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LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
OF
_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.
DECEMBER, 1877.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT
& Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
A MONTH IN SICILY.
FIRST PAPER.
[Illustration: LA FAVORITA.]
Early on the morning of the first of February we stood on the deck of the
steamer for Palermo, watching the sun rise over the water. Far away in the
south the blue edge of the sea began to grow bluer with the rising of the
distant land. A fresh breeze blew from the shore--not a pleasant feature in
February weather at home, but suggesting comparisons with the warmest
morning of a New England May. With the swift advance of the steamer the
blue line in the south rapidly rose above the level of the sea into the
definite shape of a rugged mountain-range: gradually the blueness of
distance changed to rich shades of brown and red on the jagged, treeless
summits, and to deepest green where long orange-farms border the bases of
the mountains.
Who has not longed to see Sicily? Every one who loves poetry, romance or
the history of ancient civilization must often turn in thought to this
beautiful and famous Mediterranean island. To the most ancient poets it was
a mysterious land, where dwelt the monster Charybdis and the bloody
Laestrigones; where Ulysses met the Cyclops; where the immortal gods waged
battles with the giant sons of Earth, and bound Enceladus in his eternal
prison. No doubt it was the terrific natural phenomena of Sicily--the
earthquakes and the outbursts of Etna--which rendered it so much a land of
horrors to the early Greek imagination. But in that far-distant age it was
not only the terrors of the place that had worked upon the imaginative
Greeks: the almost tropical luxuriance of the country, the unrivalled
scenery, the brilliancy of the sky, made it a fitting ground for the
adventures of nymphs, heroes and gods. In the fountain of Sicilian Ortygia
dwelt Arethusa, the nymph dear to the poets; beside the Lake of Enna, where
rich vegetation overran the lips of the extinct volcano, was the spot
called in mythology the meeting-place of Pluto and Proserpine--the power of
darkness and the springing plant personified; and so through all the
country places were found made sacred by the presence of the great
divinities, and temples were erected in their honor.
When the age of fable had passed away, far back in the early dawn of
European history begins authentic knowledge about Sicily. While wicked Ahaz
reigned in the kingdom of Judah, and Isaiah had not ceased to utter his
prophecies, the Greek colonization of Sicily began. Seven hundred and
thirty-five years before Christ, Theocles with his band of Greeks from
Euboea founded Naxos on the coast, hard by the fertile slopes of Etna.
Within three centuries from that time the whole Sicilian coast had been
studded with Greek cities, and to such wealth, power and splendor of art
had they attained that all succeeding epochs of the island's history seem
degenerate times when compared with that early golden age.
It has been truly said that "there is not a nation which has materially
influenced the destinies of European civilization that has not left
distinct traces of its activity in this island." Phoenicians, Greeks,
Romans, Saracens, Normans, Spaniards, French and English have successively
occupied the island, and noble monuments of the varied civilizations are
standing to this day. Scattered through the island, their architectural
remains crown the mountain-tops or lie in confusion along the Mediterranean
shore, a series of ruins extending through twenty-five centuries, unmatched
in any other country for variety of age and style.
At ten o'clock our steamer entered the Gulf of Palermo, passing near the
base of Monte Pellegrino, a wild promontory which towers up two thousand
feet from the sea. On the day before I had entered for the first time the
famous Bay of Naples, but with less delight than I now looked upon the
beauties of this Sicilian gulf. Flanked with lofty mountains, colored with
the matchless blue of the Mediterranean, studded with picturesque lateen
sails, the bay is a fitting entrance to this fair historic island: a more
beautiful approach could hardly be imagined even to the Islands of the
Blessed.
The Italians call Palermo _la felice_ ("the happy"). It is most happy in
its climate, its situation and its noble streets and gardens. Below the
city lies the lovely bay: behind it stretches back for miles, between
converging mountain-chains, the fruit-producing level of the Golden Shell
(_La Conca d'Oro_). The plain is one vast orchard of oranges and lemons
which every year distributes its huge crop over half the habitable globe.
The city is worthy of its position. The chief streets are broad, clean and
handsomely built--a contrast to the universal shabbiness and squalor we had
found in Naples.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF PALERMO.]
A traveller is sure to be put in a good humor with the place by the many
and unusual comforts which he meets in the great sea-fronting hotel; and
the first look from the windows of his apartment confirms the opinion that
Palermo is the fairest of Southern cities. The outlook is upon the grand
seashore drive, the Marina, as gay and pretty a sight as can be found in
any European capital. The broad, tree-shaded avenue, bordered on one side
by hotels and palaces, on the other by the waters of the bay, is thronged
with private carriages. Beginning at the sea-facing gate of the city, the
road commands through all its length a view of the mountains, the bay and
the open sea: at its terminus lie the public flower-gardens--acres of our
choicest hothouse plants growing in tropical profusion.
In Palermo, as in so many European towns, the cathedral is the chief
architectural attraction. To approach it from the bay the whole length of
the city must be traversed on the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, the chief
business street. This corso is crossed at the centre of the town by another
of equal width, which also commemorates by its name Italian unity--the
Corso Garibaldi. There is one other broad and important street which no
American can enter without remembering that even in this distant land the
interest and sympathy of the people have been with our country in its
struggles and successes: it is the Via Lincoln.
The drive up the Corso gives an opportunity for seeing a remarkably
handsome street lined with gay shops, and for studying the peculiar and
often fine faces of the Sicilian people; but nothing of striking interest
appears until, near the centre of the town, a street opening on the left
discloses a vista ending in a small forest of white marble statues. On a
nearer view it is found that the statues belong to the immense fountain of
the Piazza Pretoria, a work erected about A. D. 1550 by command of the
senate of Palermo. It is perhaps the largest and most elaborate fountain in
Europe, and, though it is easy to criticise the countless sculptures that
adorn it, the whole effect of their combination into an architectural unit
is most imposing.
Continuing the drive up the Corso, a broad piazza suddenly opens on the
right, flanked by the cathedral. The abruptness of the transition from
between the dark lines of buildings into the sunlight of the square adds to
the first strong impression produced by the beauty of the vast duomo. In
its external architecture the church is unique: the charm of it to one who
has been travelling through Italy is its utter dissimilarity to all the
Italian churches. Architectural writers call it a building of the "Sicilian
Gothic style;" and, though the expression does not convey a vivid image
except to the student of art, any one can see its essential difference from
the style of the North, and can recognize the rare grandeur and beauty of
the church. The form is simple, but the dimensions are grand. Without the
boldness of outline of true Gothic churches, the walls are so covered with
ornaments of interlacing arches, cornices and arabesque slightly raised on
the masonry as to produce an effect of wonderful richness. The style is
peculiarly Sicilian, yet every observer of mediaeval churches will at once
detect the Norman, Italian and Saracenic influences blended in an exquisite
harmony. Connected with the church by light arches, but separated from it
by a street, stands the campanile, a mass of enormous solidity, terminating
in many pinnacles and one slender and graceful tower rising above them all.
