That happy valley of the Val d'Arno, in which fair Florence stands,
possesses, amidst all its virtues, none more conspicuous than the
blessed forgetfulness of the past, so eminently the gift of those who
dwell there. Faults and follies of a few years back have so faded by
time as to be already historical; and as, in certain climates, rocks and
stones become shrined by lichens, and moss-covered in a year or two, so
here, in equally brief space, bygones are shrouded and shadowed in a
way that nothing short of cruelty and violence could once more expose to
view.
The palace where Lady Glencore once displayed all her attractions of
beauty and toilette, and dispensed a hospitality of princely splendor,
had remained for a course of time close barred and shut up. The massive
gate was locked, the windows shuttered, and curious tourists were told
that there were objects of interest within, but it was impossible to
obtain sight of them. The crowds who once flocked there at nightfall,
and whose equipages filled the court, now drove on to other haunts,
scarcely glancing as they passed at the darkened casements of the
grim old edifice; when at length the rumor ran that “some one” had
arrived there. Lights were seen in the porter's lodge, the iron _grille_
was observed to open and shut, and tradespeople came and went within
the building; and, finally, the assurance gained ground that its former
owner had returned.
“Only think who has come back to us,” said one of the idlers of the
Cascine, as he lounged on the steps of a fashionable carriage,--“La
Nina!” And at once the story went far and near, repeated at every
corner, and discussed in every circle; so that had a stranger to the
place but caught the passing sounds, he would have heard that one name
uttered in every group he encountered. La Nina! and why not the Countess
of Glencore, or, at least, the Countess de la Torre? As when exiled
royalists assume titles in accordance with fallen fortunes, so, in
Italy, injured fame seeks sympathy in the familiarity of the Christian
name, and “Society” at once accepts the designation as that of those
who throw themselves upon the affectionate kindness of the world, rather
than insist upon its reverence and respect.
Many of her former friends were still there; but there was also a
numerous class, principally foreigners, who only knew of her by repute.
The traditions of her beauty, her gracefulness, the charms of her
demeanor, and the brilliancy of her diamonds, abounded. Her admirers
were of all ages, from those who worshipped her loveliness to that
not less enthusiastic section who swore by her cook; and it was indeed
“great tidings” to hear that she had returned.
Some statistician has asserted that no less than a hundred thousand
people awake every day in London, not one of whom knows where he
will pass the night. Now, Florence is but a small city, and the
lacquered-boot class bear but a slight proportion to the shoeless herd
of humanity. Yet there is a very tolerable sprinkling of well-dressed,
well-got-up individuals, who daily arise without the very vaguest
conception of who is to house them, fire them, light them, and cigar
them for the evening. They are an interesting class, and have this
strong appeal to human sympathy, that not one of them, by any possible
effort, could contribute to his own support.
They toil not, neither do they spin. They have the very fewest of social
qualities; they possess no conversational gifts; they are not even
moderately good reporters of the passing events of the day. And yet,
strange to say, the world they live in seems to have some need of them.
Are they the last relics of a once gifted class,--worn out, effete, and
exhausted,--degenerated like modern Greeks from those who once shook
the Parthenon? Or are they what anatomists call “rudimentary
structures,”--the first abortive attempts of nature to fashion something
profitable and good? Who knows?
Amidst this class the Nina's arrival was announced as the happiest of
all tidings; and speculation immediately set to work to imagine who
would be the favorites of the house; what would be its habits and hours;
would she again enter the great world of society, or would she, as her
quiet, unannounced arrival portended, seek a less conspicuous position?
Nor was this the mere talk of the cafés and the Cascine. The _salons_
were eagerly discussing the very same theme.
In certain social conditions a degree of astuteness is acquired as to
who may and who may not be visited, that, in its tortuous intricacy of
reasons, would puzzle the craftiest head that ever wagged in Equity.
