Villa della Fontana, Como.
Forget thee! No, dearest Kitty. But how could such cruel words have ever
escaped your pen? To cease to retain you in memory would be to avow an
oblivion of childhood's joys, and of my youth's fondest recollections;
of those first expansions of the heart, when, "fold after fold to the
fainting air," the petals of my young existence opened one by one
before you; when my shadowy fancies grew into bright realities, and the
dream-world assumed all the lights and, alas! all the shadows of the
actual. The fact was, dearest, papa was very, very ill; I may, indeed,
say so dangerously, that at one time our greatest fears were excited for
his state; nor was it till within a few days back that I could really
throw off all apprehension and revel in that security enjoyed by the
others. He is now up for some hours every day, and able to take light
sustenance, and even to participate a little in social intercourse,
which of course we are most careful to moderate, with every regard to
his weak state; but his convalescence makes progress every hour, and
already he begins to talk and laugh, and look somewhat like himself.
So confused is my poor head, and so disturbed by late anxieties, that
I quite forget if I have written to you since our arrival here; at all
events, I will venture on the risk of repetition so far, and say that we
are living in a beautiful villa, in a promontory of the Lake of Como. It
was the property of the Prince Belgiasso, who is now in exile from
his share in the late struggle for Italian independence, and who,
in addition to banishment, is obliged to pay above a million of
livres--about forty thousand pounds--to the Austrian Government. Lord
George, who knew him intimately in his prosperity, arranged to take the
villa for us; and it is confessedly one of the handsomest on the whole
lake. Imagine, Kitty, a splendid marble facade, with a Doric portico, so
close to the water's edge that the whole stands reflected in the crystal
flood; an Alpine mountain at the back; while around and above us the
orange and the fig, the vine, the olive, the wild cactus, and the cedar
wave their rich foliage, and load the soft air with perfume. It is not
alone that Nature unfolds a scene of gorgeous richness and beauty before
us; that earth, sky, and water show forth their most beautiful of forms
and coloring; but there is, as it were, an atmosphere of voluptuous
enjoyment, an inward sense of ecstatic delight, that I never knew nor
felt in the colder lands of the north. The very names have a magic in
their melody; the song of the passing gondolier; the star-like lamp of
the "pescatore," as night steals over the water; the skimming lateen
sail,--all breathe of Italy,--glorious, delightful, divine Italy!--land
of song, of poetry, and of love!
Oh, how my dearest Kitty would enjoy those delicious nights upon the
terrace, where, watching the falling stars, or listening to the far-off
sounds of sweet music, we sit for hours long, scarcely speaking! How
responsively would her heart beat to the plash of the lake against her
rocky seat! and how would her gentle spirit drink in every soothing
influence of that fair and beauteous scene! With Lord George it is a
passion; and I scarcely know him to be the same being that he was on the
other side of the Alps. Young men of fashion in England assume a certain
impassive, cold, apathetic air, as though nothing could move them to any
sentiment of surprise, admiration, or curiosity about anything; and when
by an accident these emotions are excited, the very utmost expression in
which their feelings find vent is some piece of town slang,--the turf,
the mess-room, the universities, and, I believe, even the House of
Commons, are the great nurseries of this valuable gift; and as Lord
George has graduated in each of these schools, I take it he was no mean
proficient. But how different was the real metal that lay buried under
the lacquer of conventionality! Why, dearest Kitty, he is the very soul
of passion,--the wildest, most enthusiastic of creatures; he worships
Byron, he adores Shelley. He has told me the whole story of his
childhood,--one of the most beautiful romances I ever listened to. He
passed his youth at Oxford, vacillating between the wildest dissipations
and the most brilliant triumphs. After that he went into the Hussars,
and then entered the House, moving the Address, as it is called, at
one-and-twenty; a career exactly like the great Mr. Pitt's, only that
Lord G. really possesses a range of accomplishments and a vast variety
of gifts to which the Minister could lay no claim. Amidst all these
revelations, poured forth with a frank and almost reckless impetuosity,
it was still strange, Kitty, that he never even alluded to the one great
and turning misfortune of his life. He did at one time seem approaching
it; I thought it was actually on his lips; but he only heaved a deep
sigh, and said, "There is yet another episode to tell you,--the darkest,
the saddest of all,--but I cannot do it now." I thought he might have
heard my heart beating, as he uttered these words; but he was too deeply
buried in his own grief. At last he broke the silence that ensued, by
pressing my hand fervently to his lips, and saying, "But when the time
comes for this, it will also bring the hour for laying myself and
my fortunes at your feet,--for calling you by the dearest of all
names,--for--"Only fancy, Kitty,--it was just as he got this far that
Cary, who really has not a single particle of delicacy in such cases,
came up to ask me where she could find some lemons to make a drink for
papa! I know I shall never forgive her--I feel that I never can--for her
heartless interruption. What really aggravates her conduct, too, was the
kind of apology she subsequently made to me in my own room. Just imagine
her saying,--
"I was certain it would be a perfect boon to you to get away from that
tiresome creature."