Four other lofty towers, springing from the corners of the church, give
additional lightness to its elegant design: they were added to the building
nearly three centuries after the Norman conquest of Sicily, and yet their
minaret-like form and pointed panel ornaments show how strong and lasting
had been the influence of Arabian art upon the mediaeval architects of
Sicily.
[Illustration: GROTTO OF SANTA ROSALIA.]
It is seven hundred years since the foundations of the duomo were laid. In
that distant age, and in a land so remote, it is a curious circumstance
that its founder was an Englishman: _Gualterio Offamilio_ is the amusing
Italian corruption by which the name of Walter of the Mill was suited to
the Southern tongue. After Roger and his Normans had driven from Sicily the
Arab power which had held the land for more than two centuries, and when
Christianity had succeeded the Mohammedan religion throughout the island,
Archbishop Walter assumed spiritual sovereignty in Palermo, and founded
this cathedral on the site of an ancient mosque. Only a part of the
original building remains in the crypt and two walls of the present church.
All subsequent ages have changed and added to its original simple form, but
often have taken from its beauty. Within the church only a part of the
south aisle commands close attention: there in canopied sarcophagi of
porphyry reposes the dust of Roger, king of Sicily (1154), of Henry VI.,
emperor of Germany, and of Frederick II., Roger's most illustrious
grandson, king of Sicily, king of Jerusalem and emperor of Germany. In a
chapel at the right of the high altar, sacred to Santa Rosalia, rest the
bones of the saint enshrined in a sarcophagus of silver. Thirteen hundred
pounds of the precious metal are wrought into the shrine, and the whole
chapel is sumptuous with marble frescoes and gilding, for to the pious
souls of Palermo this is the very holy of holies. The cathedral is
dedicated to Rosalia, and almost divine honors are paid to her by the city
from which she fled in horror at its wickedness.
Every summer a festival of three days is held in honor of this favorite
saint; and again in September a day is kept to commemorate her death, when
a vast concourse of people from Palermo climb the side of the neighboring
Monte Pellegrino to worship at the grotto of St. Rosalia, a natural cavern
situated under an overhanging crag of the summit. Here the faithful
Sicilians believe that the holy maiden dwelt in solitude for many years;
and here were found in 1624 the bones of the saint, which put a stop to the
plague then raging in Palermo. The cave has been made a church by building
a porch at the entrance. Twisted columns of alabaster support the roof of
the vestibule, but within the cavern the walls are of the natural rock,
contrasting strangely with the magnificent workmanship of the high altar,
beneath which lies the marble statue of the saint overlaid with a robe of
gold, while about the recumbent figure are placed a book and skull and
other objects of pure gold. It is a figure of a fair young girl,
represented by the artist as dying, with her head at rest upon one hand.
Though the statue is the work of no very famous artist, Goethe in the
narrative of his Sicilian travel has truly said of it, "The head and hands
of white marble are, if not faultless in style, at least so pleasing and
natural that one cannot help expecting to see them move."
Under the southern precipices of this Mountain of the Pilgrim lies a royal
park, and in the midst of it stands a gaudy and fantastic villa called La
Favorita. The house is worth a visit for the sake of seeing what a
half-crazy fancy will produce when united with royal wealth. King Ferdinand
I., during his stay in Sicily early in this century, amused himself by
building this country palace in the style of a Chinese villa, and adorned
it with innumerable little bells, to be rung by every movement of the wind.
It was in the Favorita that the old king found himself cornered by Lord
William Bentinck and his army during the British occupation of the island
in 1812. It is said that his faithful subjects from Palermo encamped by
thousands in the neighborhood--not, however, for the sake of defending
their aged monarch, but to enjoy the fun of witnessing a fight in which
both sides were hated by them with equal cordiality.
To an enterprising traveller some of the pleasantest hours of a long tour
are those when, cutting loose from all guides and books, he wanders alone
through the streets of an old city, enjoying with a sense of discovery the
scraps of antiquity not described in any book which he is sure to meet
with. Palermo and its neighborhood afford a most fertile field for such
researches. The Saracenic villas of the suburbs and the early Norman
buildings of the town will repay considerable patience spent in looking up
the beauties to be found in the details of their construction. For
instance, in the plain old church of S. Agostino there is a doorway and
wheel window one sight of which is an ample reward for much wandering and
searching.
[Illustration: MONREALE]
On a morning too fresh and beautiful for staying in the city we rendered a
vivacious cabman ecstatically happy by an engagement to drive us to
Monreale. A brisk drive past the royal palace, out of the southern gate and
five miles across the orange-covered plain brought us to the foot of an
abrupt mountain. Not a half mile away, but far above, on the seemingly
unapproachable heights, was perched the quaint village which was our
destination: its ancient towering buildings glittered white and hot in the
February sun under the canopy of cloudless blue. Ascending for half an hour
on the well-constructed zigzag road, we stopped at the gate in the
town-wall to buy the luscious-looking fruit of the cactus from a road-side
vender, one of those ideal hags, apparently preserved by desiccation under
the torrid sun, whom only Italy can produce in perfection. Then onward and
upward we pushed through the village street--a street characteristic of
these Southern walled villages, narrow, dark, festooned above with
interminable lines of drying macaroni, covered below with abundant filth,
and bordered by house-walls of enormous thickness, built for resisting
heat. At every house-door or on the pavement in front sits the man of the
house plying his trade, that all the world may know whether his goods are
well made or ill. Up and down the street flow the lines of dark-eyed,
swarthy people--women robed in rags, occasionally set off by a bit of
striking color; children who in their astonishment become rigid at the
sight of a foreigner; here and there an officer of the Italian army
carefully picking his way through the mud; and everywhere produce-laden
asses driven toward Palermo by the most picturesque of cut-throats, for
without its ever-present force of soldiers Monreale would at once relapse
into a hotbed of brigandage, as its recent history shows.
Almost at the summit of the town, facing a broad, paved square, stands the
cathedral and its adjacent Benedictine monastery, both built upon the brink
of the precipitous mountain, and both in external appearance severely
plain, almost to shabbiness.
William II., king of Sicily, called the Good, founded on this Royal Mount a
monastery for the Benedictine friars, and built it up with all the strength
of a fortress and the magnificence of a palace. Little is left of that
original building, which was finished in 1174, but in its few remains have
fortunately been preserved the most splendid of cloisters. This scene of
centuries of Benedictine meditations is a large quadrangle surrounded by an
arcade of multitudinous small pointed arches resting upon pairs of slender
white marble columns, like stalks of snow-white lilies in their grace and
lightness. Some of the marble shafts are wrought with reliefs of flowers
and trailing vines, while most of them were inlaid in bands or spirals of
mosaic in gold and colors, now injured by age. The capitals which crown
these shafts are exquisitely carved, and all mythology, the legends of the
Church and the book of Nature have been ransacked to furnish subjects for
the designs; so that out of two hundred or more no two are similar. All the
decaying magnificence of the great building is pervaded by an oppressive
silence, for it is one of the innumerable religious houses suppressed by
the Italian government.