Not that the code is a severe one; it is exactly in its lenity lies
its difficulty,--so much may be done, but so little may be fatal! The
Countess in the present case enjoyed what in England is reckoned a great
privilege,--she was tried by her peers--or “something more.” They were,
however, all nice discriminators as to the class of case before them,
and they knew well what danger there was in admitting to their “guild”
any with a little more disgrace than their neighbors. It was curious
enough that she, in whose behalf all this solicitude was excited, should
have been less than indifferent as to the result; and when, on the third
day of the trial, a verdict was delivered in her favor, and a shower
of visiting-cards at the porter's lodge declared that the act of her
recognition had passed, her orders were that the cards should be
sent back to their owners, as the Countess had not the honor of their
acquaintance.
“Les grands coups se font respecter toujours,” was the maxim of a
great tactician in war and politics; and the adage is no less true
in questions of social life. We are so apt to compute the strength of
resources by the amount of pretension that we often yield the victory
to the mere declaration of force. We are not, however, about to dwell on
this theme,--our business being less with those who discussed her, than
with the Countess of Glencore herself.
In a large _salon_, hung with costly tapestries, and furnished in the
most expensive style, sat two ladies at opposite sides of the fire. They
were both richly dressed, and one of them (it was Lady Glencore), as she
held a screen before her face, displayed a number of valuable rings
on her fingers, and a massive bracelet of enamel with a large emerald
pendant. The other, not less magnificently attired, wore an imperial
portrait suspended by a chain around her neck, and a small knot of white
and green ribbon on her shoulder, to denote her quality of a lady in
waiting at Court. There was something almost queenly in the haughty
dignity of her manner, and an air of command in the tone with which
she addressed her companion. It was our acquaintance the Princess
Sabloukoff, just escaped from a dinner and reception at the Pitti
Palace, and carrying with her some of the proud traditions of the
society she had quitted.
“What hour did you tell them they might come, Nina?” asked she.
“Not before midnight, my dear Princess; I wanted to have a talk with you
first. It is long since we have met, and I have so much to tell you.”
“_Cara mia_,” said the other, carelessly, “I know everything already.
There is nothing you have done, nothing that has happened to you, that
I am not aware of. I might go further, and say that I have looked with
secret pleasure at the course of events which to your short-sightedness
seemed disastrous.”
“I can scarce conceive that possible,” said the Countess, sighing.
“Naturally enough, perhaps, because you never knew the greatest of all
blessings in this life, which is--liberty. Separation from your husband,
my dear Nina, did not emancipate you from the tiresome requirements
of the world. You got rid of _him_, to be sure, but not of those who
regarded you as his wife. It required the act of courage by which you
cut with these people forever, to assert the freedom I speak of.”
“I almost shudder at the contest I have provoked, and had you not
insisted on it--”
“You had gone back again to the old slavery, to be pitied and
compassionated, and condoled with, instead of being feared and envied,”
said the other; and as she spoke, her flashing eyes and quivering brows
gave an expression almost tiger-like to her features. “What was there
about your house and its habits distinctive before? What gave you any
pre-eminence above those that surround you? You were better looking,
yourself; better dressed; your _salons_ better lighted; your dinners
more choice,--there was the end of it. _Your_ company was _their_
company,--_your_ associates were _theirs_. The homage _you_ received
to-day had been yesterday the incense of another. There was not a
bouquet nor a flattery offered to _you_ that had not its _facsimile_,
doing service in some other quarter. You were 'one of them,' Nina,
obliged to follow their laws and subscribe to their ideas; and while
_they_ traded on the wealth of your attractions, _you_ derived nothing
from the partnership but the same share as those about you.”
“And how will it be now?” asked the Countess, half in fear, half in
hope.
“How will it be now? I 'll tell you. This house will be the resort of
every distinguished man, not of Italy, but of the world at large. Here
will come the highest of every nation, as to a circle where they
can say, and hear, and suggest a thousand things in the freedom of
unauthorized intercourse. You will not drain Florence alone, but all the
great cities of Europe, of its best talkers and deepest thinkers. The
statesman and the author, and the sculptor and the musician, will hasten
to a neutral territory, where for the time a kind of equality will
prevail. The weary minister, escaping from a Court festival, will come
here to unbend; the witty converser will store himself with his best
resources for your _salons_. There will be all the freedom of a club to
these men, with the added charm of that fascination your presence
will confer; and thus, through all their intercourse, will be felt
the '_parfum de femme_,' as Balzac calls it, which both elevates and
entrances.”
