Where we live, high on the southern moorlands of Surrey, the desolation
of winter never seems to reach us; unless, indeed, upon certain days of
streaming rains, or weeping mists that rush rapid and ghost-like up the
valley, and blot out the world from view. But those days would be dreary
anywhere and in any season.
Our funny little house, more like an Italian “Villino,” perhaps, than
anything English, stands high, midway between the rolling shoulders of
moor and the green-wooded dip of the valley. And the moor has always
colour in it. There are some sunset days when it seems not so much to
reflect as to give out rose and purple and carmine. And now in January
it is a wonderful copper-brown, with the tawny of dying Bracken and the
yellow of young Gorse. And opposite to us a belt of birchwood is purple
against solemn green of pine. And the purple and solemn green run right
down together to the bright verdure of fields and dells; then up again
to moorland, where the fir trees march up once more against the sky.
There are Larches in these woods, and Oaks, so that the spring tints are
almost as wonderful as the autumn. When the Furze and Broom are all
guinea-gold on the moor, the young Bracken begins to creep in green
patches that are pure joy. Later on the Bell-heather breaks into a deep
rose which, with the sun on it, holds such a glory of colour that you
could scarce find its match in an old Cathedral window. And when this
splendour begins to turn to russet, then comes the tender silvery
amethyst of the Ling, and spreads a mantle all over those great
shoulders of wild land that is of the exact hue most beautiful to
contrast with the full summer woods and the blue of an August sky; a
combination so matchless for colour-loving eyes that it seems as if
one’s soul were not big enough to hold the complete impression. And when
our Delphiniums rear themselves against this background, we feel,
looking on it all, as if we could sing for the mere rapture of it;
or—having no voice—roll in the grass like Loki or like Bunny.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: A LITTLE PLACE OF ONE’S OWN]
For a long time we—Loki’s Grandfather and Grandmother—had said to each
other that we must have a week-end cottage. We were so tired of hiring
other people’s houses, summer after summer, and of the labour ‹not
unattended by some pleasurable excitement on Loki’s Grandmother’s part›
of pulling their furniture about, and hiding away all the family
portraits and the choicest works of art, to make the alien spaces
tolerable to one’s own individuality. So tired, too, of the boredom and
worry of having to restore everything to its pristine ugliness and hang
up the enlarged photographs and the dreadful oil paintings on the walls
once more—a tedious task, albeit enlivened on one occasion by the
thrilling discovery that, having consigned these treasures to an oak
chest in the hall, most of them had grown fur; and that on another the
oil painting of your detested landlady, in middle Victorian chignon and
the hump of the period, has received a scratch on the nose which no
copious application of linseed oil will disguise. We always detest our
landlady ... though not as much as we loathe the tenants who may happen
to hire a house of ours.
[Illustration: street view of house]
At the end of each summer, therefore, we would make elaborate
calculations to prove what a great economy it would be to have a little
place of our own. Finally these plans and desires crystallized into
action. When Loki’s Grandfather returned from a round of inspection to
the hotel where we were staying in the district we fancied, and told
Loki’s Grandmother that he had visited a funny little house with a
terrace upon which he “saw her”—in his own phraseology—she was extremely
sceptical. And when we drove down the hill to view his discovery, and
were literally dropped from the side road through a perfunctory gate
into the steepest little courtyard it is possible to imagine, and she
beheld green stains on the rough-cast wall of the white small house, her
scepticism increased to scoffing point. She was blind to the charms of
the pretty pillared porch. The narrowness of the entrance passage filled
her with disdain. Though she grudgingly admitted a possibility in the
drawing-room, it was not until we emerged upon the terrace that her
preventions vanished.—That rise and fall of moorland in such startling
proximity, and the way in which the house and its terraces seemed to
cling to the hillside and be perched in space between the giant curves
and the dip of the valley beyond, fairly took her breath away. An artist
friend described the first impression of the view in these words: “It is
so sudden!” For a long time, even after the queer, fascinating spot had
become our own, this wonder of “suddenness” always seized us.
It still seems incomprehensible to us that anyone could have desired to
dispossess himself of so attractive a place—an Italian “Villino” on the
Surrey Highlands is not to be found every day.