From the monastery to the cathedral is a walk of but a few steps. All
disappointment at the external plainness is forgotten in approaching the
chief entrance of the church. Michael Angelo said of Ghiberti's doors at
Florence that "they were worthy to be the entrance to Paradise." They have
rightly become famous through all the world, and yet these doors of
Monreale leave on the mind of the beholder a strong impression of their
beauty not less lasting than the Baptistery gates at Florence. In the
execution of the biblical reliefs which completely encrust the massive
leaves of bronze they must yield, of course, to the mature art of
Ghiberti's later age; but the stately height of the solid metal doors, the
alternate bands of mosaic and wrought-stone arabesques which flank them and
surround over head the Arabian arch, and, above all, the sense that they
conceal from view unparalleled splendors beyond, leave on the mind an
impression which cannot be effaced.
Perhaps no other building deserves the epithet "splendid" so exactly as the
cathedral of Monreale: the whole interior is radiant from the vast extent
of its pictured walls. All the walls and vaulting of the nave and aisles,
transepts and tribune, are overspread with ancient mosaics on a golden
ground. It is natural to compare St. Mark's cathedral at Venice with this
church, on account of its immense mosaic-covered surface: its sumptuous
interior delights every beholder with the satisfying completeness which
belongs to it; yet in all the Oriental splendor of the Venetian church
nothing can equal in impressiveness a glance down the nave of Monreale.
Wherever the eye turns it rests upon the glowing colors of some sacred
picture--scenes from the Old Testament history, bright-robed figures of
flying angels, haloed saints in the quaint Byzantine style, apostles and
martyrs, patriarchs and prophets, and, high above them all, from a great
picture in the vaulting of the apse, a startling face of Christ looking
solemnly down through the length of the cathedral. Half the stiffness which
characterizes these early mosaics seems to have been cast aside in treating
this supreme subject. The colossal size of the figure, the hand raised in
blessing the multitude, the sad but awful expression of the countenance,
make it an all-pervading presence in the church. Amid all the glittering
splendor of the building, while the gorgeous pomp of a holiday mass
progressed and rippling strains of organ-music ran echoing through the
arches, through all the bewildering brightness of the spectacle, the
majesty of that Presence could not for a moment be forgotten, nor could the
eyes avoid straying off from the glitter below to answer again and again to
that solemn gaze above.
[Illustration: LA ZIZA.]
It is impossible, in any ordinary picture, to convey more than a very faint
idea of this building, in which the peculiar beauties are dependent upon
color, unlike the Gothic churches of the North: nothing but an oil painting
of minute details could render the effects produced by the bars of sunshine
descending through the twilight of the church and striking on the glowing,
pictured walls. The extent of surface covered by the mosaics is said to be
more than sixty thousand square feet.
By the bounty of the same pious monarch who endowed the neighboring
monastery the cathedral was completed just seven hundred years ago. His
body lies entombed in the transept: his monument is the wonderful pile
whose construction has made his name to be remembered by succeeding ages
more than all his other deeds.
Outside the cathedral, adjoining the monastery-wall, a commanding terrace
is built upon the verge of the precipice. Leaning from its edge, we gazed
almost vertically into the orange-groves below, where the ripe fruit glowed
with the brightness of a flame contrasted with the darkness of the foliage.
Far and wide were spread the fruit-gardens over the plain, to where the
mountains towered up in the east, and northward to the city and the sea. It
is one of those bright and satisfying scenes from which a traveller can
hardly turn away without a tinge of bitterness in the thought of never
seeing them again.
The drive back to the town was pleasantly varied by a detour which brought
us to the Capuchin monastery and the Saracenic villa of La Ziza. The vaults
of the monastery are mentioned as one of the interesting sights, but it
must be a very ghoulish soul that would take pleasure in them. The horrors
of the more famous Capuchin vaults at Rome are tame in comparison with
these. There the ornaments are skulls and skeletons in a tolerable state of
cleanliness: here the departed brethren have been subjected to some
mummifying process, and as they lie piled in hideous confusion their
withered faces stare horribly in the twilight of the cellar. Numerous
fiery-eyed cats run about with much scratching and scrabbling over the dry
bodies, making the place none the pleasanter with their uncanny wails. A
very brief visit is sufficient.
La Ziza, the only Saracenic house of this region which is still inhabited,
is simply a massive, battlemented tower of unmistakably Arabian appearance.
The outside walls are adorned with the depressed panels characteristic of
the Saracenic style, but within the Oriental look has almost vanished under
the repairs and decorations of many centuries. Only the lofty hallway,
arched above with a kind of honeycomb vaulting and cooled by a little
cascade of water rushing through it, retains much of the Oriental beauty,
and seems like a hall of the Alhambra. Along a wall of the vestibule runs
an inscription in Arabic which has been a puzzle to Orientalists, and of
which no undisputed interpretation is given. The palace was built as a
country pleasure-house by one of the Saracenic princes of Palermo, and can
be little less than a thousand years old; indeed, an inscription on its
walls, inscribed by one of the Spanish proprietors, claims for the house an
antiquity of eleven hundred years.
From the battlements of La Ziza one has the loveliest near view of Palermo
and the plain of the Golden Shell. An enthusiastic verse, written over the
doorway of the palace, declares it to be the most beautiful scene upon our
planet, and while the eyes are resting on the view it is easy to believe
the poet; but many of the mountain-views about the city surpass it.
One of the most attractive of the mountain-excursions from Palermo is that
to the monastery of San Martino. At a height of seventeen hundred feet
above the city, in a lonely spot, the monastery stands on another flank of
the mountain on which Monreale is also perched. The mule-path from the
suburban village of Boccadifalco to San Martino would be worth traversing
for its own wild beauty alone. It first enters a gorge between grand
cliffs: then, climbing a rocky ascent which commands a superb view of the
plain, it runs through a fruitful valley, where the monastery suddenly
appears in the front.
[Illustration: Palermo.]
The monastery of San Martino has been the wealthiest in Sicily. The
entrance-hall is on a scale of regal magnificence, adorned with
many-colored marbles. The brethren were all of noble extraction. Though the
external architecture of the building is not in the best taste, the grand
scale on which it is built, and still more the wild, picturesque site, give
to the monastery a beauty which even an Italian architect of the last
century could not disfigure. Ascending a grand staircase with balustrades
of purple marble, an upper hall is reached, from which the wonderful view
may be seen to the best advantage. Turning the eye to the north and east
across the savage-looking mountains, a short reach of the coast is seen,
and beyond is the boundless expanse of sea, dotted on the horizon by the
volcanoes of the AEolian Islands, which lie more than a hundred miles away.
