The grounds of the Villa Fossombroni were, at the time we speak of,
the Chalk Farm, or the Fifteen Acres of Tuscany. The villa itself, long
since deserted by the illustrious family whose name it bore, had fallen
into the hands of an old Pied-montese noble, ruined by a long life of
excess and dissipation. He had served with gallantry in the imperial
army of France, but was dismissed the service for a play transaction
in which his conduct was deeply disgraceful; and the Colonel Count
Tasseroni, of the 8th Hussars of the Guards, was declared unworthy to
wear the uniform of a Frenchman.
For a number of years he had lived so estranged from the world that
many believed he had died; but at last it was known that he had gone
to reside in a half-ruined villa near Florence, which soon became the
resort of a certain class of gamblers whose habits would have speedily
attracted notice if practised within the city. The quarrels and
altercations, so inseparable from high play, were usually settled on the
spot in which they occurred, until at last the villa became famous for
these meetings, and the name of Fossombroni, in a discussion, was the
watchword for a duel.
It was of a splendid spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived
at this spot, which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come,
struck them with surprise and admiration. The villa itself was one
of those vast structures which the country about Florence abounds in.
Gloomy, stern, and jail-like without, while within, splendid apartments
opened into each other in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed
walls and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings and rich
tracery, were on every side; and these, too, in chambers where the
immense proportions and the vast space recalled the idea of a royal
residence. Passing in by a dilapidated “grille” which once had been
richly gilded, they entered by a flight of steps a great hall which ran
the entire length of the building. Though lighted by a double range of
windows, neglect and dirt had so dimmed the panes that the place was
almost in deep shadow. Still, they could perceive that the vaulted roof
was a mass of stuccoed tracery, and that the colossal divisions of the
wall were of brilliant Sienna marble. At one end of this great gallery
was a small chapel, now partly despoiled of its religious decorations,
which were most irreverently replaced by a variety of swords and sabres
of every possible size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged
with an evident eye to picturesque grouping.
“What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton?” cried
Selby, as he stood endeavoring to decipher the lines on a little marble
slab, a number of which were dotted over the chapel.
“Strange enough this, by Jove!” muttered the other, reading to
himself, half aloud, “'Francesco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29
Settembre, 1818.'”
“What does that mean?” asked Selby.
“It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '18.”
“Are they all in the same vein?” asked the other.
“It would seem so. Here 's one: 'Gravamente ferito,'--badly wounded;
with a postscript that he died the same night.”
“What's this large one here, in black marble?” inquired Selby.
“To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, 'detto il Carnefice,' called
'the slaughterer:' cut down to the forehead by Pietro Baldasseroni, on
the night of July 8th, 1819.”
“I confess any other kind of literature would amuse me as well,” said
Selby, turning back again into the large hall. Baynton had scarcely
joined him when they saw advancing towards them through the gloom a
short, thickset man, dressed in a much-worn dressing-gown and slippers.
He removed his skull-cap as he approached, and said, “The Count
Tasseroni, at your orders.”
“We have come here by appointment,” said Baynton.
“Yes, yes. I know it all. Volkoffsky sent me word. He was here on
Saturday. He gave that French colonel a sharp lesson. Ran the sword
clean through the chest. To be sure, he was wounded too, but only
through the arm; but 'La Marque' has got his passport.”
“You'll have him up there soon, then,” said Baynton, pointing towards
the chapel.
“I think not. We have not done it latterly,” said the Count, musingly.
“The authorities don't seem to like it; and, of course, we respect the
authorities!”
“That's quite evident,” said Baynton, who turned to translate the
observation to his friend.
Selby whispered a word in his ear.
“What does the signore say?” inquired the Count.
“My friend thinks that they are behind the time.”
“_Per Baccho!_ Let him be easy as to that. I have known some to think
that the Russian came too soon. I never heard of one who wished him
earlier! There they are now: they always come by the garden.” And so
saying, he hastened off to receive them.
