoon.
“Well,” said Baynton, “we are of opinion your friend has conducted
himself exceedingly ill, and we are here to receive his excuses.”
“I am afraid, messieurs,” said the Frenchman, bowing, “that it will
exhaust your patience if you continue to wait for them. Might it not
be better to come and accept what he is quite prepared to offer
you,--satisfaction?”
“Be it so,” said Lord Selby: “he 'll see his mistake some time or other,
and perhaps regret it. Where shall it be?--and when?”
“At the Fossombroni Villa, about two miles from this. To-morrow morning,
at eight, if that suit you.”
“Quite well. I have no other appointment. Pistols, of course?”
“You have the choice, otherwise my friend would have preferred the
sword.”
“Take him at his word, Selby,” whispered Baynton; “you are equal to any
of them with the rapier.”
“If your friend desire the sword, I have no objection,--I mean the
rapier.”
“The rapier be it,” said the Frenchman; and with a polite assurance
of the infinite honor he felt in forming their acquaintance, and the
gratifying certainty that they were sure to possess of his highest
consideration, he bowed, backed, and withdrew.
“Well-mannered fellow, the Frenchman,” said Baynton, as the door closed;
and the other nodded assent, and rang the bell for dinner.