The abbey abounds in pictures by masters of the seventeenth century, and
there is also a museum of Greek and Saracenic remains, but nothing within
the walls compares with the interest of the window-views.
Attractive as are the sights of Palermo, most of them must be passed over
or very hastily visited if the tour of the island is to be made in a month,
for the Greek cities beyond demand a greater share of time by reason of
their immense antiquity and the grandeur of their remains.
Being well prepared for the inland journey, and eager to see antiquities so
little known to the outer world, one question arose to give us pause--a
question which every year keeps thousands of prudent tourists from
exploring a country as full of glorious scenery as Switzerland, possessing
more of Greek antiquities than Greece itself, and a far lovelier winter
climate than Italy--"Is it safe?" The doubtful question whether this
rarely-attempted journey should be accomplished was settled by the friendly
advice of the courteous consul of the United States at Palermo. That advice
may be of use to travellers in the future: it was to the effect that for
two American gentlemen travelling alone and without ostentation through
Sicily there is no more danger of capture or violent death than in any
civilized country. It is admitted that highway robbery is not impossible,
as in many places nearer home, but the simple preventive is to carry as
little ready money as possible over the short spaces of unsettled country,
and to forward superfluous baggage by steamer. That there are banditti in
certain districts of the island no one denies, but their object is the
capture of wealthy Sicilians, whose ransom is sure and ample, while that of
a foreigner is uncertain and necessarily long delayed.
A dark afternoon found us comfortably established in the best seats of an
old-fashioned stage-coach in front of the general post-office of Palermo,
whence the stage-lines radiate to the various parts of the island. After
the long deliberation which seems to characterize all business (especially
official business) transacted outside of England and America, the mail-bags
were delivered, and our journey began in the midst of a shower descending
with all the tremendous impetuosity of a semi-tropical rainy season. The
cumbersome vehicle dashed on with considerable spirit through streets
almost emptied by the violence of the shower, and out through the broad
arch of the stately Porta Nuova crowded by multitudes seeking shelter from
the storm. Late twilight found us at the end of the first stage in
Monreale. From thence onward the journey continued for a while through
pitchy darkness. The broad highway is engineered with admirable skill along
the sides of mountains and over deep ravines, through a region of most
uncommon beauty, it is said, but now hidden from us by the impenetrable
gloom. However, as the night advanced the clouds rolled away with
surprising suddenness, and left a bright moon rising over the mountains. We
began to see something of the beautifully varied country, though viewing
it at a disadvantage through the narrow window of a covered coach. Wherever
the rugged nature of the country permitted every rood of ground was under
exquisite cultivation, and already had its first soft covering of springing
vegetation. The night-air was sweet with the spring-like odors of
freshly-turned earth and of wild-flowers: from time to time white masses of
flower-laden almond trees flashed past the window, looking in the moonlight
wonderfully like the snow-drifts which at this season line the roads in New
England.
[Illustration: CONVENT OF SAN MARINO, NEAR PALERMO.]
After nightfall the surface of the rich and well-cultivated country seemed
as solitary as a wilderness: not a creature was stirring along the road.
The intense silence of the night was broken only by the hum of our
coach-wheels and the sharp snap of hoofs from our cavalry guard. How unlike
were all the surroundings to those of an ordinary modern night-journey over
the mail-routes of Europe! The primitive conveyance, the quiet of the
lonely road, the arms of the attendant troop of horsemen flashing in the
light of the moon,--all the concomitants of an old-time night-journey
seemed to carry us back from the age of railroads to an earlier time.
Eleven drowsy hours of staging, and then a long, slow ascent, brought us up
to the hilltop where stands the village of Calatafimi. The chief inn of the
town is probably not surpassed in Europe in the number of its small
discomforts, animate and inanimate, but it must be made the base of
operations for visiting the ruins of Segesta. The remnant of the night
spent in sleep prepared us for our investigations on the following day. It
was pleasant, rising in the cool early morning, to step out from the
comfortless interior of the tavern to enjoy on a southern balcony the
temperate warmth of the low sun and to look down on the lovely landscape.
Before us lay a fertile rolling country clad with verdure, and rising
gradually upward toward the south to an elevation deserving to be called a
mountain from its great height, yet from its gentle slope and cultivated
sides rather to be called a hill. A field near the crest of that distant
hill, marked only by a few white crosses, is a spot memorable in Sicilian
history, for there lie the heroes who fell fighting with Garibaldi for the
unity of Italy on May 15, 1860. Sicily has in all ages been a battle-ground
for the contending races of two continents: on Sicilian soil Athens
received her most disabling blow, and here too the Punic power was broken;
yet there is hardly one among the battlefields of Sicily upon which greater
destinies have been settled than on this field of Calatafimi.
Before the morning was far advanced we started out in search of the village
cure, the unfailing friend of strangers, that we might inquire of him about
the safety of visiting the ruin and in regard to the pleasantest way of
reaching it. Picking our way about through the mud of the squalid village,
we at length found the old gentleman just coming from his little church on
the side of the castle hill at the end of the town. Filled with unfeigned
delight that the monotony of his existence should be broken by the advent
of two foreigners, especially such living wonders as Americans, the benign
priest took a lively interest in our case, gave us the information for
which we had asked, vouching for the safety of the country, and begged us
to walk on with him. For five minutes we followed on together the road cut
in the hillside beneath the walls of the Saracenic citadel, our companion
all the while talking vehemently, and helping out our lame knowledge of the
language with gestures so dramatic that an understanding of his words was
hardly needed. Suddenly the road curved round the side of the hill; we
stood on the floor of a deserted quarry; the old man ceased speaking and
pointed forward: "_Ecco!_" Before us the hill dropped abruptly down in a
precipice: far below a deep valley spread out before our eyes, "fair as the
garden of the Lord." As the light of the morning sun streamed down through
its length, bringing out in great brilliancy the fresh green of spring, it
looked like a paradise of luxuriant vegetation. The gray of olive trees and
the darkness of orange-groves contrasted with the color of springing
plants, and everywhere were scattered the pink-and-white plumes of the
blossoming almonds. Beyond the valley a rugged, saddle-shaped mountain
rose to an imposing height, and upon the summit line stood in solitary
majesty the Doric temple of Segesta, each column in clear relief against
the blue of the sky. It is so far removed from all abodes of men, standing
alone for thousands of years in the region of the clouds--so grand in its
severe and noble outlines--so venerable in its mysterious antiquity--so
blended with the natural beauties of the place,--that it seems rather to
belong to the power that raised the mountains than to any workmanship of
man. The world cannot show a more wonderful example of art exquisitely
harmonized with the grandeur of natural scenery.