“How is this fellow to handle a sword, if his right arm be wounded?”
said Selby.
“Don't you know that these Russians use the left hand indifferently with
the right, in all exercises? It may be awkward for _you_; but, depend
upon it, _he'll_ not be inconvenienced in the least.”
As he spoke, the others entered the other end of the hall. The Prince
no sooner saw the Englishmen than he advanced towards them with his hat
off. “My lord,” said he, rapidly, “I have come to make you an apology,
and one which I trust you will accept in all the frankness that I
offer it. I have learned from your friend the Duc de Brignolles how the
incident of yesterday occurred. I see that the only fault committed
was my own. Will you pardon, then, a momentary word of ill-temper,
occasioned by what I wrongfully believed to be a great injury?”
“Of course, I knew it was all a mistake on your part. I told Colonel
Baynton, here, you'd see so yourself,--when it is too late, perhaps.”
“I thank you sincerely,” said the Russian, bowing; “your readiness to
accord me this satisfaction makes your forgiveness more precious to me.
And now, as another favor, will you permit me to ask you one question?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Why, when you could have so easily explained this misconception on my
part, did you not take the trouble of doing so?”
Selby looked confused, blushed, looked awkwardly from side to side, and
then, with a glance towards his friend, seemed to say, “Will you try and
answer him?”
“I think you have hit it yourself, Prince,” said Baynton. “It was the
trouble, the bore of an explanation, deterred him. He hates writing, and
he thought there would be a shower of notes to be replied to, meetings,
discussions, and what not; and so he said, 'Let him have his shot, and
have done with it.'”
The Russian looked from one to the other as he listened, and seemed
really as if not quite sure whether this speech was uttered
in seriousness or sarcasm. The calm, phlegmatic faces of the
Englishmen,--the almost apathetic expression they wore,--soon convinced
him that the words were truthfully spoken; and he stood actually
confounded with amazement before them.
Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invitation of the
Prince to breakfast, and they all adjourned to a small but splendidly
decorated room, where everything was already awaiting them. There are
few incidents in life which so much predispose to rapid intimacy as the
case of an averted duel. The revulsion from animosity is almost certain
to lead to, if not actual friendship, what may easily become so. In the
present instance, the very diversities of national character gave a zest
and enjoyment to the meeting; and while the Englishmen were charmed by
the fascination of manners and conversational readiness of their hosts,
the Russians were equally struck with a cool imperturbability and
impassiveness, of which they had never seen the equal.
By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the question by which
their misunderstanding originated. “You know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?”
said he.
“Never saw, scarcely ever heard of him,” said Selby, in his dry, laconic
tone.
“Is he mad, or a fool?” asked the Prince, half angrily.
“I served in a regiment once where he commanded a troop,” said Baynton;
“and they always said he was a good sort of fellow.”
“You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude?” said the Russian.
“You saw how he dares to stigmatize the honor of his wife,--to degrade
her to the rank of a mistress,--and, at the same time, to bastardize the
son who ought to inherit his rank and title?”
“I read it,” said Selby, dryly; “and I had a letter from my lawyer about
it this morning.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet too delicate to
venture on a question.
“Yes; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I did n't pay much
attention, exactly, to what he says. Glen-core's man of business had
addressed a letter to him.”
The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had
rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in
his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment.
“A goodish sort of thing for _you_ it ought to be,” said Baynton,
between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with a look towards Selby.
“I suspect it may,” said the other, without the slightest change of tone
or demeanor.
“Where is it,--somewhere in the south?”
“Mostly, Devon. There's something in Wales too, if I remember aright.”
“Nothing Irish?”
“No, thank Heaven,--nothing Irish;” and his grim Lordship made the
nearest advance to a smile of which his unplastic features seemed
capable.
“Do I understand you aright, my Lord,” said the Prince, “that you
receive an accession of fortune by this event?”
“I shall, if I survive Glencore,” was the brief reply.