But, after all, it only became a Villino after our ownership. It was
just a small white house on the hillside before that. Heather and Gorse,
Bramble and Bracken pressed hard upon the small area of the property
which was at all cultivated, between densely growing clumps of pine and
holly.
[Sidenote: THE FIRST TRANSFORMATIONS]
The courtyard is no longer dank: it is widened, levelled, and walled in
against its high fir-grown strip of bank. It is guarded by bright green
wooden gates, and three sentinel Cypresses that begin to mark the
Italian note.
As for the lower reach—the Reserve Garden now—which in former days was a
dumping-ground for horrors of broken glass, potsherds and tin cans ‹a
dreary patch of weeds and couch grass withal›, it is unrecognizable.
Especially this year, when, to the herbaceous border, to the espaliered
apple-trees, and to the neat little turfed walks, we have added a
Rose-Garden between screens of rustic woodwork which are to blaze in the
full luxuriance of the adorable Wichuriana tribe.
Where the jungle waxed thickest, fair paths have been cleared. An avenue
bordered by a double row of tall slender Pines runs from top to bottom
of the hill, with a view of our neighbour’s buttercup field on the one
hand, and of our own Bluebell and May-tree glade on the other. It
requires a positive effort of imagination to recall that this was a
literally impenetrable thicket when we first came.
* * * * *
[Illustration: entrance to house off street]
[Sidenote: A VILLINO ON SURREY HILLS]
Nor is the house less altered. As it was hinted before, a small white
Surrey house has, by some singular, scarcely intentional process, become
enchanted into an Italian Villino. Of course, some structural
alterations were necessary.
[Illustration: house interior with plants]
On entering the red-tiled hall ‹once the pantry!›, at the end of which
the glass door giving on the terrace frames Verrochio’s little naked
boy, struggling with his big fish, flanked on each side by Cypresses,
you might easily fancy yourself at Fiesole or Bello Sguardo, but for the
unmistakable northern stamp of the moorland beyond. Passing through the
other glass doors into the inner hall, the first object to meet the eye
is the big della Robbia over the gracious figure of the Madonna kneeling
against a blue sky with dear little green clouds upon it. Through the
open dining-room door you have a vision, all golden orange, of different
deep shades. The Scotch builder we employed for the construction of the
two new wings opined that “the scheme was verra’ daring.” Personally,
every time we go in, it warms the cockles of our hearts. We had the
golden-hued carpet especially dyed. We chose the tangerine distemper for
the walls. We had, indeed, considerable difficulty in obtaining the
higher note for the curtains. Antique chairs, with seats and backs of
brown leather tooled like old bindings, we brought from Rome; from
whence also came the yellow marble sideboard table on its gilt-carved
legs, above which a bronzed cast of Gian di Bologna’s Mercury springs
out from that orange wall on a flamboyant gilt bracket, with a grace we
have never seen that adorable conception display anywhere else. We found
a handsome, but anæmic, oak fitment in this room, filling the whole
right wall with cupboards, panelled overmantel, and bookshelves. It is
no longer anæmic, but polished by our industry to a pleasing depth of
amber gloss.
[Sidenote: THE DORATORE’S ANTIQUES]
[Illustration: house interior with window view]
So Italy walked into the little white Surrey house almost as soon as the
doors were open to us. But it is in the drawing-room that she has mostly
established her self. It is so filled with dear Roman things that we can
think ourselves back again in that haunt of all joy, when we cross its
threshold. It is full of associations of delightful days, of quaint
beings. There is the rococo _paravent_, gilt and carved in most delicate
extravagance, which we bought of the _doratore_ in the Piazza Nicosia.
That fire-screen—a real Bernini, once the frame of an altar-piece—now
holds in its strong bold oval a pane of glass where perhaps some wan
Madonna shewed her seven-pierced heart. The _doratore_ picked up these
things in old villas and disused churches. His booth was indeed a sight
to see.—Having recently been on a visit to Rome, Loki’s “great-aunt” was
naturally charged with many commissions in that quarter. Armed with a
letter of directions from the Italian scholar of the family, she and a
Lancashire maid wandered down there one misty afternoon in November, at
an hour when all the crazy little houses of the ancient Piazza seem to
fold up and huddle together in the purple Roman dusk.