Eager for a closer view of the temple, we returned immediately to the town,
and, being provided with a guide and a beast, were soon on the way down the
winding road to the valley. A bridle-path diverged from the main road: an
avenue of over-arching olive trees shaded the way, and on all sides here,
as everywhere through the country, the orange-crop loaded the trees almost
to breaking--the most beautiful of all crops as the fruit hangs upon the
branches. As we passed the lower slopes dotted with browsing sheep, and
began the rugged ascent of the mountain on which the temple stands, the
pathway crept up the edge of a profound gorge: it was a perilous way,
clinging close to the edge of the bank, and at some points, where we could
look down a thousand feet to the torrent below, the path was so narrow and
broken that even our sure-footed mountain-donkeys hesitated to advance. The
picturesque but hard climb at length came to an end at the edge of the
broad, flattened summit of the mountain. Again the temple suddenly came in
sight, but now near at hand. The mountain-shepherds have planted with wheat
the level of the summit, and the pale yellow of the volcanic rock from
which the temple is built harmonizes well with the color of its
surroundings. It cannot be called a ruin. It stands as the builders left it
in the fifth century before Christ. Not a column is broken, not a stone has
fallen. The interior was never finished, but the outside is perfect.
The pure outlines of a Doric temple are beautiful in any situation, but the
impression which this one made upon us in the bright morning sunlight,
standing in the midst of verdure and flowers on the brink of that
stupendous chasm and overlooking that glorious country, is not a thing to
be conveyed in words.
The interest of the temple is comprised in its size, antiquity and beauty,
for no mention of it is made in history. Its approximate age is inferred
from the internal evidence of the structure. The subjection of the city of
Segesta from B. C. 409 to the powers of Carthage and Rome successively, and
the subsequent decline of its own power and wealth, render it certain that
no such work as this temple would have been undertaken after that date:
moreover, the purity of its simple Doric form places it in the earlier ages
of Sicilian history. The Carthaginian invasion of the island was doubtless
the event which arrested the building. Cicero has described a wonderful
statue of Diana in bronze which the people of Segesta showed him with pride
as the greatest ornament of their city: it was of colossal size and
faultless beauty, belonging to the best period of Greek art. As the statue
was in existence before the Carthaginian invasion, it seems to me highly
improbable that the citizens of Segesta would have built so grand a temple
for any other purpose than to enshrine their most admired and revered
statue and to make it a place of worship for Diana. This theory may explain
in part the reason why the building was arrested, for it is known that the
image was stolen to adorn the city of Carthage,[A] and its loss, as well as
the subsequent poverty of Segesta, would have been a sufficient reason for
ceasing to build a temple to contain it. Diana's worshippers of old must
have looked upon these lovely mountain-ranges as an abode dear to the queen
of the nymphs and the hunter's patron deity. It seems as if nothing less
than the presence of the mountain-goddess lingering round her shrine could
have kept the temple in its marvellous perfection through the lapse of
ages in a land of wars and earthquakes. The houses of the neighboring city
are indistinguishably levelled with the earth, but hardly a stone of the
sacred building is displaced.
The position of the temple was outside and below the limits of the ancient
city. The mountain-ridge rises near at hand to a somewhat greater height,
and terminates in a peak, on the summit and sides of which the town was
built. Warned by the decline of the sun, we turned from the Segestan house
of worship and began to climb the slope toward the Segestan place of
amusement: the Greek theatre still remains with little loss or change. The
ascent was interrupted by many lingering backward looks toward the grand
colonnade as it appeared at fresh points of view from above. Hardly a
living creature appeared on the lonely heights, except that one wandering
shepherd, seeing the dress of foreigners, came forward to offer his little
stock of coins ploughed from the earth or found in ancient buildings. As
usual, most of the pocketful were corroded beyond recognition, but one
piece bore a noble head executed in the Greek style, and the clear
inscription, [Greek: PANORMITAN], a coin of Panormus; which is, in modern
speech, Palermo. A few coppers were accepted as an ample equivalent for a
coin which will not circulate.
The scattered fragments of a fortress crown the peak; and immediately
below, cut in the solid rock of the western slope, lies the theatre. It is
not large as compared with buildings of its class at Athens and Syracuse,
yet I believe that in its seating capacity it exceeds any opera-house of
our time. Entering by a ruined stage-door and crossing the orchestra, we
rested on the lower tiers of seats. The great arc, comprising two-thirds of
a circle, upon which the spectators were ranged, has still its covering of
fine cut-stone seats, complete except at one extremity. Every part of the
desolate building gains a new interest when peopled in imagination with its
ancient occupants, and when we recall to mind the vast multitudes of many
generations who have watched with breathless and solemn interest the
stately progress of Greek tragedy before that ruined _scena_.
As we lounged upon the lowest seats, whereon the high dignitaries of the
town used to sit, and looked across the open space of the orchestra, there
at the centre of its farther side lay the slab which supported the altar of
Bacchus, where stood the chorus-leader: near it a line of stone marks the
front of the stage, and beyond it is spread an expanse of stage-scenery
such as no modern royal theatre can boast. The whole broad prospect
commanded from the colonnade below is seen across the stage of the theatre,
but widened by the greater height and finished in the foreground by the
majestic presence of the temple. All the north-western mountains of the
island are taken in with one glance of the eye: beneath us the valley of
the little river Scamander opens a long vista northward to the
Mediterranean Sea, and far away the port of Castellamare glitters, in
contrast with the blue, as white as a polished shell upon the shore. Most
distant among the group of peaks is Mount Eryx, the lonely rock by the sea
on whose summit stood the temple of Venus Erycina, more renowned in the
ancient world than all other shrines of the goddess.
We climbed to the brow of the hill in order to descend through the entire
length of the city. Hardly one stone is left upon another of all the
streets through which the Segestans proudly conducted Cicero. Here and
there appear the circular openings of cisterns which occupied the centres
of ancient courtyards. The stones once hewn and carved which are strewn
over the slope are now reduced to the roughness of boulders, so that one
might cross the tract and catch no sign that it was once a city. Little has
been done to discover what remains lie beneath the surface, but at one
point, where a small excavation has been made, a heap of fallen Ionic
columns cover the fragments of a tomb built on a scale of regal
magnificence; and a little lower on the mountain two rooms of a house have
been exhumed, the floors of which are still covered with beautiful mosaics.
ALFRED T. BACON.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The statue was restored to Segesta by Scipio.
"FOR PERCIVAL."
CHAPTER IX.
SISSY LOOKS INTO THE MIRROR.