“But will not society revenge itself on all this?” “It will invent a
hundred calumnious reports and shocking stories; but these, like the
criticisms on an immoral play, will only serve to fill the house.
Men--even the quiet ones--will be eager to see what it is that
constitutes the charm of these gatherings; and one charm there is that
never misses its success. Have you ever experienced, in visiting some
great gallery, or, still more, some choice collection of works of art, a
strange, mysterious sense of awe for objects which you rather knew to
be great by the testimony of others, than felt able personally to
appreciate? You were conscious that the picture was painted by Raphael,
or the cup carved by Cellini, and, independently of all the pleasure it
yielded you, arose a sense of homage to its actual worth. The same
is the case in society with illustrious men. They may seem slower of
apprehension, less ready at reply, less apt to understand; but there
they are, Originals, not Copies of greatness. They represent value.”
Have we said enough to show our reader the kind of persuasion by which
Madame de Sabloukoff led her friend into this new path? The flattery
of the argument was, after all, its success; and the Countess was
fascinated by fancying herself something more than the handsomest and
the best-dressed woman in Florence. They who constitute a free port of
their house will have certainly abundance of trade, and also invite no
small amount of enterprise.
A little after midnight the _salons_ began to fill, and from the Opera
and the other theatres flocked in all that was pleasant, fashionable,
and idle of Florence. The old beau, painted, padded, and essenced, came
with the younger and not less elaborately dressed “fashionable,” great
in watch-chains and splendid in waistcoat buttons; long-haired artists
and moustached hussars mingled with close-shaven actors and pale-faced
authors; men of the world, of politics, of finance, of letters, of
the turf,--all were there. There was the gossip of the Bourse and the
cabinet, the green-room and the stable. The scandal of society, the
events of club life, the world's doings in dinners, divorces, and duels,
were all revealed and discussed, amidst the most profuse gratitude
to the Countess for coming back again to that society which scarcely
survived her desertion.
They were not, it is but fair to say, all that the Princess Sabloukoff
had depicted them; but there was still a very fair sprinkling of witty,
pleasant talkers. The ease of admission permitted any former intimate
to present his friend, and thus at once, on the very first night of
receiving, the Countess saw her _salons_ crowded. They smoked, and
sang, and laughed, and played écarte, and told good stories. They drew
caricatures, imitated well-known actors, and even preachers, talking
away with a volubility that left few listeners; and then there was a
supper laid out on a table too small to accommodate even by standing,
so that each carried away his plate, and bivouacked with others of his
friends, here and there, through the rooms.
All was contrived to impart a sense of independence and freedom; all,
to convey an impression of “license” special to the place, that made the
most rigid unbend, and relaxed the gravity of many who seldom laughed.
As in certain chemical compounds a mere drop of some one powerful
ingredient will change the whole property of the mass, eliciting new
elements, correcting this, developing that, and, even to the eye,
announcing by altered color the wondrous change accomplished, so here
the element of womanhood, infinitely small in proportion as it was,
imparted a tone and a refinement to this orgie which, without it, had
degenerated into coarseness. The Countess's beautiful niece, Ida Delia
Torre, was also there, singing at times with all an artist's excellence
the triumphs of operatic music; at others, warbling over those
“canzonettes” which to Italian ears embody all that they know of love
of country. How could such a reception be other than successful; or
how could the guests, as they poured forth into the silent street at
daybreak, do aught but exult that such a house was added to the haunts
of Florence,--so lovely a group had returned to adorn their fair city?
In a burst of this enthusiastic gratitude they sang a serenade before
they separated; and then, as the closed curtains showed them that the
inmates had left the windows, they uttered the last “felice Notte,” and
departed.
“And so Wahnsdorf never made his appearance?” said the Princess, as she
was once more alone with the Countess.
“I scarcely expected him. He knows the ill-feeling towards his
countrymen amongst Italians, and he rarely enters society where he may
meet them.”
“It is strange that he should marry one!” said she, half musingly.
“He fell in love,--there's the whole secret of it,” said the Countess.
“He fell in love, and his passion encountered certain difficulties. His
rank was one of them, Ida's indifference another.”
“And how have they been got over?”