The _doratore’s_ wares winked through the dimness; and having duly
knocked their heads against wreaths of dangling frames in his doorway,
the pilgrims proceeded to steer a perilous path among the heaps of
gilded _débris_ within.
The _doratore_, made visible only by his paper cap, was seated in a nest
of angels, tinkering at a fat cherub and whistling gaily. Hearing steps
he poked his head through the large oval of an empty mirror, and stared
unconcernedly at the visitors, whose advance was punctuated by
cataclysms of falling frames, church candlesticks, and other “_oggetti
religiosi_.”
At the fifth or sixth tumble, he rolled away from his angels with
unimpaired cheerfulness, and apologized.
“_Scusi, scusi!_” Smilingly he picked up a broken wing and a bit of
acanthus leaf. “_Scusi!_” again. “Aha! a letter!”
Here the fat laugh merged into a bellow which made the walls ring, and
brought a dirty little urchin tumbling down a ladder from some loft
overhead. The urchin diving under a heap of prostrate apostles, produced
a stick with an iron spike, which he held respectfully under his
patron’s chin. The doratore stuck a candle on the spike, lit it, and
with the flame in fearful proximity to his bearded face, proceeded to
open the letter.
“Aha! from the noble family at Villino Loki!” Here he took off his cap
with a flourish and did not replace it. “The _signor Inglese_, is he
well?—_Mi piace._ And the _gentilissima signorina_ who does me the
honour to write?—_Mi piace, mi piace._ And Mama?—Better?—_Bonissimo!_
Please the good God to bring her again to Rome. But not this month,”
waving a warning finger before his nose. “In April. In the _primavera_,
Rome is as salubrious as she is beautiful. Now what does Mama want?
Brackets? Angels?—_Ecco._”
He pointed to a pair of fantastic creatures that jutted out like
gargoyles under the ceiling. “What? Not pretty? _Ma! Scusi!_ they are
_antichi bellissimi_—they come from a castle in the Abruzzi; there is
not their match in Rome.” Snapping the candle from the imp, on whose
locks it was unheededly guttering, he waved it round his own head,
waking up unexpected companies of saints on the walls and making pools
of light and darkness among the golden hillocks.
“They are exactly the noble family’s taste,” said the _doratore_,
replacing his cap with an air of finality. “She said _cinquanta
lire_—she shall have them for _quaranta_!”
Recognizing that this incident was closed, Loki’s aunt thought she would
do a deal on her own account, and picking up a little antique frame,
fell back on the only Italian word she knew:
“_Quanto?_”
The _doratore_ unexpectedly priced the frame at twenty-five lire, and
cheap at that, and all of a sudden the little shop was filled with
confusion. The would-be purchaser wished to take away her prize, the
_doratore_, misunderstanding, vociferated that nothing would be broken
on the sea-journey; the Lancashire maid struck in with English addresses
for the other wares; finally, the candle-bearer was sent flying round
the corner to fetch a friend who, by the grace of God, had the gift of
tongues.
Breathless, he returned, with a bundle of rags hobbling along on a
crutch, by his side.
“_Benissimo!_” exclaimed the _doratore_, with a sigh of relief. “This
gentleman, _signora_, is a friend of all the artists in Rome! He knows
English, French, German—everything!”
He then performed the ceremonious rites of introduction! “Signor
Guiseppi Renzo, a person of great worth and learning.—The noble lady
belonging to the family of my cherished patrons, i Castelli.”
The bundle of rags swept off its battered hat with a flourish,
disclosing a wall-eye and a three-weeks-old beard, and remarked, in
Italian, that the weather was beautiful for the time of the year.
“But not so beautiful as in spring,” said the _doratore_ encouragingly.