[Illustration]
A lady's hero generally has ample leisure. He may write novels or poems, or
paint the picture or carve the statue of the season, or he is a statesman
and rules the destinies of nations, or he makes money mysteriously in the
city, or even, it may be, not less mysteriously on the turf; but he does it
in his odd minutes. That is his characteristic. Perhaps he spends his
morning in stupendous efforts to gratify a wish expressed in smiling
hopelessness by the heroine; later, he calls on her or he rides with her;
evening comes, he dances with her till the first gray streak of dawn has
touched the eastern sky. He goes home. His pen flies along the paper--he is
knee-deep in manuscript; he is possessed with burning enthusiasm and
energy; her features grow in idealized loveliness beneath his chisel, or
the sunny tide of daylight pours in to irradiate the finished picture as
well as the exhausted artist with a golden glory. He has a talent for
sitting up. He gets up very early indeed if he is in the country, but he
never goes to bed early, or when would he achieve his triumphs? Some
things, it is true, must be done by day, but half an hour will work
wonders. The gigantic intellect is brought to bear on the confidential
clerk: the latter is, as it were, wound up, and the great machine goes on.
Or a hasty telegram arrives as the guests file in to dinner. "Pardon me,
one moment;" and instantly something is sent off in cipher which shall
change the face of Europe. Unmoved, the hero returns to the love-making
which is the true business of life.
There are poetry and romance enough in many an outwardly prosaic life. How
often have we been told this! Nay, we have read stories in which the hero
possesses a season-ticket, and starts from his trim suburban home after an
early breakfast, to return in due time to dine, perhaps to talk a little
"shop" over the meal, and, it may be, even to feel somewhat sleepy in the
evening. But, as far as my experience goes, the day on which the story
opens is the last on which he does all this. That morning he meets the
woman with the haunting eyes or the old friend who died long ago--did not
the papers say so?--and whose resurrection includes a secret or two. Or he
is sent for to some out-of-the-way spot in the country where there is a
mysterious business of some kind to be unravelled. At any rate, he needs
his season-ticket never again, but changes more or less into the hero we
all know.
It is hard work for these unresting men, no doubt, yet what is to be done?
Unless the double-shift system can in any way be applied for their relief,
I fear they must continue to toil by night that they may appear to be idle
men.
And, after all, were the hero not altogether heroic, one is tempted to
doubt if this abundant leisure is quite a gain.
Addie Blake, planning some bright little scheme which needed a whole day
and an unoccupied squire, said once to Godfrey Hammond, "You can't think
what a comfort it is to get some one who hasn't to go to business every
day. I hate the very name of business! Now, you are always at hand when you
are wanted."
"Yes," he said, "we idle men have a great advantage over the busy ones, no
doubt; but I think it almost more than counterbalanced by our terrible
disadvantage."
"What is that?"
"We are at hand when we are not wanted," said Godfrey seriously.
And I think he was right. One may have a great liking--nay, something
warmer than liking--for one's companions in endless idle _tete-a-tetes_,
but they are perilous nevertheless. Some day the pale ghost--weariness,
_ennui_, dearth of ideas, I hardly know what its true name is--comes into
the room to see if the atmosphere will suit it, and sits down between you.
You cannot see the colorless spectre, but are conscious of a slight
exhaustion in the air. Everything requires a little effort--to breathe, to
question, to answer, to look up, to appear interested. You feel that it is
your own fault, perhaps: you would gladly take all the blame if you could
only take all the burden. Perhaps the failing _is_ yours, but it is your
fault only as it is the fault of an electric eel that after many shocks his
power is weakened and he wants to be left alone to recover it.
Still, though there may be no fault, it is a terrible thing to feel one's
heart sink suddenly when one's friend pauses for a moment in the doorway as
if about to return. One thinks, If weariness cannot be kept at bay in the
society of those we love, where can we be safe from the cold and subtle
blight? As soon as we are conscious of it, it seems to become part of us,
and we shrink from the popular idea of the Hereafter, assured of finding
our spectre even in the courts of heaven.
Godfrey Hammond expressed the fear of too much companionship in speech,
Percival Thorne in action. He was given to lonely walks if the weather were
fine--to shutting himself in his own room with a book if it were wet. He
would dream for hours, for I will frankly confess that when he was shut up
with a book, his book as often as not was in that condition too.
His grandfather had complained more than once, "You don't often come to
Brackenhill, Percival, except to solve the problem of how little you can
see of us in a given time." He did not suspect it, but much of the strong
attraction which drew him to his grandson lay in that very fact. The latter
confronted him in grave independence, just touched with the courteous
deference due from youth to age, but nothing more. Mr. Thorne would have
thanked Heaven had the boy been a bit of a spendthrift, but Percival was
too wary for that. He did not refuse his grandfather's gifts, but he never
seemed in want of them. They might help him to pleasant superfluities, but
his attitude said plainly enough, "I have sufficient for my needs." He was
not to be bought: the very aimlessness of his life secured him from that.
You cannot earn a man's gratitude by helping him onward in his course when
he is drifting contentedly round and round. He was not to be bullied, being
conscious of his impregnable position. He was not to be flattered in any
ordinary way. It was so evident to him that the life he had chosen must
appear an unwise choice to the majority of his fellow-men that he accepted
any assurance to the contrary as the verdict of a small minority. Nor was
he conscious of any especial power or originality, so that he could be
pleased by being told that he had broken conventional trammels and was a
great soul. Mr. Thorne did not know how to conquer him, and could not have
enough of him.
It is needful to note how the day after the agricultural show was spent at
Brackenhill.
Godfrey Hammond left by an early train. Mrs. Middleton came down to see
about his breakfast with a splitting headache. The poor old lady's
suffering was evident, and Sissy's suggestion that it was due to their
having walked about so much in the broiling sun the day before was
unanimously accepted. Mrs. Middleton countenanced the theory, though she
privately attributed it to a sleepless night which had followed a
conversation with Hammond about Horace.
Percival vanished immediately after breakfast. As soon as he had
ascertained that there were no especial plans for the day, he slipped
quietly away with his hands in his pockets, strolled through the park,
whistling dreamily as he went, and passing out into the road, crossed it
and made straight for the river. He lay on the grass for half an hour or
so, studying the growth of willows and the habits of dragon-flies, and
then sauntered along the bank. Had he gone to the left it would have led
him past Langley Wood to Fordborough. He went to the right.
It was a gentle little river, which had plenty of time to spare, and amused
itself with wandering here and there, tracing a bright maze of curves and
unexpected turns. At times it would linger in shady pools, where, half
asleep, it seemed to hesitate whether it cared to go on to the county-town
at all that day. But Percival defied it to have more leisure than he had,
and followed the silvery clue till all at once he found himself face to
face with an artist who sat by the river-side sketching.
The young man looked up with a half smile as Percival came suddenly upon
him from behind a clump of alders. A remark of some kind, were it but
concerning the weather, was inevitable. It was made, and was followed by
others. Young Thorne looked, admired and questioned, and they drifted into
an aimless talk about the art which the painter loved. Even to an outsider,
such as Percival, it was full of color and grace and a charm half
understood, vaguely suggestive of a world of beauty--not far off and
inaccessible, but underlying the common, every-day world of which we are at
times a little weary. It was as if one should tell us of virtue new and
strange in the often-turned earth of our garden-plot. Percival was rather
apt to analyze his pains and pleasures, but his ideal was enjoyment which
should defy analysis, and he found something of it that morning in the
summer weather and his new friend's talk.