“Evaded rather than surmounted. He has only his own consent after all.”
“And Ida, does she care for him?”
“I suspect not; but she will marry him. Pique will often do what
affection would fail in. The secret history of the affair is this: There
was a youth at Massa, who, while he lived there, made our acquaintance
and became even intimate at the Villa: he was a sculptor of some talent,
and, as many thought, of considerable promise. I engaged him to give Ida
lessons in modelling, and, in this way, they were constantly together.
Whether Ida liked him or not I cannot say; but it is beyond a doubt that
he loved her. In fact, everything he produced in his art only showed
what his mind was full of,--her image was everywhere. This aroused
Wahnsdorf's jealousy, and he urged me strongly to dismiss Greppi, and
shut my doors to him. At first I consented, for I had a strange sense,
not exactly of dislike, but misgiving, of the youth. I had a feeling
towards him that if I attempted to convey to you, it would seem as
though in all this affair I had suffered myself to be blinded by
passion, not guided by reason. There were times that I felt a deep
interest in the youth: his genius, his ardor, his very poverty
engaged my sympathy; and then, stronger than all these, was a strange,
mysterious sense of terror at sight of him, for he was the very image of
one who has worked all the evil of my life.”
“Was not this a mere fancy?” said the Princess, compassionately, for she
saw the shuddering emotion these words had cost her.
“It was not alone his look,” continued the Countess, speaking now with
impetuous eagerness, “it was not merely his features, but their every
play and movement; his gestures when excited; the very voice was _his_.
I saw him once excited to violent passion; it was some taunt that
Wahnsdorf uttered about men of unknown or ignoble origin; and then
He--he himself seemed to stand before me as I have so often seen him,
in his terrible outbursts of rage. The sight brought back to me the
dreadful recollection of those scenes,--scenes,” said she, looking
wildly around her, “that if these old walls could speak, might freeze
your heart where you are sitting.
“You have heard, but you cannot know, the miserable life we led
together; the frantic jealousy that maddened every hour of his
existence; how, in all the harmless freedom of our Italian life, he saw
causes of suspicion and distrust; how, by his rudeness to this one,
his coldness to that, he estranged me from all who have been my dearest
intimates and friends, dictating to me the while the custom of a land
and a people I had never seen nor wished to see; till at last I was left
a mockery to some, an object of pity to others, amidst a society where
once I reigned supreme,--and all for a man that I had ceased to love! It
was from this same life of misery, unrewarded by the affection by which
jealousy sometimes compensates for its tyranny, that I escaped, to
attach myself to the fortunes of that unhappy Princess whose lot bore
some resemblance to my own.
“I know well that he ascribed my desertion to another cause, and--shall
I own it to you?--I had a savage pleasure in leaving him to the
delusion. It was the only vengeance within my reach, and I grasped it
with eagerness. Nothing was easier for me than to disprove it,--a mere
word would have shown the falsehood of the charge; but I would not utter
it. I knew his nature well, and that the insult to his name and the
stain to his honor would be the heaviest of all injuries to him; and
they were so. He drove _me_ from my home,--I banished _him_ from the
world. It is true, I never reckoned on the cruel blow he had yet in
store for me, and when it fell I was crushed and stunned. There was now
a declared war between us,--each to do their worst to the other. It
was less succumbing before him, than to meditate and determine on the
future, that I fled from Florence. It was not here and in such a society
I should have to blush for any imputation. But I had always held my
place proudly, perhaps too proudly, here, and I did not care to enter
upon that campaign of defence--that stooping to cultivate alliances,
that humble game of conciliation--that must ensue.
“I went away into banishment. I went to Corsica, and thence to Massa.
I was meditating a journey to the East. I was even speculating on
establishing myself there for the rest of my life, when your letters
changed my plans. You once more kindled in my heart a love of life by
instilling a love of vengeance. You suggested to me the idea of coming
back here boldly, and confronting the world proudly.”
“Do not mistake me, Nina,” said the Princess, “the 'Vendetta' was the
last thing in my thoughts. I was too deeply concerned for you to be
turned away from my object by any distracting influence. It was that
you should give a bold denial--the boldest--to your husband's calumny, I
counselled your return. My advice was: Disregard, and, by disregarding,
deny the foul slander he has invented. Go back to the world in the rank
that is yours and that you never forfeited, and then challenge him to
oppose your claim to it.”