Upon which Loki’s aunt bowed too, and smiled and murmured, “Oh! _si_,
_si_—I mean no.” And then feeling dreadfully uncouth and ill-mannered in
presence of so much courtesy, picked up her frame again and looked
helpless. Instantly the interpreter warmed to his office. In fluent if
curious English, he ascertained her wishes, and then communicated them
with much gesticulation to the _doratore_, who slapped a fat forehead,
exclaiming in a contrite manner, “_Va bene, va bene!_” Finally, the imp
was dispatched on a last errand in search of a little open carriage, and
having carefully wrapped the frame in a copy of the “_Corriere_”
produced from his own pocket, the bundle of rags hobbled out into the
Piazza, where he and the _doratore_ stood bareheaded to wish the ladies
a safe journey to England, and a speedy return to Rome.
* * * * *
[Illustration: fancy glass]
[Sidenote: MORE BRIC-A-BRAC]
It is little wonder that the _doratore_ should cherish us. The
drawing-room of the Villino on the Surrey hill is chiefly furnished out
of his store. Therefrom come the Venetian chairs, the huge _Goldoni_
armchair, the two cabinets of rusty gold. The hanging cabinet is full of
Venetian glass, picked up—of all places—at that roaring cheap emporium,
Finocchi’s, in the hideous modern corso fitly dedicated to _Vittorio
Emanuele_. ‹To think these bubbles of ethereal loveliness, these liquid
curves, these foam-frail phantasies, should have been discovered,
unshattered, in such a spot!› There from the walls a wistful
_Giovannino_, with pious, sentimental, guileless head inclined, looks
down from his golden background, a true bit of early Siennese simplicity
and faith. He came to us from the talons of a voluble Jew in the _Via
due Macelli_, from which unclean grasp were likewise rescued those meek
companions, “St. Bernardino of Siena” and “St. Antoninus,” on the
opposite wall. St. Bernardino’s face is quite out of drawing, but,
nevertheless, rarely has any presentment been more impregnated with holy
benignity. The gentle pair hang just above a statue of Polyhymnia....
Oh! that “_Manifattura di Signa_,” in the dark purlieus of the Via
Babuino! It is a blessing that we only discovered it the last week of
our four months’ stay in Rome, and that our resources were then at a low
ebb; else, indeed, the exiguous limits of our new country home never
would have held our purchases. Another “Madonna” between the
rose-coloured curtains in the narrow window.
Yes, indeed, there are a great many “Madonnas” about the place. There is
an undeniably papistical atmosphere.—An old gentleman, of developed
intellectuality, who stumbled in upon us shortly after our
establishment, could not conceal the horrible impression it made upon
him. His thoughts would have been easy to read even if the hurry of his
adieux had not so plainly proclaimed his disgust. Seeing his eyes fixed
upon the majolica statuette in question, we ‹perhaps with a little
malice› informed him that it was known as the “_Madonna del Bacio_.” It
was then he rose, not quite swallowing down his “Faugh!”
[Sidenote: AN OLD-TIME NOTE]
“You had not expected to find such superstition abroad in an enlightened
age,” we murmured politely. We cling to these old-world symbols—some of
us by conviction, others for mere love of the beautiful past.—A little
mistake? The wrong house, say you? How could we have been so stupid as
not to guess!—Of course, you wanted the bungalow at the other end of the
village. Yes, Mrs. Ludwigsohn is everything that you can desire to meet.
Up-to-date cap-a-pie. Socialism, rationalism, suffragism. You can begin
on the suffrage: she will saw the air with her right hand in a
convincing platform manner. A delightful, capable woman! She feeds her
infants scientifically on proteids. And there are Röntgen
pictures—anatomical, you know—in the hall, that you will find more
inspiring than della Robbia. Oh, you will get on with her splendidly. We
know her ... slightly. Indeed, we blush when we think of our one and
only meeting: it was so inharmonious on our part. She began to argue—and
instantly had us in a cleft stick: “Soul?” she exclaimed, fiercely
interrupting an incautious remark. “Soul? there is no such thing. I deny
it.—Prove,” she cried, “prove I have a soul!”
Poor lady, how could we? No—the Villino is certainly no place for the
higher critic; for the lady of ’isms. We are not rationalistic in our
tastes; we love old and simple things; prefer to take much for granted
in life and enjoy the good peace that is vouchsafed.
[Illustration: decorative oval]
------------------------------------------------------------------------