It was past noon. The young artist looked at his watch and ascertained the
fact. "Do you live near here?" he asked.
Percival shook his head: "I live anywhere. I am a wanderer on the face of
the earth. But my grandfather lives in that gray house over yonder, and I
am free to come and go as I choose. I am staying there now."
"Brackenhill, do you mean? That fine old house on the side of the hill? I
am lodging at the farm down there, and the farmer--"
"John Collins," said Percival.
"Entertains me every night with stories of its magnificence. Since we have
smoked our pipes together I have learnt that Brackenhill is the eighth
wonder of the world."
"Not quite," said Thorne. "But it is a good old manor-house, and, thank
Heaven, my ancestors for a good many generations wasted their money, and
had none to spare for restoring and beautifying. I don't mean my
grandfather: he wouldn't hurt it. It's a quaint old place. Come some
afternoon and look at it. He shall show you his pictures."
"Thanks," the other said, but he hesitated and looked at his unfinished
work. "I should like, but I don't quite know. The fact is, when I have done
for to-day I'm to have old Collins's gig and drive into Fordborough to see
if there are any letters for me. I am not sure I shall not have to leave
the first thing to-morrow."
"And I have made you waste your time this morning."
"Don't mention it," said the young artist with the brightest smile. "I'm
not much given to bemoaning past troubles, and I shall be in a very bad way
indeed before I begin to find fault with past pleasures. I may not find my
letter after all, and in that case I should like very much to look you up.
To-morrow?"
"Pray do." The tone was unmistakably cordial.
"Your grandfather's name is Thorne, isn't it? Shall I ask for young Mr.
Thorne?"
"Percival Thorne," was the quick correction: "I have a cousin."
They shook hands, but as Thorne turned away the other called after him: "I
say! is there any name to that little wood out there, looking like a dark
cloud on the green?"
"Yes--Langley Wood." Percival nodded a second farewell, and went on his way
pondering. And this was the subject of his thoughts: "Then, my brother, I
have to go through Langley Wood to-morrow evening, and I am afraid to go
alone."
Of course he had not forgotten his promise to Addie, but having made his
arrangements and worked it all out in his own mind, he had dismissed it
from his thoughts. Now, however, it rose up before him as a slightly
disagreeable puzzle.
What on earth did Addie want toward nine at night in Langley Wood? The day
before, in haste to answer her request and anxiety not to betray her, he
had not considered whether the service he had promised to render were
pleasant to him or not. In very truth, he was willing to serve Addie, and
he had professed his willingness the more eagerly that he had expected a
harder task. She asked so slight a thing that only eager readiness could
give the service any grace at all.
But when he came to consider it he half wished that his task had been
harder if it might have been different. He liked Addie, he was ready to
serve her, but he foresaw possible annoyances to them both from her hasty
request. He had no confidence in her prudence.
"Some silly freak of hers," he thought while he walked along, catching at
the tops of the tall flowering weeds as he went. "Some silly girlish freak.
Why didn't she ask Horace? Wouldn't run any risk of getting him into
trouble, I suppose."
Did Horace know? he wondered. "I'm not going to be made use of by him and
her: they needn't think it!" vowed Percival in sudden anger. But next
moment he smiled at his own folly: "When I have given my word, and must go
if fifty Horaces had planned it! I had better save my resolutions for next
time." He did not think, however, that Horace _did_ know. "Which makes it
all the worse," he reflected. "A charming complication it will be if I get
into trouble with him about Addie. Suppose some one sees us? Suppose Mrs.
Blake is down upon me, questioning, and I, pledged to secrecy, haven't a
word to say for myself? Suppose Lottie--Oh, I say, a delightful arrangement
this is and no mistake!"
He could only hope that no one would see them, and that Addie's mystery
would prove a harmless one.
He got in just as they were sitting down to luncheon. Horace and Sissy had
spent the morning in archery and idleness, Mrs. Middleton in nursing her
headache. Mr. Thorne was not there.
"Been enjoying a little solitude?" Horace inquired.
"Not much of that," was the answer. "A good deal of talk instead."
"What! did you find a friend out in the fields?"
"Yes," said Percival, "a young artist." As he spoke he remembered that he
was ignorant of his new friend's name. At least he knew it was "Alf," owing
to some story the painter had told: "I heard my brother calling 'Alf! Alf!'
so I," etc. Alf--probably therefore Alfred--surname unknown.
They were halfway through their meal when Mr. Thorne came noiselessly in
and took his accustomed place. He was very silent, and had a curiously
intent expression. Horace, who was telling Sissy some trifling story about
himself (Horace's little stories generally were about himself), finished it
lamely in a lowered voice. Mr. Thorne smiled.
There was a silence. Percival went steadily on with his luncheon, but
Horace pushed away his plate and sipped his sherry. The birds were
twittering outside in the sunshine, but there was no other sound. It was
like a breathless little pause of expectation.
At last Mr. Thorne spoke, in such sweetly courteous tones that they all
knew he meant mischief. "Are you particularly engaged this afternoon?" he
inquired of Horace.
"Not at all engaged," said the young man. His heart gave a great throb.
"Then perhaps you could give me a few minutes in the library?"
"I shall be most--" Horace began. But he checked himself and said,
"Certainly. When shall I come?"
"As soon as you have finished your luncheon, if that will suit you?"
"I have finished." He drank off his wine, and, without looking at the
others, walked defiantly to the door, stood aside for his grandfather to
pass, and followed him out.
Mrs. Middleton and Sissy exchanged glances. "Oh, my dear!" the old lady
exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so frightened! I am afraid poor Horace is in trouble.
Godfrey Hammond was saying only last night--"
She paused suddenly, looking at Percival. He sat with his back to the
window, and the dark face was very dark in the shadow. It was just as well
perhaps, for he was thinking "Told you so!" a train of thought which seldom
produces an agreeable expression.
"What did Godfrey Hammond say?" Sissy asked. But nothing was to be got out
of Aunt Middleton, so they adjourned to the drawing-room to wait for
Horace's return. Percival read the paper; Mrs. Middleton lay on the sofa;
Sissy flitted to and fro, now taking up a book, now her work, then at the
piano, playing idly with one hand or singing snatches of her favorite
songs. There was a mirror in which, looking sideways, she could see herself
reflected as she played and Percival as he read--as much of him, at least,
as was not swallowed up in the _Times_. There is something ghostly about a
little picture like this reflected in a glass. It is so silent and yet so
real: the people stir, look up, their lips move, they have every sign of
life, but there is no sound. There are noises in the room behind you, but
the people in the mirror make none. The _Times_ may be rustling and
crackling elsewhere, but Percival's ghost turns a ghostly paper whence no
sound proceeds. Sissy is playing a little tinkling treble tune, but at the
piano yonder slim white fingers are silently wandering over the ivory keys,
and the girl's eyes look strangely out from the polished surface.