“And do you think that for such a consideration as this--the honor to
bear the name of a man I loathe--that I 'd face that world I know so
well? No, no; believe me, I had very different reasons. I was resolved
that my future life, _my_ name, _his_ name, should gain a European
notoriety. I am well aware that when a woman is made a public talk, when
once her name comes sufficiently often before the world, let it be for
what you will,--her beauty, her will, her extravagance, her dress,--from
that hour her fame is perilled, and the society she has overtopped take
their vengeance in slandering her character. To be before the world as
a woman is to be arraigned. If ever there was a man who dreaded such a
destiny for his wife, it was _he_. The impertinences of the Press had
greater terrors for his heart than aught else in life, and I resolved
that he should taste them.”
“How have you mistaken, how have you misunderstood me, Nina!” said the
Princess, sorrowfully.
“Not so,” cried she, eagerly. “You only saw one advantage in the plan
you counselled. _I_ perceived that it contained a double benefit.”
“But remember, dearest Nina, revenge is the most costly of all
pleasures, if one pays for it with all that they possess--their
tranquillity. I myself might have indulged such thoughts as yours; there
were many points alike in our fortunes: but to have followed such a
course would be like the wisdom of one who inoculates himself with a
deadly malady that he may impart the poison to another.”
“Must I again tell you that in all I have done I cared less how it might
serve _me_ than how it might wound _him?_ I know you cannot understand
this sentiment; I do not ask of you to sympathize with it. _Your_
talents enabled you to shape out a high and ambitious career for
yourself. You loved the great intrigues of state, and were well fitted
to conduct or control them. None such gifts were mine. I was and I am
still a mere creature of society. I never soared, even in fancy,
beyond the triumphs which the world of fashion decrees. A cruel destiny
excluded me from the pleasures of a life that would have amply satisfied
me, and there is nothing left but to avenge myself on the cause.”
“My dearest Nina, with all your self-stimulation you cannot make
yourself the vindictive creature you would appear,” said the Princess,
smiling.
“How little do you know my Italian blood!” said the other, passionately.
“That boy--he was not much more than boy--that Greppi was, as I told
you, the very image of Glencore. The same dark skin, the same heavy
brow, the same cold, stern look, which even a smile did not enliven;
even to the impassive air with which he listened to a provocation,--all
were alike. Well, the resemblance has cost him dearly. I consented at
last to Wahnsdorf's continual entreaty to exclude him from the Villa,
and charged the Count with the commission. I am not sure that he
expended an excess of delicacy on the task; I half fear me that he did
the act more rudely than was needed. At all events, a quarrel was the
result, and a challenge to a duel. I only knew of this when all was
over; believe me, I should never have permitted it. However, the result
was as safe in the hands of Fate. The youth fled from Massa; and though
Wahnsdorf followed him, they never met.”
“There was no duel, you say?” cried the Princess, eagerly.
“How could there be? This Greppi never went to the rendezvous. He
quitted Massa during the night, and has never since been heard of. In
this, I own to you, he was not like _him._” And, as she said the words,
the tears swam in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. “May I ask you
how you learned all this?” “From Wahnsdorf; on his return, in a week or
two, he told me all. Ida, at first, would not believe it; but how could
she discredit what was plain and palpable? Greppi was gone. All the
inquiries of the police were in vain as to his route; none could guess
how he had escaped.”
“And this account was given you--you yourself--by Wahnsdorf?” repeated
the Princess.
“Yes, to myself. Why should he have concealed it?” “And now he is to
marry Ida?” said the Princess, half musingly, to herself.
“We hope, with _your_ aid, that it may be so. The family difficulties
are great; Wahnsdorf s rank is not ours; but he persists in saying that
to your management nothing is impossible.”
“His opinion is too flattering,” said the Princess, with a cold gravity
of manner.
“But you surely will not refuse us your assistance?” “You may count upon
me even for more than you ask,” said the Princess, rising. “How late
it is! day is breaking already!” And so, with a tender embrace, they
parted.