“You are related, then?”
“Some cousinship,--I forget how it is. Do you remember, Baynton?”
“I'm not quite certain. I think it was a Coventry married one of Jack
Conway's sisters, and she afterwards became the wife of Sir something
Massy. Isn't that it?”
“Yes, that's it,” muttered the other, in the tone of a man who was tired
of a knotty problem.
“And, according to your laws, this Lord Glencore may marry again?” cried
the Russian.
“I should think so, if he has no wife living,” said Selby; “but I trust,
for _my_ sake, he'll not.”
“And what if he should, and should be discovered the wedded husband of
another?”
“That would be bigamy,” said Selby. “Would they hang him, Baynton?”
“I think not,--scarcely,” rejoined the Colonel.
The Prince tried in various ways to obtain some insight into Lord
Glencore's habits, his tastes and mode of life, but all in vain. They
knew, indeed, very little, but even that little they were too indolent
to repeat. Lord Selby's memory was often at fault, too, and Baynton's
had ill supplied the deficiency. Again and again did the Russian mutter
curses to himself over the apathy of these stony islanders. At moments
he fancied that they suspected his eagerness, and had assumed their most
guarded caution against him; but he soon perceived that this manner was
natural to them, not prompted in the slightest degree by any distrust
whatever.
“After all,” thought the Russian, “how can I hope to stimulate a man who
is not excited by his own increase of fortune? Talk of Turkish fatalism,
these fellows would shame the Moslem.”
“Do you mean to prolong your stay at Florence, my Lord?” asked the
Prince, as they arose from the table.
“I scarcely know. What do you say, Baynton?”
“A week or so, I fancy,” muttered the other.
“And then on to Rome, perhaps?”
The two Englishmen looked at each other with an air of as much confusion
as if subjected to a searching examination in science.
“Well, I shouldn't wonder,” said Selby, at last, with a sigh.
“Yes, it may come to that,” said Baynton, like a man who had just
overcome a difficulty.
“You 'll be in time for the Holy Week and all the ceremonies,” said the
Prince.
“Mind that, Baynton,” said his Lordship, who wasn't going to carry what
he felt to be another man's load; and Baynton nodded acquiescence.
“And after that comes the season for Naples,--you have a month or six
weeks, perhaps, of such weather as nothing in all Europe can vie with.”
“You hear, Baynton!” said Selby.
“I've booked it,” muttered the other; and so they took leave of their
entertainer, and set out towards Florence. Neither you nor I, dear
reader, will gain anything by keeping them company, for they say
scarcely a word by the way. They stop at intervals, and cast their eyes
over the glorious landscape at their feet. Their glances are thrown over
the fairest scene of the fairest of all lands; and whether they turn
towards the snow-capt Apennines, by Vall'ombrosa, or trace the sunny
vineyards along the Val' d' Arno, they behold a picture such as no
canvas ever imitated; still, they are mute and uncommunicative. Whatever
of pleasure their thoughts suggest, each keeps for himself. Objects of
wonder, strange sights and new, may present themselves, but they are
not to be startled out of national dignity by so ignoble a sentiment as
surprise. And so they jog onward,--doubtless richer in reflection than
eloquent in communion; and so we leave them.
Let us not be deemed unjust or ungenerous if we assert that we have met
many such as these. They are not individuals,--they are a class; and,
strange enough too, a class which almost invariably pertains to a high
and distinguished rank in society. It would be presumptuous to ascribe
such demeanor to insensibility. There is enough in their general conduct
to disprove the assumption. As little is it affectation; it is simply
an acquired habit of stoical indifference, supposed to be--why, Heaven
knows!--the essential ingredient of the best breeding. If the practice
extinguish all emotion, and obliterate all trace of feeling from the
heart, we deplore the system. If it only gloss over the working of human
sympathy, we pity the men. At all events, they are very uninteresting
company, with whom longer dalliance would only be wearisome.