Sissy gazed and mused. Perhaps some day Percival will reign at Brackenhill.
And who will sit at that piano where the ghost-girl sits now, and what
soundless melodies will be played in that silent room?
Sissy's left hand steals down to the bass, striking solemn chords. "If one
could but look into the glass," she thinks, "and see the future there, as
people do in stories! What eyes would look out at me instead of mine? Ah,
well! If I could but see Percival there I would try to be content, even if
the girl turned away her face. I _would_ be content. I would! I would!"
She turns resolutely away from the mirror, and begins that old royalist
song in which yearning for the vanished past and mourning for the dreary
present cannot triumph over the hope of far-off brightness--"When the king
enjoys his own again." To Mrs. Middleton, to Percival, a mere song--to
Sissy a solemn renunciation of all but the one hope. Let her king enjoy his
own, and the rest be as Fate wills.
The last note dies away. Moved by a sudden impulse, she lifts her eyes to
the ghost Percival. He has lowered his paper a little, and is looking at
her with a wondering smile. A voice behind her exclaims, "Why, Sissy!" She
darts across the room to the speaker and pushes the _Times_ away
altogether. "Percival," she says in a low, breathless voice, "does Miss
Lisle play?"
"Miss Lisle!" He is surprised. "Oh yes, she plays. But not as well as her
brother, I believe."
"And does she sing?"
"Yes. I heard her once. But no better than you sang just now. What has come
to you, Sissy? You have found the one thing that was wanting."
"What was that?"
"Earnestness, depth. You sang it as if your soul and the soul of the song
were one. Now I can tell you that I fancied you only skimmed over the
surface of things--like a bird over the sea. I can tell you now, since I
was wrong."
Her cheeks are glowing. "And Miss Lisle?" she says.
"What, now, about Miss Lisle?" He is amused and perplexed at Sissy's
persistence.
"She is one of your heroic women;" and Miss Langton nods her pretty head.
"Oh, I know! Jael and _Judith_ and Charlotte Corday."
"I don't think I said anything about Judith: surely _you_ suggested her.
And, to tell you the truth, Sissy, I looked in the Apocrypha, and I
thought I liked I her the least of the trio. It wasn't a swift impulse like
Jael's, who suddenly saw the tyrant given into her hands, and it wanted the
grace of Charlotte Corday's utter self-sacrifice and quick death. Judith
had great honor, and lived to be over a hundred, didn't she? I wonder if
she often talked about Holofernes when she was eighty or ninety, and about
her triumph--how she was crowned with a garland and led the dance? She ran
an awful risk, no doubt, but she was in awful peril: it was glory or death.
Charlotte Corday had no chance of a triumph: she must have known that
success, as well as failure, meant the death-cart and the guillotine.
Judith seems to have played her part fairly well to the end, I allow, but
don't you think the praises and the after-life spoil it rather?"
Sissy, passing lightly over Percival's views about Charlotte Corday and the
widow of a hundred and five who was mourned by all Israel, pounced on a
more interesting avowal: "So you looked Judith out and studied her? Oh,
Percival!"
"My dear Sissy, shall I tell you how many times I have seen Miss Lisle?" He
was answering her arch glance rather than her spoken question. "How few
times, I should say. Twice."
"I've made up _my_ mind about people when I've only seen them once," said
Sissy, apparently addressing the carpet.
"Very likely: some people have that power," said Percival. "Besides, seeing
them once may mean that you had a good long interview under favorable
circumstances. Now," with a smile, "shall I tell you all that Miss Lisle
and I said to each other in our two meetings?" He paused, encountering
Sissy's eyes, brilliantly and wickedly full of meaning.
"What! do you remember every word? Oh, Percival!"
"Hush!" said Mrs. Middleton, lifting her head from the cushion: "listen!
isn't that Horace?"
"I think so;" and Percival stooped for the _Times_, which had fallen on the
floor. Sissy stood with her hand on his chair, making no attempt to conceal
her anxiety. The old lady noted her parted lips and eager eyes. "Ah! she
does care for Horace. I knew it! I knew it!" she thought.
He came in, looking white and angry: his mouth was sternly set, and there
was a fierce spark in his gray eyes. Mrs. Middleton beckoned him to her
sofa, and would have drawn the proud head down to her with a tender whisper
of "Tell me, my dear." But the young fellow straightened himself and faced
them all as he stood by her side. She clasped and fondled his passive hand.
"What is the matter, Horace?" she said at last.
"As it happens, there is nothing much the matter," he replied,
"You look as if a good deal might be the matter," said Sissy.
He made no answer for the moment. Then he looked at her with a curious sort
of smile: "Sissy, when we were little--when you were very little indeed--do
you remember old Rover?"
"That curly dog? Oh yes."
"I used to have him in a string sometimes, and take him out: it was great
fun," said Horace pensively. "I liked to feel him all alive, scampering and
tugging at the end of the string. It was best of all, I think, to give him
an unexpected jerk just when he was going to sniff at something, and take
him pretty well off his legs: he was so astonished and disappointed. But it
was very grand too, if he would but make up his mind he wanted to go one
way, to pull at him and _make_ him go just the opposite. He was obstinate,
was old Rover, but that was the fun of it. I was obstinate too, and the
stronger. How long has he been dead?"
"I'm sure I don't know--twelve or thirteen years. Why?"
"Is it as long as that? Well, I dare say it is. It has occurred to me
to-day for the first time that perhaps it was rather hard on Rover now and
then.--Aunt Harriet, why did you let me have the poor old fellow and
ill-use him?"
"My dear boy, what _do_ you mean? I don't think you were ever cruel--not
really cruel, you know. Children always will be heedless, but I think
Rover was fond of you."
"I doubt it," said Horace.
"But what do you mean?" The old lady was fairly perplexed. "What makes you
think of having poor old Rover in a string to-day? I don't understand."
"Which things are an allegory." Horace looked more kindly down at the
suffering face, and attempted to smile. "It was very nice then, but to-day
I'm the dog."
"String pulled tight?" said Percival.
"Jerked." He disengaged his hand. "I think I'll go and have a cigar in the
park." Percival was going to rise, but Horace as he passed pressed his
fingers on his shoulder: "No, old fellow! not to-day--many thanks. You
lecture me, you know, and generally I don't care a rap, so you are quite
welcome. But to-day I'm a little sore, rubbed up the wrong way: I might
take it seriously. Another time."
And he departed, leaving his lecturer to reflect on this brilliant result
of all his outpourings of wisdom.